The United States Of Delirium

Slap it. Slap it silly. I insist. The garter can take a beating. Rub a springy wire on a stiff brocade. The landscape means this beauty has clothes. There is tension in saying things contrary to the quake of enrichment despite the damage caused by the jumps of those people within their own absence. Look how coppery that willow is in the light of our passage. The bacteria have my full attention. Wherever you go there you are. How many times have you heard that before? Probably in one of those places you ended up one night in a fugue state, like most of us. Not knowing whose place this is, what country you’re in, what city that is on the other side of the window, and what is this wet thing in my hand? The public has a deep resonance like a fountain. They go repeating the actions of the former day for which they’re rewarded with the skins of animals and paper and metal representing the value of things such as they exist in a state of complete abstraction. When I was in the movies, our words were violent for which there were reasons and halibut congenial in the depths of a long filibuster. The world is experienced in the imagination before it becomes an intrusion and fighting one’s way through entanglements of butcher paper becomes a society. Every day a truth is coughed up and presented to the public as a substitute for mahogany. How often does a belief become its own uncertainty? The blood coagulates as the recruits spread over the countryside. There’s a logic to the corkscrew that twists into the mind like a hot Parisian summer. The cork pops out with a quick riddle and a novel duration. I know. We’re in the United States of Delirium. As soon as somebody – anybody - enters the story, the paragraph jumps into a mug of shaving cream and all the words in the sentence arrange themselves into a towel. A scorpion hangs from the neck of an outlaw. It could be a gentle night if the ocean’s nerves weren’t so elongated and phosphorescent. Instead, what we have is a needle thinking its way in and out of the fabric of life and bringing it together in a zigzag stitch. On the other side of this sentence is a frozen heart melting in a pool of correspondence. And embellishing the front is a tempest of emboldening scarlet. There’s a door at the end of the hall. As soon you open the door, duck your head as a predicate flies overhead. We're in the Mesozoic now, dependent on engineering and knees. North of my chin is an epigraph whose mission is to rid London of organized crime. That’s when I can sit down and start negotiating with the past. What did that mean, what does this mean, and so on, until the present moment steps in and inserts itself in a sentence so I can see what’s happening. Everything else is writing itself into being with a soldering iron and a Renaissance, up there around the corner, where the future is.