Blue Suede Shoes

Believe it anyway. Bend everybody toward the horizon. My despair just happens to eschew myopia. A highway is never about distance. It emerges from a need for speed and has a way to make that happen. The revelatory is nowhere near a study. The smash of those ideas was unrivalled behind the studio until we poured lighter fluid on the charcoal briquettes and all hell broke loose. We were all affectionately rippled by its music there. I painted the gulp the army took at the Mexican border. If sophisticated alive as we had been, we found ourselves going at it there. The bas-relief of it. The truth of it. The physicality of it. Everything moving forward. Everything exaggerated. All the deformations tooled by desperate philosophers. 

We throw hints at the wall hoping for something like an accordion to drive around in music. The snow is at it again, flowering into snowmen as it falls. I like to rub what we feel together. This generates work for some of us. We don’t mind. Most autonomy already dwells in it. The fish tube. The unpredictable. The granite kitchen counter. Build there among its coils. I will gush holes, and excel at coasting. The Pythagorean fiber slashed beneath us offered drugs of a sort no one was familiar with. All we remember is that it was made of math and fountained numbers. My sleeves still simmer from the flight. The twitching guzzles at blood.

If there is indeed a beyond, don’t drive with cruel intent. Drive with refinement and sophistication. There’s a vividness in today’s poetry that has yet to be further explored for its moonshine. There’s a start there. We should get going before anyone can figure out what the sidewalks were trying to tell us. What the blots were about. What the cracks meant. Anybody clashing beside our ablutions is welcome to convulse in its grace and beauty. The engines lure everyone into a false conclusion, which keeps the story going. Emotions run deep. But I can’t tell you how I feel. There are no words for it. I feel compelled to wear a mask. Anything we glitter is fine by me. The orchid’s architecture has a sense of hemorrhagic vertigo. They so grow so powerfully I think it comes from their grace and delicacy. I like to watch people chew their points into glaciers. The rest of the journey is optional. But you might want to hang around anyway. The glow we pound aloud at Christmas has a gluttonous plan to get us through the season with our gloves off and our vulnerability showing. Which proves nothing. Gravity is just all feathers. 

A deliverance of unprecedented bubbles has arrived in time for the festivities. The world swirls around in a gyrational West Virginia dance. I set an escalator inside its basis. I get ugly straining to lift a world beside a theorem. What the singing did was topaz. We meditated above its resilience. Everything bristles on the escalator. What a dusty world we’ve all become. The escape toward its percussion gave us hope for an evening of Proust and apple cider. A souvenir gut they clubbed into inanition. We should each shoot this sand as we would a pillow or a sachet. Confusion twists it among gestures. We walk without direction. Our story, meanwhile, spirits gleefully along waving at anyone and anything. 92.3FM, Las Vegas. There must be some kind of way out of here said the joker to the thief. You get the picture. ‘67 Mustang. Top down. Desert air blowing through your hair.

My blue suede shoes have since become language. I’ve learned how to pull my weight along a path of awakening during a concentration induced from chaos. This signals the garments in which I languish. The gravity engines idle in a steady prolongation of weightless optimism. The solace of a comb does it with nothing. I am my own hair, and I wear it with a cognizance of baldness creeping in. Someone somewhere goes to cry privately somewhere else during the language that curls around our motorcycle repair shop in downtown Metaphor. Somebody burst this drawer open and letters and underwear went flying through the air. Can anyone out there fold my exhilaration into a Bob Dylan song? If we leave right now, we can reach the end of this sentence before sun comes up and the 3:10 from Yuma goes by and the period makes it final. This has been a poem. It had me wondering. I wasn’t sure. It made me feel weird. I’ve never owned any blue suede shoes. But I do now.  

 

Three Prose Poems

                                          Hibiscus

And so. What now, my little angels? Where to? And what for? It's always the same old story. Birth, death, reincarnation as a Goodyear tire. Don’t start me rolling. Once I get going, it’s difficult to stop. Even when things start looking cataclysmic, catastrophic, and fungal. Slowly, chestnut by chestnut, I will make another ocean. Meanwhile, I’m going to go get the laundry. I swear, if you listen closely, you can hear an egg-timer in the Stone's "Can't You Hear Me Knocking." It’s what I use to remind me I’ve got some laundry to attend to. Things to mend. Fellowships to restore. Trunks to pack. Memories to unpack. Grace means more than clean underwear. It means never having to say thank you for choosing me I won’t let you down. I never cared much for that role. I was more of a see you later alligator guy. Or at least I pretended to be. The reality was different. As it always is. That’s the dark side of reality: it’s real. I miss every person to whom I’ve said goodbye. And never said hello again. It’s why I’m drawn to art. There's nothing like going up to an attic in the summer and finding objects enchanted with the dust of obfuscation. You clear the webs and find the time to put your nose into a big bowl of meringue. And wonder what happened to books and affordability. Redemption and hiding. Privacy and hobbies. The radio on late at night. The Goon Show. And a hibiscus.

