Tattered Chair

Consciousness is not caused by sugar. Consciousness is caused by a static electric charge. And two pounds of flour. Believe me. I’m just as anxious as you are to get out of here. It’s sad to see a culture die. Keep the windows closed. Being is everywhere. Would you like anything? A glass of water? You’ve come this far. For which I am thankful. This makes all my emotions happy. Palm fronds tremble in the breeze. I like belonging to the parable of an experience. The green heat of a chameleon, for example, has the power to inseminate any situation with the sugary claws of pliancy. Pondering anything, really, makes it less real, makes it richer, makes it teeter and twirl in greenery, makes it uniquely beautiful in ways that elude categorization. Dark conflagrations salt themselves and flee. The world is so different from what it used to be. It used to be earthy and musk and now it’s as cold and excluding as diamonds. I go from door to door selling pendulums. Invisible pendulums. That swing from nowhere to nowhere, emphasizing the futility of it all, and the ironic pragmatism of that, of being fatalistic, and how optimistic it is to think of non-existence, which is how I dressed before I got here, zipped in the immediacy of the moment. Deficiency strains what squirms in the Rembrandt brown, and gives us a feeling of soft black artless locution. Here, open this: an anthology of the light swarming with hungry ganglions. It reminds me of dirt. Gardeners fulminating over a philodendron in Madrid. Affluence is a mixed religion. Some worship gristle, others worship lace. Chaos is not the disaster. Time is the disaster. The language of nerves leads to the well-being of yesterday. The current moment is raw. It's a perfect day for poetry. I’m in a foggy state leaning over an abyss of darkness. It’s something I’ve always been good at doing, though considerably harder to turn a profit with it, or apply for a job in the aeronautics market. I feel the cosmos in my shoulder, a living embassy of bone and cartilage. If you’d like a ride to the end of this sentence, I’m here for you, rummaging around in an agate, looking for wasted time. I know what I’m doing. I used to write articles for the daily cynical. I couldn’t find a single thing to believe in, except holidays. I love holidays. They’re always so rubber. I blow a profligate era of aesthetic dilemma across a sheet of paper so that it’ll pop up in somebody’s eyes one day. It is not a dignified profession. Not like plumbing, or carpentry. But I can sing rhapsodies to the chestnut king, and convulse on the floor like a hammer. Each word is a nail. Each sentence a crane lifting the names of things. The meaning of the clock is purely cosmetic. There’s no time to tell here. Only a tattered chair.