My Skinny Lily

R tells me that what I want is daylight. This is in reference to a light bulb. I’d prefer a daylight bulb, a bulb designed to replicate the tone of light emitted from the sun, so they can reach up to 6,500 Kelvins, and are usually a crisp and invigorating light source, in which chestnuts sparkle like crime and waves of quicksilver lucidity diffuse space with uncanny delicacy. This will be for my new lamp, which I ordered from Home Depot, and assembled on the living room floor, like building a flower, an extremely skinny lily, with a small white cone bending down in happy splendor.

I watch a YouTube video on light. It’s in French, so that I can feel fancy when I’m trying to shed light on light. Light consists of electromagnetic waves characterized by their level of energy and intensity. It travels by wavelength. It doesn't oppose anything. It imbues. It penetrates. It goes around. It bends. It's too light for nothing. Nothing is bitter. Nothing is everything. Light can't butter anything so insistently dark that it can’t spit skin at a vacant fetish.

Picture a stream of wavelengths beating into a lush mud slide. This will tell you all you need to know about our planet. The rest is kept in a vault in the Vatican. It walks around like a sequel of bones in a cathedral panegyric. All religions are the same, so your coupon is good at all mosques and synagogues. Tell them a swamp sent you. And that it smelled of waffles.

A consonant rubs my mouth to find a vowel. That’s not where I keep my vowels. You’ve come to the wrong place, my dear. Keep on going until the kangaroo finds justice in a cemetery. No one has told this story before. Because it hasn't happened yet. No one has a memory of things that haven't happened yet, except Mr. Super Future, who lives next door to himself in a warm reminiscence. That zone we call our hodgepodge hinges on a plurality blessed with pyramids and papyrus. But if it worries you, just don’t give a damn, and everything falls into place. The sun rises to the east, the moon is in Scorpio, and the skulking incendiary of a dying culture is ugly as the end of a road on the coast of reality. The sexton is dead and the wind is slamming the door.  

We decide daylight might be wrong. We need a globe. Something globular. Daylight is bright. Too bright. Maybe what I need is a globe. Or a republic. The norm is gone. We live in a new zone now. I have whirlpools in my shoes and jewelry in my noodle. I feel frenzied as a hive of wasps at Easter. I must take it upon myself to be my flesh. To do what flesh wants. Because it keeps my bones hidden from view. And makes the world feel quizzical. The irony of life is that the older you get the more intensely you live. Bleeding hearts grow best in full sun. If you follow this sentence to the end you’ll find that it has no point. But did you notice the fish were noble and expressed themselves by wandering through the water in quest of nothing of interest to us?