                     We All Saw It Coming

 

We all saw it coming. But we could never agree on where it came from. My life began with Rimbaud. And ended with profligacy, industrial seasonings, and imbecility. It felt like being in a Sam Shepherd play. And then everything happened. Chaos. Camels. And lipstick. The pyramids were mighty and gave us a sense of assurance. Death lies beneath everything. There are three things in life you can always count on: problems, accidents, and ping pong. Everything else makes me quiver. I can hardly stand, much less sing. Is this an age in which to think about publication? Why not? The show must go on. I can’t help admire certain paradoxes, my favorite being the authenticity of fiction and the lies that go hand in hand with truth. And thank god for cognitive dissonance. Or just plain dissonance. And the many problems that brought me here, looking for you to help me solve them. Some things are so irrational they deserve a suite at the top of the Ritz. You can paint anything you want if you have your own calamity and a place to do it. This is a Bob Dylan song. He never wrote it. I did. I like Bob Dylan. And there was time and consideration. Hippopotamus. Old oak doors. The soft orange clouds of a Wyoming morning. The end feels surprisingly similar to the beginning. And that makes me circular. Fashionably nonlinear. And sexy as a remedy for work.

                             Knock Knock

 

Knock knock. Who’s there? Anarchy. Anarchy who? None of your business. Well, come back later none of my business, when you’re feeling a little more garrulous and less anarchic. You old libertarian you. Here’s what I think: back in paleolithic times I’ll bet women did go hunting with the men. Women are better at spotting details than men. As for raising children, I’m hesitant to speculate. I’ve only raised one human being. And that was me. And I failed. Repeatedly. The possibilities were daunting. I got lost in alternatives. Diversions. I matured more like a gingko biloba than an arugula. I made so many bad decisions it’s a miracle I’m still here. I had a penchant for getting lost in details. It’s a feminine trait, but I’m proud to be a fop. It takes a real man to be a sissy. Hotspur can take his toxic masculinity elsewhere. I’m riding my favorite rocket to the far edge of the known universe and having a shot of bourbon, a corned beef sandwich, and a good long look at nothing. Anyone knocks on the door, tell them I’m indisposed. I’m busy reminiscing. And I’ve got a lot to reminisce. Don’t Go Now. Paint It Black. A Day in the Life. I don’t want to see you go. But you’d better go now. I’ll save you a seat when the shit hits the fan. And I put the flap of my old oak desk up a final time.

 

Anything Henna

 I grieve against it. Those who hold that life in a bubble is unfulfilling are probably spies from another hairstyle. My components revolt against another eye. Another elevation unfolding a drum circle. Mountains scud through everything. They all deserve iron. Therefore, pleasure becomes a sizzling inclusion of everything.

Most hives include the twinkle of it. I’m sticky from it. Molasses on the stove. Most occurrences occur as a result of strongly held feelings. Our forever jingling with vital exceptions. A kiss during spurts. A gasoline spout about to release Seattle. I feel more strongly about henna. Anything henna is fine by me.

Some of our friends are dead. Power is nobody’s friend. That’s not what it’s for. Sometimes a painter paints the wrong carrot. Carrots don’t look like Blaise Pascal. Carrots look like carrots. I’m diving in circles today. As you can see. There are ripples fastened to this image of summer. I tried to tell you this morning. I climbed into another version of myself. It had Beach Boy vibes. I’m doing this during good vibrations humming in all the wires. Panic in panoply. Planet Earth in deep shit.

