Welcome To My Daydream

I try to make my clothing as evocative as possible. It’s because the sunlight has an elsewhere in it. And nowhere else to go. Nothing jams a zipper like rust. In the old days, when the blackberries appeared on the vine, and a simple forelock could sustain a veranda, we did the mashed potato. This was before the furrows held water. I know differently now. I can nullify our assumptions with a piccolo. Go push a desk. I mouth hawks during chivalry. Sound is to glass what gas is to quandary. Another offspring due to femininity. Most of my feelings are auburn, and being somewhat of an expert on daydreaming, this isn’t the first wall I’ve walked into. What wall, one might well ask. There is no wall. And to that I say welcome, welcome to my daydream.

The depth it takes to hold a spoon is watery. It wanders through me like a sentence. I push, I accept, we adapt. The sentence readjusts. It becomes a celebration. The surrounding greenery signals its doctrine of chlorophyll. The pitcher in the middle fills with detail. Gorgeous from every angle, my thermostat is torn between absurdism and quantum entanglement. The room is never too hot or cold it’s always fissionable. The algebra there is always in upheaval. Picasso’s teasing asserts a giddy acceleration. It was the summer I climbed below gravity to find some curriculum. Wet with fascination, a chronology jaywalks across a wasteland in search of a worry. Paradise reflects the grass this thunders. We send all the cocoons we groom to Nineveh.

I scribble an impiety in grease next to the shop of improbable shapes. A woman comes out and tells me that faith is the fog of a long disquiet. I engorge with equilibrium. I tell her I’m waiting for a religion to materialize. This is the hunger walking around in me seeking solidarity. I skim a staircase during onions. And suddenly, out of nowhere, an olive appears. Clearly, garnishment sends its radar out to map our intentions. Everything hinges on accelerants. The next step I take will determine the course of my ascent. Either I shoot right up, or the sheen of my sweat will pack a mighty railroad. I'll know what to do when the time comes. I adjust my anonymity. I feel lucky. The epilogue remains speechless.

This much I know: I need to learn how to transform data into actionable insights. Otherwise, what’s the whole point of the mackerel? Let the mind exceed its ideas of scale and trigonometry to stimulate one’s improvisations. I shall continue my painting drop by drop until it perceives a loophole, allowing me to walk into a different performance. Meanwhile I’m going to stop all the candles until my adulthood arrives. There’s a cactus that awakens the climate. We won't need a wide-eyed vein antenna. But we will need a thought to dangle over the abyss of our flatulence. I will get some clay for my insistence on yardarms and spars. Something needs to be done. Every pulse adheres to a specific muscle. We pound our blood with foreboding. There’s a curve in our proposal that is silly with grouse. How much longer need I point to the sky? Don't bang a fingernail to spite the cat. It all works out in the end.