The high dollar sonata in the underground of meaning promotes kindness and truffles. The words jet daily out of my mind, out of my mouth like atoms, like toes, like the rumbling of a Bermuda tan on a slow wind in the early morning, before the moon has had time to bathe, and the sky is still tethered to night.
The high dollar sonata is the sonata that is drawn by necessity into upright endearment. So that it’s a corollary to gaze, a hammer to idealize, to squeeze mightily with the hand as the hammer comes down on a nail, and hammers home the logic of conjuncture, conjecture, conjuration.
The high dollar sonata justifies the existence of planks, the slow green calories of pleading polyphonic understanding, human understanding, which is the understanding of feeling, human feeling, mammalian feeling, simian feeling, and the movement of camels.
The high dollar sonata feels sculptural because it is the occurrence of trolleys, this pudding of rails and sunlight, this pudding of steel and confusion, confusion amid order, order amid disorder, the hysterical wonder of disarray, which is an ecstasy of words, of writing and supposition when supposition goes wild and arrives at a meaning impregnated with algebra.
Algebra is the uninterrupted soot of thought when thought turns abstract and ganglions of number anticipate the contributions of Italian. Habits follow the mind around, and the privacy of perception. Poetry is a jaw held together with green wire and yellow wings and is a form of algebra in which symbols call for popcorn and punctuation. Plot is obliterated and silken convolutions of thought sprawl in a geometry of talk and pepper.
The high dollar sonata may seem at first like an understanding of dimes, and it is, when it comes to American currency the high dollar sonata is monetary and colors iron with arsenals of rust and red and spirals of mustard. This is how color enters the picture. It affords the semantics of rain the substance of anything resembling a bayou. This is where the opinions of water bubble into form and we find that there is a corollary to thought as the glow of neon in a comedy of pain.
The high dollar sonata is a joyful flinging of words with an accompanying sedation of hills. The treasures of civilization are in the shadows of reality. Language is such a shadow. Language is the shadow of the personal in a bar of soap. It is how words can convert to glass, or click into the jelly of the eye and honor the rhythms of thought with the watercolor and sawdust of a beautiful indiscretion, overtures of meaning in metal that sound like a road loosely organized as a musical of gas and elk, or the lens of a camera savoring opportunities of light, in which case the high dollar sonata is not so much a sonata as the flapping of nerves in a miracle of air.