Thinking Produces Heat In Our Heads

Thinking produces heat in our heads. Every configuration is particular, the way a bee brushes pollen toward its hind legs. A language can’t be a supermarket unless it kneels to expression. If you see me on Tuesday wearing a shawl of French baguettes, my blink to you means coffee. There are pleasures in the subtlest of things. I like to put the orange mango flavored carbonated water beverage next to my ear and twist the cap slowly so that I can hear it hiss. I like that hiss. It’s effervescent. Effervescence is rare these days. I promote a more radical empiricist methodology, something along the lines of Godzilla ripping through the fabric of time. This level of anxiety doesn’t need silhouettes swinging through a zone of punctuation. All this proves is phosphate. It has nothing to say about beatitude and the eloquence of stars in the Moroccan night. My childhood was spent in the Hall of the Mountain King. I’m like a man who can’t stop drumming. Experiences aren’t antiques. They’re biologies, they’re irreducible singularities, they’re the bells in bellicose and the long highway leading you to a town of smoky designs. There was the era of blue reverie and the era of used utility trailers. The time of harpsichords. The time of obvious flowing. As soon as you give yourself permission to say what you want you will blossom like a California poppy. The euphorbia at the corner of Taylor and Prospect look like little trumpets. This is coming to you by way of suggestion. If things aren’t entirely clear, the darkness is wrapped in a scarf Keith Richards gave me with all these skeleton things on it. Eventually, everything spills out on the streets of Baramati. And the sheeted dead did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets. May 4^th, 2024, airport security officers in Miami found a bag of snakes hidden in a passenger’s pants. If that doesn’t imply something broader than tribulation, then these words are cookies in the shape of stars. Think of it as the marriage of a cloud and a sigh in the Sagrada Familia. The sweet cream of meaning in a shell of sound. Frustration and regret in a basket of laundry. Speech is timid, always a little vague at first. How much does Hilary Hahn cost? I could use an excursion. Sometimes, when things are obscure, it’s good they’re obscure. I’m transmitting signals of hope and despair. It’s how I learned the difference between a chin and a chinchilla. TV always looks so welcoming in hotel rooms, and yet so out-of-place. That little black triangle sticking up from the pillow belongs to our cat, and is her ear. Language is the perfect instrument for arranging things. Pillows, yes. But also upheaval and dolphins. Angels or worms or angles or words. Doesn’t matter. It does. But doesn’t. And does.