Wild And Weird And Hungry

This is trembling. This is climbing into you. A sentence. A thought. Purple damask by enkindling it with your eyes. Bright light in a drugstore. Grace crashes into a bundle of comic books. Cosmopolitan. Vanity Fair. Maire Claire. What a fashion is exhibited next to the tailor. Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue. Naked iron percussion. Snow.

Let us now exceed the sniff of amazement and rise into ponderation. Charming behind stilts, the dynamic parody of shoes plunges into trigonometry. Animatron Ezra Pound shuffles forward. He offers to shake your hand. If you raise an embryonic comma, this will secure a pause in a sentence as yet unwritten. Words are compelling. They demand utterance, and writing, and megaphones. A magisterial bearing. A savage devotion. A deepening sense of fungus. Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. Jokes told in a hurry. I’m nailing my boil down as an impatient example of something I haven’t thought of yet. I’m waiting for the words to get here. Compliments wing the fiddle. It’s all about husbandry. And cabbage. The words are here now. Pulsing like a tortilla.

Opposites I flirt with growl their logic, and they become a song. What kind of whisper builds life with an indentation? Have you ever been stabbed by a woman’s eyes? All my responses to life have been like this lately. Nothingness bruises my syncopation with my own biology. Think of it as a nipple haunted by your own initiative. Hope hears the quixotic but not the chronology. Some men look like they could fix a sink. Others don’t. Heave this hammer against the milieu: if it hits a nail, the calliope will expand your clutch. Former inabilities will become billboards. Past associations will become banquets. Life provides us with a construction to carry. Some have wheels. Some have cuticles. See which gets there quicker. The bike with the pounding pistons, or the sad horns riding over the chatter.

My dismissal of orthogonal control forms the landscape. That little acreage I call my own here. This place of planting. This place of seeding. This place of revolt and metaphor. Various tumultuous symptoms indicate the presence of bias. I try hard to maintain some objectivity, the success of which largely depends on fiction, the kind of things one tells oneself when principles are at stake, and the pursuit of adventure unfurls in sumptuous Technicolor. William Burroughs sitting on a Kansas yard in a lawn chair. Hands clasped together. Musing. There was never a better time for resetting the clock and refining one’s sense of inertia. Redefining. Better way to put it. Circulate thought with exultation. Everybody loves a tidepool. Grasp something offshore and misty when the world grows hard and emphatic. Bring it home. Hose it down. Give it a name. Set it down gently on the landscape and watch it take off, wild and weird and hungry.