The Combination Of Wind And Tea

 The combination of wind and tea can cause a corner of the world to collapse into waves. I can wear a breath and forget to button my paragraph. I can let everything hang out. I can wear a shirt of hornets to an insurance convention. But you don’t want that. I don’t want that. I don’t want anything to come between us. Including these words. None of which belong here. They belong elsewhere. That’s been their whole intent all along. To get out of here. And swim in infinity.

I'm interested in old records. Old propagators. Old men thundering invectives. Together we will triumph and stand our ground. Don't worry about the snow. The word is a parcel of sound responsible for nothing but its own coagulation. By that I mean context. Gestalt. Structure. Disposition. However a person might choose to emulate Screamin’ Jay Hawkins performing I Put A Spell On You. Or check into The Arcade Hotel in Memphis. The color of this equation is a hard black candy. Best eaten upside down. Like a bat. Suckling the juicy breast of a mushroom. Things like this are not for general consumption. But what is? Old records in old garages.

How much reality can words carry into the far future, how many ideas that have failed to survive or catch hold now might serve to hold a future civilization together, just as a melody can hold a musical vision together for several centuries? The idea that a handful of words can preserve an idea at all is pretty amazing. Language is a metaphysical embalming fluid. An idea is a fetus kept alive in an artificial womb. Gum and ash are two ideas linked by syntax that could one day serve as a bandage, or poultice. Who knows? Language is a very funny thing. A diving board made with jelly before logic had time enough to intervene in the madness of words and make solidity solid and fluidity flow where it is meant to flow remains attainable in another dimension. And this is called contention, a disagreement with what is established, and is a cause of exhilaration.

Cézanne cured art of its tendency to judge. It became fruit. Apples and oranges and odors and skulls. Each line became more thoughtful and expressive. A swamp like a shaggy face soaked with laughter. If there exists a catalogue swollen and bulging with waltzing generalities, it doesn’t take long to figure out what it wants to free itself from. How else describe a color? Or a floral chintz on a creamy white background? What you want is a beard wild as tropical foliage. What you need to consider are the grooves that fit the tongue. The social element is injected into art by an act of sabotage and doesn’t really need to be there. If you find yourself in a simulacrum, you need to get out. The verities are there, in the eyes of Madame Cézanne.

We live in a time in which the police are within and the laws are without justice. This is why I cling so hard to whatever remains of the creative spirit. This is the determinable meaning of the meaningless. If you find someone stung by abandonment, insist on compassion. That someone might by you. Flap among yourselves with enough saga to dive deeper into existence. Art wants to undo all the damage of the time. So yeah, man, you should definitely take that propeller and put it on a metaphor or something. There’s nothing to prove but God, and that ignites with doubt. All else is simply different, which comes with differentiation, and combinations of wind and tea.