Extraordinary Contingencies

I like the way sugar embarrasses itself. Or the way a spoonful of novel explodes in the mouth, scattering pages of intimacy and intrigue. The surrounding room enters itself slowly, hesitantly, feeling around for volume, shared perceptions and antimacassars. We call it a parlor, because that’s where we talk, those of us who choose to talk, who walk the tightwire between decency and alterity, exploring facets of the human experience in sly confessions, and random guffaws. I wash each noun with 8 purple roses & a bar of encumbrance, as if a religion folded itself into a harmonica and spat blasphemies into the void. I go elsewhere & listen to the clouds in my knees. They make a sound like charity, until I get up, and they shriek like a kettle on a Coleman stove. When I return to speech, I find a wild idea on my sleeve combing itself with a wherewithal.  

Extraordinary contingencies pile up in a municipality, causing crispness, fights and woodwinds. I can’t say yes to everything, but I can say no to duplication. I believe in signs. The Feinschmecker’s fetching daughter, or the Costco flushable wipes settlement. In any case, vicissitude. You know what I mean. One day the fall of a dictator, the next the rise of a shiny new utopia propped up by seven virgins and Victor Mature, reprising his role as Samson. Does it matter whether this universe was created by a goliath frog or evolved spontaneously out of a container of Roquefort cheese? What matters to me is mostly conductive. For example, the practice of putting salt in one’s shoes fosters a sense of cleanliness and well-being. But if the community pool has been dyed red, you should spend all your money on generalities & grab the next bus. This is the way to salvation, & what it looks like through the window of a Greyhound.

Just think: you can let things swarm around you if you let yourself be lazy, amorphous like a gas. Jumpin’ Jack Flash. It’s a gas, gas, gas. It's why we enjoy playing with neon and making signs out of it. Sorrow, on the other hand, is a sorcery of the heart and should be advertised as such. Picture young Werther watering a rose with the blood of a chimera. The work before you is essentially a basement grammar I found on the bottom of a song. It was done in overflow of myself hard against the desk where being takes the form of hydrocarbon and seaweed. A big tube of blue. I went outside and the world was completely illegible. There were curious experiences for everyone. How to interpret a look, or the body itself, what it wants, what it invites you to do.

Mourn the accident, but not the exercise. Accidents teach us heraldry. And kindling. We all know everything at first, and then nothing, and then inflammation, pain and fever. I can only expound on what I don’t know. I have a difficult time asking what's going on in a Franz Kafka lyric. Franz Kafka is a rock group from Prague. We shared volumes in a round of terror. It happened shortly after jumping from a plane. I like to caress space with dissimilar attitudes. Hurry out of the pupil of a gaze if you’re ever in Amsterdam looking for thrills. Never settle for anything counterfeit, like the Fourth of July, which explodes on a hill and rains down in goofy Supreme Court decisions. You should celebrate your cause with singing. And then jump into life.