An Eye On Tuesday

An eye on Tuesday is a flowery forge a greenery for my laughter an evening that drags itself towards hope. An eye on Wednesday welcomes hummingbird mucus welcomes sauerkraut on a bone china dinner plate welcomes almost anything a scarf and a plow a ray of sunlight full of showers a despair that walks on legs of vibrant color. Acrobatic plum splash a shivering tarpaulin a spring that affirms the capharnaüm of cravings in a single axle.     

Oh my God could this be it today is a parable of wasps a pomegranate of sunlight. It creates a very singular weight an espadrille on a carpet a sky streaming down through the canopy of a tropical forest. Almond and chocolate in a cherry cupboard. There is often a weight to the circumstances of things, the gestalt, the forms, the shapes, the shovel in the back of the cathedral, the mist that feels the adjacency of mass like a ball hurled into heaven. I’m often inspired by movement. And music. I’d like to open a wound and play the harpsichord. I hear a faraway sound that’s soft and colorful like the song of a paper bird. I’m finally convinced. West Frisian has the taste of plums. And yet the voice will echo in a cave in which a deity is suddenly awakened and think it only natural to call an attorney. We must assume some accountability for our actions. Even a scrap iron apricot has its ecstasies. And every wrong note invokes a coyote.

I really enjoy a good casserole and from time to time a walk down a quiet street. Salvation is often slow to arrive. What to do in the meantime can be a delicate matter. The sponge that shapes its life around absorption is weighed down by whatever it absorbs. The sponge must be squeezed to express this. The first time I felt squeezed I was 15. I took the Amtrack to Minot, North Dakota and joined a circus. It was a metaphysical circus called Actus Essendi. I learned to juggle sparklers while riding bareback on Archelon, a giant sea turtle. At age 208, Archelon retired. I headed east and scored a big role on Broadway as a lout who spends all day on the couch watching the Oblomov Ballet on an analog TV. My performance was based on a log I saw in the forest. It had fallen without making a sound, until I heard it, in the misty pluperfect, next to a Walgreen’s. Memories refract on the pavement at night, and this, too, makes a sound, somewhat like butter spreading on a slice of bread. And then the horns blast everything into marmalade.