Don’t worry, baby. Consumerism isn’t half bad when you’re on the sweet side of eighteen. You’ll spend the rest of your life hunting for that youth. Unless you wise up. Space is enriched by space. Time is enriched by time. Therefore, be merry and climb into your chrysalis. I’m calling on all the gods in history to come down and help us figure this whole thing out. My eyebrows sound like aquariums. My bones go bone to bone inciting riots and crippled pentameters. Writing makes its incisions apparent in indecisions. Paradigms box the war. War wins. The sky thunders. My premonitions break their harness and race toward the horizon. I feel like I have a wormhole in my life collapsing spacetime parameters. I remember when a dime could haul your ass into a peepshow and a quarter got you a nod from Tom Waits. The salty slop between Seattle’s piers was constellated with jellyfish. Winter draped the city with mist. I am a lineman for the county filled the waves. Immediacy felt urgent as getting my pants on during a fire. Before our destiny became a manufactured consent. And then no consent. Just a rant on TikTok.

Pink New Moons In The Green Room

 Seattleites are a lot like planets. On the surface, they’re all ice and mystery. But at their molten core, metals combine into mermaids and meat hooks glow on the retina. Occasionally, and quite often, strangely enough, in used bookstores, you’ll come across a maidenhair fern steeped in the dark, fertile soil of a Romanian pessimist. Approach them gently, cautiously, but not so cautiously you look like a stalker. And if you get lucky and start a conversation, use your inner radar, speak simply, speak wisely. Don’t act like Lord Byron. Don’t come off like Madonna. These are shy, suspicious, sensitive souls. They take flight at the slightest mention of you know who. They vanish in an instant. They leave you feeling like you’ve just had a quick visit to fairyland, or André Breton visiting Quebec. That charged little moment is now a musty section of moldy sci fi. The hush of isolation, and a copy of Emile Cioran. But if you’re smitten, truly stricken, and have the inner ambience of a Mongolian yurt, you can sometimes find them through a telescope, their celestial bodies pulsing with outer space nirvana. A cold yet eerily beautiful surface.  Glaciers. Jagged outcrops. Lush valleys, bushy and damp. In every Seattleite beats the heart of a latent, pre-millennial Californian. Who hasn't, at one time or another, wanted to shed their clothing and become a wet glitter? A bold new version of life. It goes on all the time. Pink new moons in the gloom room.

 

River Cruises On The Danube

River cruises on the Danube have been disrupted due to drought. France is being devoured by fire. Homelessness is illegal in Indiana. What a beautiful deposition I could make. Dyspeptic assessments of the modern age. Indictments of society as hot and perverse as anything I witnessed in Lynch’s Blue Velvet. And on my laptop, too. Meanwhile, what are you doing until the Humvees pass? How about a picnic? Let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of kings. When the ground is damp, and alligators swim in the streets, it is suitable to get dry in a place of searing beauty. We can create a gaiety quite easily. By playing one word against another, the parameters expand into exhilarating idiosyncrasies. Honeycomb textures on Mars discovered by the Mars Rover robot. A tiger shark floating in formaldehyde. Worth millions. An unmade bed, complete with used condoms and empty vodka bottles, shortlisted for the Turner Prize and later sold for 2.5 million pounds. Robotic dogs with tech-CEO heads. And there it is: that telltale roar. The sky screaming as it gets sucked into the engine of a Super Hornet. Blue Angels. Loud and acrobatic in the sky above the city. High-performance climbs. Breathtaking dives. Coming in low. Thanks for the tinnitus, boys. Why does our culture have to be so militaristic? I would’ve made a terrible Viking. I can see my ancestors across the river, looking at me sadly and shaking their heads. Their helmeted heads. The story continues until the water stops boiling and the rice falls silent. Most people experience significant everyday life, but they express it in different ways. It’s everyone’s prerogative to be at least a little weird. What are you doing right now to fill the room with delight? I could soon be in the shadows, amusing myself with theories of gray, and sprinkling your arm with a river cruise.

 

The Birth Of Going Somewhere Else

I don't know about you, but I'm burning to get backstage and see what the whole thing was about. It had something. There was something there. And then it vanished. It was real. But the word ‘real’ diminishes its scope. Its exquisite pulsations. Whatever it was. It had something. Had something going. You can't say that about everything. The northern lights maybe. Orange Julius. But nothing that specific. It had no form, nothing palpable, nothing you could put in your mouth. Just hints. Clues. Intimations. Vague premonitions. Bad jokes that make you laugh inside. Unsettling intuitions. Curious moments of dissociation. It always feels like it’s on the verge of something. Something hair-raising. Something savage and cauterized. Something passionately devoted but tragically anachronistic. The air trembles with its presence. You’d think it was indestructible. And yet it’s subject to the caprices of time. The whims of the zeitgeist. The high cost of gas. A big-ticket cheap thrill. These things are vain. Though satisfying in many other regards, they have none of its mystery. And it already feels like it's crumbling, fading away like a really good song. It’s hard to hang on to this stuff. Because it’s immaterial. And it’ll never be the same. It’s getting harder and harder to find words for it. Most people are in a hurry to get from one job to another. They don’t have time for this kind of nonsense. Even though it’s vital. Indispensable. Critical. And although these edges crack with thunder, they serve a purpose. The scene across the street is too close for comfort. And I think that’s it. The birth of going somewhere else.

