900 Pieces Of Daylight

What does it mean to be rich? The wherewithal to transform gross experience, primary matter, into a golden inutility and assorted heresies against the gods of profit. This is crucial to any understanding of life. If you throw your personality at a mirror, it’ll come back to haunt you as Tom Waits. That’s him at the end of the bar. Staring at you. Like a mirror. We are all vessels of a reality we can’t understand. Let obscurity fold it into a compelling and serious attempt at exhumation. Cloud what counsels through thunder. It helps to light up the sidewalk. And then, you know, it’s whatever it seems. Grab a bowl while the anchovies are still tractable. Enhance your argument with backflips. You can’t get in without going out, or assemble a bridesmaid with toothpicks. It’s why I prefer microscopes. In an incongruous public setting, we commit ourselves. And why not. It’s a beautiful day, and the resurrection is on the verge of bas-relief. 

Most of my experiences with plaster have been refreshingly inconsequential. I got conked on the head once by a rogue sentence. It was speeding across the page in a rage of majuscules. There are nights when the mist comes up early from the river and knocks on the door. It’s a bit like that. This constant fever. I’ll say this. It cured my myopia. I’m tired of making judgments. I prefer to gamble. Twinkle like a napkin. Thank God I’m still strong enough to lift an old TV. But just barely. When you reach a certain stage of development you will be required to play games. I found refuge in left field. The ball rarely came out there. And I was so lost in thought it was more apt to bounce off my head than get thrown to the appropriate glove. You do get wise in old age. Unfortunately, that’s when you need it least. The nouns are just stand-ins. Substitutes. The music is in the pillow. In the rain. Because the intent was serious. And that’s where it ended up.

I have written feathers of red. I have walked with the dead. My aerodrome has a smell that curves in the light like autumn. Who are you, green sweater? What are you, banished flower? I’m going to perform a series of backflips until I go on TV in my old moccasins. This object in my hands squirts vowels. I use it to shape oblivion. And this is gallant. A sweet hinge of glory. From the farm. That old shack in a grove of hobnail goblins. I'm going to throw it and crack it and sneer at it and jerk it around until I can lift it. Brilliance takes time. My French is calling me back. It wants an answer. Deep dive into stucco. We ride such phenomena by our actions. Sprinkle them with alms and yams. Make everything small. Pick it up. One by one. And caress it. 

I see a crimson lake with eyes in the snow. I see a lobster scorched by eagerness. You do know I make a lot of shit up. But I didn’t make this up. It arrived by apothecary. I’m braced to the nines. I'm fit to go on talking and will use my thumb and forefinger if I must. I specialize in recreating the feel of Picasso's Parisian steam forge. It’s a very expensive process requiring the phantom weight of buried light bulbs multiplied by a factor of spring. Meaning folds into stories so the monsters can shine. I see a bustling studio flaring in an airport flower. I see a pair of eyes following the words in this sentence. In the distance, a twitching muscle of mist clutches a glorious sunset, a garage explodes, Dr. Williams advises a patient to carve out a life for themselves, a filet of prose glows with a reckless infrared sand, and a crocodile eating the end of this sentence until nothing exists except you and me and a jar of pandemonium. I think it’s time we quit playing games and got serious about our audition. You play me. I’ll play you. And together we will reproduce a loop of unwritten worms jacked up on 900 pieces of daylight.