You Can Never Step Into The Same Sentence Twice

Signal languor I'm braced for a cocktail. I want a long sophisticated paintable bronze in a tall glass of July. Let me lie here a while. Spring our communion against the mosquitoes. Put your eyes in a healing darkness. Use a big box.

There's an eyeball among my fingers. It needs a soft light.

I crawl along soaked in chopsticks. I correspond to the clouds above my literature.

Who uses that word anymore? People like to say literal. Literally a lot. When a perception strikes us, we complain about it. We give it time to evolve. We plant philodendrons. Some of which go public. Others languish in analogy. Some narrative possibilities follow us until our clothing turns so abstract nothing can interpret our intentions, least of all ourselves, and the narratives die alone, surrounded by Mauri warriors, and a chintz kilowatt.

Consciousness arrives gargling my tinsel. I’m hurrying as fast as I can to make sense of the treasure I see before me. You. Sitting in a chair. Reading Proust. 

Can you hear it? A granite stomach rises to the surface of an essay, digesting a moose.

The split between fantasy and reality is not entirely absolute. There have been some contradictions, notably that between wisdom and vertigo, and steam and stigmata.

Meanwhile, the sun’s magnetic fields twist and stretch as it rotates, creating plasma storms and scorched bananas, wide-eyed engorgement embellished with aerospace, atmospheric jungles and antique bravado, the spirit of poetry, which is studied in private with a bag of fries and a milkshake, and culminates in gulls.

The age of gravitation and how it behaves among these abstractions will make our ceremony argyle, if not hyacinth. Area is such a hungry significance. You have to fill it with something. It might as well be chili. The mind has its suppositions. If you hose them down, they’ll crumble right down to the waxy core, creating undulation, and is a form of undercurrent, a moist layer of category, which also applies to strawberries. Unofficially, it's the same with fire.

You can never step into the same sentence twice. It’s already journeying toward another adherence, another cohesion, another lost continent. It’s difficult to write things that make a detonation evolve the tea I’m pouring. I can’t get it out of my mind. A sticky sticker is a sticky idea. But a chattering weather is cheddar. Thus, as it snowed on our way home, we opened umbrellas and walked in silence, enjoying the crispness of the air, and the simplicity of its expression in dovetails, when even a painting can fail this reality, and scour it for your attention.