Getting there is another matter. Somewhere else might be a long distance. It can be far as your youth or intimate as nowhere at all. You’ll need transport. And transport has a long history. There’s more to it than yachts and private jets. Harleys are cool but they’re no good on this terrain. We need a long warm rapture. An ascendant descending. I’m doing what I can while waiting for a pair of little wings of mine to warm up and take me somewhere. Somewhere else. Something outside the usual parameters, the secure comforts of normalcy. Though that seems to be disappearing, too. There was a long intermission, a long darkness, during which the props got changed, and our seats were different, and what appeared to be a colossal chandelier above is now a web of creepy surveillance. The antidote is antiquated. I hesitate to even mention it. Someone might hear me. And turn away in mockery. Or horror. Nobody listens anyway, not when you’re this old and you don’t have a podcast or an invitation to appear on Joe Rogan. What I’m talking about isn’t digital. It acquires some attention. Jesus, I sound old. Look what age did to me. Too late to repair the damage. But sense enough to thrive on the energy of despair.

Art moves line by line. Note by note. This is why Mahler’s adagietto moves so slowly. Then picks up speed. Urgency. Phenomena like this often occur during a trance. Music is to trance what alpine is to high winds. Actual to the point of putting a fat feather in a skinny hat. It's a cheese that can only be swallowed when its weight is understood to smoke the century like a chandu of opium. Which is a roundabout way of saying cowlick. We try not to get too fancy around here. Language is meant to be translucent. Some things languish in obscurity. And some things achieve a good standing. Art shatters quickly. The market can’t always keep up. A tale of music should include at least one speedboat to get us there quickly. It doesn’t have to be real. It just needs to float. And leave a good wake behind it.

I pool as a gravy unfolding its syntax on a ramification. Tin roof during space with a rain on it scattered my titration. And somehow it came together and formed a narration, a puddle of lightning with a saloon in it and people playing cards. It’s not hard to make a poem chirp like a mockingbird. We do it in our prosody zone. This is a place conducive to gasoline. It’s a conceit I learned from Gregory Corso. Fuel, ignition, the high-octane rush of language. Or was it Duchamp’s love gasoline? Fluid for a mechanical allegory. I can’t remember. It’s funny. Some memories are weird as ears. Others are confusing as lines to see a shitty movie. We live in a city where things are a little hard to grasp. Sooner or later you’re going to come face to face with a QR code. Or a Cyclops going 80 mph on an ebike. Very little makes sense to me in a city with eleven billionaires, more dogs than children, a subterranean ghost town, a museum of bad art, the highest rate of UFO sightings per capita, nightly gun battles on Aurora, and a troll under the Fremont bridge. And to think this was the birthplace of grunge. And Jimi Hendrix. And pickleball.

Let me start again. I’m on the wrong track here. I can’t keep everything filtered out of my language. So why try? Why not just let it hang out like bedsheets on a clothesline? Let’s move even further away from meaning: here in this neck of the woods a work is a riotous amalgamation beyond our control, a broken sprocket after a faulty conception of sawdust. Anyone can loop into a batch of someone if the drool of being has anything in it resembling hair. Earth tones east of Cle Elum help disencumber summer from the damp of early June. Umber has roots in Ice Age cave art. Its grammar has a glamour that is handily subterranean. And yet there are things about it that verge on frailty. Few of us inhabit caves these days. I shall pursue this ignis fatuus another time. Do you mind if I open a new line of credit? I ponder a breathy vowel as a parody of pig iron but feel the foundry of its origin may be tethered to an ocellated turkey. Later, I’ll sort through a few of my mistakes to see if I can redeem anything. That’s how strong my love is. I get ideated and go beyond the snow to see how big the world can get when it’s not real property. This is my silhouette in letters, and what your eyes can see is an open field. We must rely on our dexterity to pull us through, and find our inner ukulele.    

