This Is Your Brain On Words

At no point during my existence was being me my idea the world is out of my control I’m the dazzling thermometer of a giant temperature in which getting old becomes a theatre of broken bones and bad cholesterol and bald nouns screaming for nuance

A moment of taste is a moment of truth nausea solves itself we wear mushrooms it’s why I don’t like haircuts

I have a very friendly penis I have to reinvent myself every day a synthetic elucidation requires four ingredients recitation, rhetoric, grammar and dirt

But what about horses? Horses are alright horses are perpetual and bone horses are responsible for chivalry and conversation horses are the epitome of wisdom

We all make an effort to get out of our skulls I like to play with all the possibilities the engagement ring represents a ritual I remember the bells of Saint Sulpice

Bronze overflows the dream of a frog I don’t like to operate machinery when I’m naked it’s hard to hear impartial credible sources above the din of the garden gnomes

A lot of people on the stage struggle with acne give me dumplings or give me death I feel the need to describe something I don’t know which is more toxic capitalism or identity politics

I can describe the immaterial with a tube of air how many atoms does it take to build a violet shadows wave in the grass I have conversations with my right arm

My feelings are mine but I didn’t invent them I enjoy the sugar of anticipation the geometry of a personality is in its wardrobe I pedal an anorexic bicycle

To the moon and back can you create a feeling?

Yes of course you can you can reverse a verse by rehearsing a verisimilitude of diction which is spokes around a hub the first public appearance was discursive as a spring thaw

The hammer swims among atoms of iron stars tumble out of the sky I don’t understand patriotism the severity of distance is mitigated by driving sometimes all you need is an Oreo cookie

We have a panoramic intimacy you and I don’t we our virtue is in the ooze of the estuary even the flowers need manure distance is such a funny phenomenon the emissary of a dark algebra palpates the silence of a worm I understand my legs best when I’m standing on them

American society has lost its ethics and no longer functions as a real society I perceive the word ‘should’ as a shoulder turpentine complicates the air I would like to live in a cloud I’ve got nothing but sunshine and garlic in my suitcase I didn’t become a poet for that, no, but I can squeeze an accordion and make sounds come out of it I want to build a novel out of wax and fishing tackle

What planet is this? I’m guessing these echinoderms are homalozoans the haunted house could use mechanical arms to grab rocks and throw them at the children when Eric Clapton began wooing Pattie Boyd she had a pet tortoise in her purse and all her kisses felt like everyday things just stopped at the edge of the atmosphere and all the angels sang it’s a mean old scene when it comes to double crossin’ time the photons that are emitted by interstellar dust taste a little like old apples even the world’s best theme parks can be overwhelmed by what John Ruskin called the pathetic fallacy which is just old-fashioned maple syrup drooled over a stack of hotcakes at the Denny’s in Tillamook  

Death entered the thesis and made itself at home flannel feels good in the fog how easily a table becomes a landscape I’m the ambassador of rhubarb we’ve redeemed the time with succotash

I watch a cloud struggle up an orange staircase books are like mountains they have peaks and valleys I’m often seized by the lamentation of birds I cross the border into a country of sleep what is music creosote hugs the caboose

It’s pretty in my brain sunlight speaks to the trees I chase a chimera down the street the binoculars have extended my vision I have gorilla glue on my fingers we keep all our shoes by the bedroom door there’s a lot of work that goes into making a loaf of bread I’m worried about the flooding in the Midwest I drink from the well of poetry but the bread comes from the grain grown in North Dakota and eastern Montana and Nebraska and Iowa Kansas produced 333.6 million bushels of wheat in 2016

I raise my hand in favor of tentacles the signals have all been mutilated by our urbanity I played with the Beatles in my mind

I throw myself into action our furniture overflows with the warm logic of the human body the cat hides under the bed I respond differently to different people this is your brain on words