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I belong to it. So do you, I believe. Life. Existence. Being. It’s a big circus with acrobatic Hamlets shooting out of Danish cannons. There are challenges, and there are amenities. There is also a passage, a trajectory of stage doors and wild vagaries of immodest equivocation. It’s the same path our ancestors traveled in their quest for eclairs. And yet, for some reason, whenever we go wandering there, this whirl of syllables appears, confounding everything in its wake and turning it into folklore. We live by pom poms, big emotions, skylark kazoos and evangelistic fanatical invention. The coinages are bluntly numismatic. But I’m buying nothing from our rotating hands. If things get anarchic, we’ll start the tractor and plant some vowels in the soil. We’ll grow hearty sonnets and stunningly beautiful elegies. Corn. Beets. Radishes. Tomatoes. Cucumbers. Peppers. Beans. Cilantro. Conversational implicature and subjunctive kindling.

Today, I got a newsletter from infinity. It says drift, hungry and luminous, among our planets. My breath changes the course of a stream of words and it lifts a future tense into an engine of postponed meaning. Unity, a remembered effort, burned down last night. This left us with a steady mass of canvas and a cup of sugar. I’m not against gasoline. Logic is the refuge of the handshake. You’ll find it, at times, humming a charming song on a corner of the bench. Flap your explosions towards the dangling resilience. It’ll come in handy for the pancake parade.

Are the algorithms our buddies or more like border collies? I keep a gardenia stand under the planet. Applause is concentrated in the hands. Don't look for virtuosity in a cherry orchard. If the petal doesn’t match the description, form an opinion. Never let a compliment stand in the way of your vanity. We have tinsel for the toilet and history for the negligent. You can shine like a spatula in a merchant ship. But one day your monkey is going to beg the crowd for a branch, and hand you a hyperbole. Either grow up disembodied or escape yourself. I’m not here to cause trouble. It is, in fact, my most profound desire to lift you into abstraction. Old gets old by rattling its speedometer. Essence is a process, not a yacht. But it'll get us across the border. Cubism is rooted in my ganglia. It’s got a face like an outboard on a paradox. Everywhere you look you see people anxious to get out of here. It’s up there. Top shelf of the living room. Glued to an attitude.

We worry the spirits when we talk in this vein. The melancholy soulfulness by which Lucinda Williams sings Magnolia is its equivalent in music. This adjusts how I dish the mud. Do I use words, the words of everyday life, or some other words, the words of a wedding cake ruminating on an abstraction, or David Lynch directing a miniseries? I can take an insult from nearly anyone but I cannot tolerate a too blatant eagerness to do nothing. I embody bedding. I always have a sleepy feeling. Please don’t spoil my day. I’m miles away. My homonyms heal the heels along the way. Tomorrow I’m bringing snow and evergreens to the site of a chronic remorse. The window is glazed with frost. I watch pathos stroll through a wilderness of improbable scruples. As soon as I get to the end of this sentence I’ll disappear. And reappear as a stimulus. It’s what I’ve wanted all along. A jacuzzi in the backyard. A divine destination. And a way to get there.