A Button For Bangkok

I’m here to drink life, he shouted, and ordered another bottle with a memorable afternoon agitating its hues. We understand what's there, the paradise of the perplexed, the sunbeam born in a large oval bowl of contrary feelings. Yes. Yes. That's it, my heart digging into the sky with a spade of art. The squabble that’s been aging for over twenty years like a slice of demented cheese. Overturned. Flipped. The warm feeling that costs nothing but buzzes all night like a beehive. I can taste the sky in every carrot, every plunge into Buddhism, every cathedral full of songs, every little distinction breaking its barriers and getting controversial. I believe that nothing is truly nothing, and did so when the sidewalk aggrandized its cracks and idiosyncrasies, and the only one to take notice was a Yorkshire Terrier named Isidore Ducasse. I believe in zig, I believe in zag, I believe in zigzags, chin sags and dishrags. I believe the best location for viewing the stars is a strip mall with her ingots in a bra. This is why. Why I honor the mending stick that sensitizes the cracked musk of Mongolia. Why I sit here listening to a dying language talk to the body of work between my hands. I believe every tattoo loves the skin it’s on. That the fates like to tease people. That irony is their favorite prod. And billionaires are their biggest joke. That nobody gets. We’re all still waiting for the punchline.

There's a place where one can manipulate one's symptoms near our most primitive instinct. This has led to a situation in which we glaze our despair with the shine of metaphor. I have, for this reason, decided to bark at the traffic. Over the winter, I think about phenomena that can ignite a light in the mind. The first thing I notice is pretty. The second thing I notice is ugly. The third thing I notice is gambling on the ambiguity of beauty, the electric-blue body and crimson head of the Malayan Coral Snake. Rita Hayworth in Gilda. The eerie bioluminescence of the Waitomo Glowworm Caves. The secret heart of poetry, which can destroy a life while giving it its ultimate meaning. Which is a filet of cardboard jerked east by the spasmodic gusts of rain sweeping the Times Square Billboard. Which is an alligator unzipping its throat and out pops the flower missing from every bouquet. Which smells of swamps and semen. And is the source of all sorcery and the forgeries of the divine.  

There’s a stain of geography on the globe. If you stare at it a long time it becomes a country populated by jugglers and vagabonds. There are many active volcanos and picnics and rash, chaotic assemblies. That’s the arctic on top and calculus on the bottom. The land of a thousand infatuations. A here and now that runs contrary to Monday. I feel warm towards someone in the hope their shoes may one day engulf them in foam. It’s how I sharpen my instincts on the roots of a western red cedar. My obscurity feeds on the galaxies surrounding our Abbagenesis. Did you know that there are twelve million swimming pools on Proxima b? It gives me a reason to employ a semicolon in a contextual gallimaufry. But I’m not in the mood just now. I’ve got a bunch of crazy ideas built out of wire, immoderate articulations and aromatic philosophies to put on display for nobody in particular. Life is a big mosaic but sometimes the landlord wants his son back and a cop below in the street is talking to you through a megaphone. Irony glitters everywhere. When things go wrong there’s usually something right that made it available in the first place. It’s how we like it here. Ribbons of contrary air shaking a patch of devil’s walking stick, a volume of Emily Dickinson on my lap and 70 degrees in the shade.

I think it’s time that I faced reality. I have a face for the quick, a face for the many cycles of life, and a face for gazing out of coffeehouse windows on rainy days. But I don’t have a face for reality. I’ve got a face for daydreaming, which has been the bane of supervisors and a frequent cause for dismissal, a face that sometimes looks back at me from the bathroom mirror and bears a disturbing similarity to the face of my father, long deceased, which gives his likeness an added jolt, and a face which is really more of a mask that I find convenient for socializing and playing poker in the Ozarks. There are 32 to 33 individual muscles in the human face, depending on how they’re counted, the temperature and humidity of a given circumstance, the weight of the emotion being lifted into expression, and the level of transparency with which one feels comfortable. I like the faces painted by Francis Bacon. I find their distortions to be apt reflections of the world’s current realities, the various contortions of logic and daily complications with which the human experiment must now cope. The face is theatrical. It’s a device. It’s something to hide behind. And for those who refuse to face reality, there’s Botox. And for those who do, there’s Clint Eastwood. Which is Hollywood’s way of saying stand tall, smoke a cigar, and squint. It’s not reality. But it is entertaining. And then there’s Renée Jean Falconetti, who played Joan in The Passion of Joan of Arc in Dreyer’s 1928 version. The intensity is jaw-dropping. Antonin Artaud – as sympathetic bailiff and interrogator Jean Massieu - speaks to her on the stake, about to be burned alive. “Tell me, how can you still believe that you were sent by God?” “His ways are not our ways.” And you can see the shock of anguish and passion subtly manifesting the power of the sublime in her fatigued mortal eyes.

