The Sweat Of The Throat Is Moral

The sweat of the throat is moral. I can imitate it. All it takes is a little lubricant. It’s how the Rue d'Orsel pushes its hands among my gardenias and comes up with sorghum. I’m not going to sit here and pretend to be ominous. I wasn’t built that way. My wisdom touches the concept and a jaunty seaman signals the big pop. It’s what goes on around here. Olives, mostly, and spars. I smell stealth. But there is none. Not at the moment. The air is a membrane. Honesty occupies it like eyebrows on a worm. Try my provender. Please. It would mean the world to me. The smell of molasses proves that the shadow of this sentence is a pale henna, and wants very much to believe in your ability to fill it with greenery. There is a resource that occurs on a cocoon now and then, and by that I mean the knife we ​​brandish with fear is a fundamental percept. Good things sometimes happen in the darkness. Legs inflate the exultation during cartilage. I whisper this worry as I would a glossy blubber. The eggnog I made extends the algebra of your smile. It’s what I wanted all along. A sphere with a twig on it, and an argument that jingles with bombast.

This is the push about research. The one I was leading up to. That I suggested. That I tailored beneath my antique bones. With reflection. With fallacy. With circles. And a hole we crushed on the cement.

I’m inviting you to do something. Something you may regret. Something that may alter your life forever. Something touristy. Something smacking of the paradox of pleasure. And twice as endearing. By God I mean it. The ache clapping in your impediment is really just a suspension. It can be ignored. Go home. Bake some snickerdoodles. We can talk about all this tomorrow morning over breakfast. Reticence with a little chiffon can be so enticing. But it’s how we communicate that matters. I use a toaster. A little reality. And a willowy sway in my nether parts.

Is it ok if take a little walk around in your head? That’s what all these words are for. They’re here to help me. Help me find some wicker and some dots to make a clean break from gravity. The world is too much with us. Every night I lie in bed gnawing on the past. It tastes like armadillo. Plug the aurora I entertain into this theology. Watch it foam into thought. There goes our pain propelled through a hose. I’m going to paint it with a bucket of words and call it prose. Thank you for joining me in this little expedition. I’ve never felt so naked, nor so indispensable.

Why so much Bob Dylan? He seems to be everywhere these days. I think it’s the algorithms. I know it’s the algorithms. The sticky goo of algorithms. So this 83 year old guy keeps showing up in fancy clothes and a shiny grand piano. His voice sounds raw, like a rusty old blade. Earlier today, when I began looking into life, and feeling its possibilities, I heard this man sing something really rhizomatic, and it made me feel fecund, things trapped inside come alive in me and echo their necessities, which caused me some effort to appease. What they say in Unstable is true: if you’re going to make some pom-pom dribble cake you’re going to make a little noise. In addition to entertainment, the splendor of our miscellany plummets until the dirt makes it busy. The paint sinks into deformation. The lumber reclines. My excuses for everything are so insoluble they’re pretty. I brush the putty until the effulgent flaps. And lift myself into paradise.