Dreams Are Life Turned Inside Out

A wink gives innocence to a freshly painted house. A wink and a thermostat. This itch is my contribution to the perception of falling. By itch I mean this. My itch. This itch. This itch to finger the stars. I walk in English and merge with it and indulge it and am emphatic in diving into it. This is the itch I was talking about. And so I keep scratching it. One line of poetry is all it takes to keep a mind afloat. Two lines will burn it. Three lines will hurl it. A quatrain will siege the walls of logic and make everything alive. I present a sunlight squeezed into a bikini. The oysters we carry are deepened by tumultuous fluency and are monumental in their syntax. Huffing and puffing propels the rumble of my intentions. I’m plunged in odor like a forest. I’m extroverted at room temperature. But when it’s hot I grow introverted and straw. I become a drive-in on Mars. Tom Ewel introducing The Girl Can’t Help It. Dreams are life turned inside out. But movies aren’t dreams they’re exultations. Crimson lake a pigment I can slather all over the scabs like sawdust. That hat there by the binoculars is what also lingers among these coordinates. A pot of tea floats my garrulity. A napkin, a hibachi and a slop of sweet potato surge through our breakfast like a superfluity injected with experience. It’s not every day that a parlor like this expands into cribbage. We’re delicate, so I feed a machine to protect us with its dials. I once considered playing a role in a morality play while sky diving, but the proliferation of cellphones has soured the experience greatly. I prefer novels. And thunder and quartz and forests where the arbitrary elects itself king of strawberries. I cover my chest with a shawl of mud and walk forward into the sentence dropping words along the way. Letters are skeletons. Soon the world is overrun with chickens. I don’t care. My beef is with the world. I like the outer limits of things. I steal the wealth of cruel despondent kings and spend it on places where navigational equipment is useless. You have to go by intuition. There’s no equation that could ever solve a marigold. That thunder you hear is a wall of logic crashing to the floor in a protein sequence. I’m overflowing with circumlocution. This is the place to do it. The hard part is convincing other people that your reality is based on pudding. Time doesn’t matter to me. But joining sentences in a habitat of smoke and poplar must boil for three days in the mind of a glove. The extracts will satiate the drinking needle. And when the rest of the words get here we’ll have a blast. Plastic bags propped by sticks inserted into the sentence and held in place by rubber bands make good propagators, although holes should be cut for air to flow. That’s when the fun begins. Ideas create propulsion by squeezing their syntax and pushing hard at the first sign of a contraction. Eventually, a new music fills the street and consciousness spins around in a hippodrome of bone.