How much does existence weigh? This will largely depend on the fulcrum of your generosity. If I believe my nose has an opinion about the smell of morning, the meanings and the seriousness of things here grow exponentially, and this will include the humidity of farce. Don’t Worry Baby, sang the Beach Boys, so many years ago they seem freeze-dried in beauty. A beauty, shall we say, of a particular time, a particular place, and a particular feeling. The time was 1965, the place was Cupertino, and the feeling was an awakening of passion that felt completely new and wonderful to my being. A fullness of being it felt awkward to contain. It’s always so gratifying to discover someone else who shares your opinions, especially when they emerge from the scribbles and jungles of the unconscious. We strive to be rational. Most of us do, I think. There are those other needs, however, that don’t get properly acknowledged in a culture such as ours, where the emphasis in the universities is on STEM, the gods of technology and the money to be made in real estate and war. The humanities have been kicked to the curb. Which is also where a lot of the homeless now find themselves. Others dream larger. Others dream of one day finding a button for Bangkok on the eighth floor of a Supreme Being. Others look for otherness in a world of lusterless and colorless dualities. Good, bad. Up, down. Open, close. Democrat, Republican. Right wing, left wing. Love, hate. And so on. And so on is where I live. Not the so-so. I’m not a so-so person, not generally. What I am mainly is someone who gets on an elevator and if I ever see a button for Bangkok, I’m pressing it. And when the doors open, I’m getting off. And if I find myself in Budapest, I’ll find a café and order a chimney cake. And so on.

The gravity of a certain house hides someone beyond the distance to Saturn, who neither cracks their theories with granite nor writes the poetry of navigation with textbook cachet. It is because we have plugs that electricity can exist in a constant state of franchise. I use it to brush my teeth, dry my hair, and illumine the face in the mirror looking back at me with worry and supposition. I garden the cartilage of language with the power of bone. Anybody familiar with a philodendron can regret an afternoon rain spent on clothing a circumstance with habit. You know how it goes: thought unravels a fist of earth and discovers propagation. This starts everything dancing in a mania of dancing girl ginger. A groan by tumble is everything it precedes, and ends with a filigree motif. It’s how I met your mother and taught her the ways of our people. We grew our curls against the admonitions of the ambivalent and nobody scattered what seeds we had to implicate the grace of nothingness. And this is how hypnosis was invented, and the loveliness of paint became a mutable stimulus against the tendencies of form. 

Everything is diesel when it comes to maintaining a train of thought. Its fluidity is semiformal, which makes it ideal for drinking, proselytizing, and the glamour of doing nothing. I have often considered a poem built on nothing but antediluvian grammar to spring from its autonomy within the sentence to become a tumult of flickering eczema. And by everything, I mean anything. Anything and everything except jaundice, Mongolian grapefruit, and purgatory. These respond better to eucalyptus oil. Dry shaving on steel from any buffet will enhance the hibachi oysters. All these moods make me frown at what I acknowledge by omission. What more can I do to fortify the milk against the its chastity of its flavor? The chrome whistle demanded the innocent markings of the lotus no one ruminates in a taxi. And so we added antifreeze to its rhetoric and wept with joy by the go-go fountain.

I am so my own fog that a galaxy can frame it in buckles. This will now be my experience of you. I have an arrival in my elevator that is here for the benefit of your bloodstream. I say this out of respect for the hermitage convulsing in the ground of our reflection. That one day I felt your ensemble near me I almost spurred my endeavor to greater and greater intrigues, and came close to spitting guitars at a seeming indecision. Instead, I considered us as a gift, and held your eyes in my palette. I trembled as I dipped my brush in the goo of your sexual splendor. There are luxuries in getting here before I excel at eggnog. One of which is really just a rattlesnake shake away from being utterly inappropriate. I never fret over the thickening of a word in the wilderness of my mouth. Language isn’t just another appliance, a way to focus our calculus on parallels of salvation, but a perturbance crucial to our vertigo and a place like Bangkok to broaden our labials.