It's Only Natural

Here at the edge of the abyss, the attention always wants something to mull. It’s only natural. There’s always something knocking to get in. Just yank the storm lever and it all rains down. What cannot be obtained must be imagined. The intellect is the type of wine you might find in a goatskin bag. It’s both raw and refined, like the mattress springs in a frontier bed near the border of Hypnagogia. The tongue shapes it as its energy flows forth in words. It’s warm on this side of things, where the words arrive in tonal aplomb, seeking connection with another organ of speech. I heard there was a diving board that hums like a mountain if you step on it just right. Gaze down. The shimmer of water is mesmerizing. It’s like repeating a difficult formula to yourself. If the sentence is too cold pour on the verbs. They’ll kick it into syntax, a grammar with the tint of a jewel. What resonances, what echoes, what beats, what harmonies in this empire. Ebony necklace with a swing subtle as a shiver of Saturday. Let’s get to work on what is between us, on what is separating us and what is joining us. What separates us join us. What joins us separates us. The best you can do in any situation is settle for an illusion of control. Remember, time passes more slowly for your feet than it does for your head. Getting it all joined in synovial equilibrium can be distressing. It took a tale to boil a king. But it took a universe to grow fur on the limbs of the infinite. Language is the ocean surrounding and floating us. What is soft is also hard and what is hard is rarely heard. Granite feels even more solid in solitude. Unwilling to speak. It’s a giddy progression from the form given to that which does not have one. Who can escape the feeling that it’s all about to end? I prepared myself for a future very different than this one. The one where I caught a lobster before it hit the floor. The one in which the undercurrents are dark as a Paris sewer and the overtones are wrong. How does one frame an unthought in the coffin of a thought? We need the sun. I want to suck that nerve on the ceiling. It’s spooky trying to imagine the sound of Rimbaud’s voice. Harder yet to join all the events affecting one another in a network of sparkly exposition. Nudity is pertinent. But only in the context of flying. Every phenomenon has its own rhythm. Definition and description are two vastly different things. Especially if you walk around feeling birds in your blood. Layla is the sound of a man breaking apart. After which, removing my hearing aids is like taking insects out of my head. Things that are cuckoo might also be cozy. I feel elect when I’m standing on the surface of a lake. But you got me on my knees. I’m drowning in potential. I hang it and bang it and pound it with my stick.