Arable Parables

 

There was a pageant of salmon at the McFadden Hotel Matisse showed us that there’s greatness in struggle I feel Matisse in my feet I go around hungry for the fulfillment of inexplicable desires I enjoy the immodesty of rain and the hilarity of snow I feel incidental to a soulful drama like that scene where King Kong is blinded and enraged by paparazzi and breaks free of his chains on the New York stage and goes on a wild spree scaling buildings and flirting with women is this really a good time to talk about refining the senses the way that a reader’s eyes glean the words and make of them what they will was upsetting to Plato who saw in this a danger inimical to the homogeneous structure of society since words are only substitutes for a reality that is neither actual or present and so may be easily manipulated to create illusory phenomena  

Susan Sontag on Artaud writing is conceived of as unleashing an unpredictable flow of searing energy

I’m guessing flippancy doesn’t go over well in prison I like to engage in sketchy activities fiction assembles a reflection and calls it a forehead poetry being first and foremost a form of wrapper a way of framing and preserving phenomena in phonemic cellophane though it could also be argued poetry is a vehicle for pursuing the collisions and collusions of the intellect moon river moving silently through the night I can hear you screaming to get out music is nothing if not universal it can lift us from our predicaments with the grace of angels and the force of a 200 hp Yamaha

I dwell in hypothesis like a trombone think of this as a cylinder that will push any problem wherever you want that problem to go if I’m being reckless against demand it’s because I’m infrared I can iron steam with mutton and button steam in iron I’m modern as licorice and ancient as yeast the Woke doing polka in a graveyard of dead languages

There was once a forest guide with a cold hard face under the glitter of a postmodernist Stetson who parachuted into the Black Forest and was never seen or heard from again

This is what Lautréamont calls mechanically constructing the brain of a soporific tale heavy duty meringue commitment is a technicolor triangle you’ll find chatter and oboes at the end of your arm have you ever had a bear stare at you screaming is worthless detachment has a latch that can separate colors it is our resistance against lyric intensity this isn’t Theodore Roethke this is a dense fine-grained heteropolyhedral paroxysm of sensory membranes evangelistic earrings and intuitions of infinity draped in supernatural grammar

The raccoons would appear at night and put their tiny hands on the window and stare at me at my desk trying to write like Robert Creeley brutal concisions of emotional rubber interchange is essentially a parody of sunlight I never lost my fascination with Cyndi Lauper there are no indignities attached to singing singing has stochastic properties the horizon is a horizon of words beyond which there are still more words

The book exists so that we may insert ourselves into the body of a monumental object a lot of things seem to be instinctual like that moment when staring at a sheet of paper becomes a slide into a ghostly panorama of backpocket silver and Viennese fountains and the first thing that comes to mind is to bite into the void and tear off a big piece of nihilism

Good readers pollinate bad readers look for content space is what a forehead does in front of a brain consider this lobster for a moment no it is not a real lobster a real lobster would flick its antennae and dance around the sentence like Fred Astaire this lobster has a mind of orchids and remains below the liniment kissing the skin

The bartender had a face like the cover of a sci-fi paperback the myth of its existence circulating the used bookstores from here to Timbuktu exploded my fingernails as they typed away at the giant mode incomprehension employed to pass from judgment to accepting the reality of lacquer and the generous new look of gnosis with tits to match

I can give you a ride to Tulsa I’m heading toward disaster beauty seems so tenuous these days England broods in my writing there are other dimensions of being that elude me what allegory beyond eggnog exhibits bamboo I climbed in through the bathroom window with huge bulging eyes and a sweet melody on my lips what makes Euclid spatial are bananas and gas but go ahead insinuate insects if you must clench your fist in amber leaning forward like a resistance it isn’t scientific to rinse grisaille with punctuation if you can imagine bracken you can imagine bracken breaking into abstractions whose quality of light streams through the rosary window dropping photos of Billy the Kid playing croquet by a schoolhouse

What in this world keeps us from falling apart 30 gallons of gorilla glue and a big rubber band cod is a species of God but so is the eternity dangling at the end of your dock consider the variables castigate the unbearable I remember the night I stood in the bar looking up at a TV in which Ricky Lee Jones was singing and downed a shot of Wild Turkey a few days later the universe fell on my head and I had to get 20 stitches and a clothes iron all I know is that when I got to the end of the street I felt exposed as Picasso painting in his underwear and the sun was coming up and together with the mountains I drew my own conclusions concerning muskrats