One must learn to hem a streetcar with the lace of desire, treat diving in the Arctic with the deference of snow, fill your pockets with England and burst into song. Do these things with agility and the language will deliver a child. Let us hope it will be a kind and gentle child. Medicine is not an exact science. Nor is poetry. I love the shrimp jambalaya at the 5 Spot. But how do express this rapture with the grace it deserves? My giant organ generates imagery. It’s a Wurlitzer. I feel a rhythm within I can only describe as panoramic, especially when I’m surrounded by Renaissance oils. I love those occasions when it’s stimulating to say things for the enjoyment of saying things. It’s like when an explanation of pine resin summons ideas you never knew you had. The resulting purple dye will answer the give and take between words. I like to touch the rivets when erections happen, and scrape whatever wisdom I can from the clouds.
I’m not normally this thirsty. But tonight I’m
nervous. I’m also shy around reality. It’s always so revelatory, so completely
transformational. I feel like I’m in a movie. The surrounding greenery expands
in the occurrence of fireworks, which is an effect of drama. Why does
frustration always result in a slammed door? Drama, of course. We all need a winch
of force so heavy that we steam when we lift our aspirations to the open
invitation of the sky and challenge fortune with our chutzpah. Spring is here
to pull the dimness out of our clumsy moisture. Fat glow I ponder to insist it
get behind me. Murmur it before a jury of your own emissions. Pollinate a goldenrod,
and flicker vivid hues. That’s me in the future, fastening my belt and getting
a hammer from my toolbox to hang a picture on the wall: Evocation of
Butterflies, by Odilon Redon.
Bruise yourself among the experiments that life presents us and do it for the sake of sublimation. For the confusion of a contusion. For the pleasures of ooze and purviews. For the crackle of wisdom. The sound of cattle feeding on hay. Bone black artful bulwarks. Wildcat revelations. Flexed muscles. Searchlights steeped in ambiguity. Displays against delays beyond the apparitions of justice. The sound of moonlight dropping on a cemetery. Rock and roll angels sputtering ganglia in a suitcase. Personification of the impersonal with a can of paint and a glowworm jar equipped with bugs. Hive balls shiny with gloss varnish. Tangential and friendly kinetic energy driving a poignant locomotive toward a mournful spectacle of stationary birthday cards on a rickety rotating greeting card display stand, which is virtue itself in a gown of chatter.
No comments:
Post a Comment