My Breath Can Make A House

I give up and send emphasis to an imagined impairment, which turns out to be a blossoming. This is how I learn. How I crack a metaphorical egg and look at the contents and feel a cartwheel of dogs roll through my brain like a storm of antediluvian poodles. Ambiguity is the pavement of doubt. The mind is ravenous for distinction. I build a regret and a tray of trout. This mud will be my grout. The rest will follow as burps and art to a council of bones.

Goose quill in a Boston attic. Nothingness in a first aid kit. Vinegar imploding in a false utopia. The endowment of eyes exudes a passage through Iowa corn. Winch silhouetted against a silo.

And here we have a handful of words pending reference. Strong twisted thread. The smell of a barn. Burlap sacks entrusted to a hook on the wall.

Why is reality so big and recognizable? Is that what makes reality reality? Is anything that is big and recognizable by millions of people reality? Could all those people be wrong? Does anyone know what consciousness is?

Symptoms of aberration bounce along the song of independence. It’s instinctive to be a flute. I invite you to tug at the meaning inside this sentence. Greed is just a form of bruise. You can see it in the bear and the dream inside the bear.

Hunger. More than hunger. The hunger of hunger. Hunger fueled by a fathomless insane need to experience everything at once. It’s not really about owning anything it’s more about immersion. A greed so manic and unhinged there can be no rational explanation for it. The only thing you can do when it gets that bad is construct something. Pound nails. Pour cement. Construction provides structure and structure is an antidote to incoherence.

Think of a house. Any house. Your house. A house. The house. This house.

The house is not my breath, but my breath can make a house. These words are happening to me. I can feel these words. I can feel their energy. I can feel their momentum. I can feel their intentions. Their meanings. Their propulsion. I can do something with these words. I can make a house. I can use my breath and make sounds that have form and intent and meaning and the image of a house will appear. Breath is made of air and sound is made of waves and together they make a house of language.

Should I include a biography at this stage? Very well. I will rent a carrot and stand very still. Why does the moon stand on a hill emanating the silken underwear of a rogue tattoo? A bubbling alembic approximates expansion, but a shoulder journeys into an arm and juggles packets of sugar. This has been proven in the laboratories of heaven, which gleam in the clouds like feelings.

Hornets ooze poetry. I see the frontier of the heart in a vision. Turpentine memories dangle from a stem of corollaries. I spurt from a larceny and hug the ground like a country. Ooze is an odd word but I prefer it to the skeletal austerity of trees in winter.

I have the bronze heels of expansibility. I stretch out like a chain of clouds in a king size bed. I feel worlds of rice and algebra relax into plausibility. Sex comes in waves winking slippery ideas like a Florida clitoria. If you want to find me, I’ll be in the narrative next door worrying the frets of a pearl guitar.