Friday, May 3, 2024

The Art Of Jumping Off Cliffs

 

People often talk about seeing a ghost but what about feeling a ghost two seconds later two windows break in a live demonstration the hardest and sweetest of labors is to arouse curiosity hop hop hop what’s a muscle what’s the mud disturbing the genres between figuration and abstraction without affiliating any creed have you ever felt a ghostly emotion an idea needs hormonal control and a means of protecting the developing embryo the configuration of vectors in the cloud is very important for determining the chemical properties of chicken vindaloo

I look to height to bear the consequences of the wild guilt is a hidden cultural imperative I feel friendly whenever I float images of life rendered in an empiricist impulse à la Nicolas de Staël if you complain about the welcome you should travel by invitation Niki de Saint Phalle’s insistence on exuberance and bold use of color did not endear her to everyone in a minimalist age I drool lightly and throw it away there’s some kind of trouble in Cajun French you can hear it in the bayou just before sunrise Stella Adler said she didn’t teach Brando acting I showed him the door and he kicked it down

I’ve got an attitude consisting of many parts fleeing the prospect of death designing drapes for an off-off-Broadway performance of Fall of the House of Usher ice skating at Wollman Rink you name it all I want is as much as I can handle and maybe more I hope to alter my attitude by indulging in pretenses and the futile pleasures of existence the bagpipe is played by squeezing the bag to blow air into the chanter drones and regulators people writes Pascal having been unable to cure death decided to make themselves happy and just not think about it

Some people like to write with opacity it makes everything seem more significant because it’s less defined the audiologist has a strange relationship with his hair structure is all about description guilt is the emotional equivalent of jail I can expand this room with the glitter of my suitcase the river feeds a despair quiet as a plunge into the depths the wizard’s breath reeks of Gruyere ladies and gentlemen the roadhouse is proud to welcome Lissie

The individual is an infinite void that only infinity could fill said Pascal the universe gifts the line a tiger and it moves stealthily through the syllables we had to admit that Rod Stewart’s model train was completely tenable we could ride it as far as our imaginations let us before reason came down the aisle asking for tickets

The probe indicates that the sentence is deepened by triangles historical crises drop on us repeatedly as information dumps I blew into the keys the next thought concerning thought thought thought a question about its own ponytail what is thought thought is warm and quick this pairing is intentional I sit and gaze at pictures of Deadwood just before the dawn I awake and find you gone I can’t help it if I cry the conductivity of bronze answers by getting dressed in a sentence a limb of words irrational as women’s lingerie we pick the bumps my tickles bring up our sensations are a heavy metaphysics to give to the folds of the vagina

Sometimes when I can’t think of a word it’ll bob up later like something alive and agitated at the end of a fishing line that’s been dangling in the water for an hour I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair combing this cloud of electrons while the banana woman overtakes the charisma of velvet far from here there’s a light that never goes out it’s either a 60-watt collarbone or the complementary association of logically incompatible terms it always happens like this you see someone you think you know on the way out of the restaurant the chrome is cold who was that person I swear I’ve seen them somewhere before we’re in the Black Hills near the border of an alternate reality another state in another dimension far away from home it may be WWWIII has already begun calling it a good day for peace Biden signed into law the 95 billion war aid measure

The smell of turpentine in a workshop used to be a pleasure for me it meant something creative was about to happen however you define creativity a feeling a phenomenon a stick of words jingled like bells in an oyster house or exploded out of the back end of a cruet during an argument at a stagecoach station in Nevada near the California border we have to continually be jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down said Kurt Vonnegut I think it emerges from catastrophe like mosquito larvae in a nearby pond headlights entangled in grass there are signs that indicate something potentially explosive is about to explode it’s what explosions do they explode and something comes out of it something along the lines of Tom Waits leaping around in the fog bug-eyed and khaki

I’m surrounded by phantoms I dissolve in a dotted vortex brocade the subconscious there are times when reading Mallarmé seems like a quiet side street filled with phantom lobsters holding syllables in their claws rhythmically clicking to Ravel’s Bolero the silk below language is our sacrament I was standing in the middle of Shakespeare’s Hamlet when I heard a howl it gave me the Honky Tonk Blues I looked to put some speech in my mouth that would reflect my current circumstance with nougats nouns and mongrel analogies running around in crazy patterns voluminous plumes wacko machinations biting at stray consonants in a splash of street I remember my father running a table saw in his workshop while I was reading Kenneth Koch in the room next door and it didn’t bother me it made the words alive I don’t know how that happened maybe the smell of wood

The focus on singing broke what we thought was glass but proved to be a form of emotional awakening for which the equation was not yet in standard form but might be expressed simply as a quick oscillation of actions if lama equals reunion then disillusion equals the toss of a crate on a loading dock in Suffolk

I like it when abstractions come to the aid of an injured well-being healing requires a little coconut rub and a languorous organ more and more I feel that percussion is our staircase to sensation I have a really old brain it came with the body it was a package deal the faucet radiates kindness like a cherub pissing shiny equations geometry fills the wheel with spokes and rolls toward the crickets the cow looks into the darkness where there is a movement of aliens its moo permeates a blue glow and reveals a great deal about how metaphysical systems operate in the void one thing is sure Deadwood is still a town wild at heart and shines a light on the murmuring pines it’s early May but I can see my breath 

 

 

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