Harlequin Words

Harlequin words are the laxative the mind needs to liquefy and flow into piccolos and viscera. The harlequin is a figure of perpetual endorsement. Madness in a mule. Misdemeanors of seismic inventory. Imagine a grievance with teeth and a haircut. The quorum is open to lips.

My tendons are happy to do this miscellany. Any time I have a fig newton in my hand I want to be a novel full of underwear. Lingerie and subtleties that occur in italics. Sexual innuendos so large and monumental they make the prerequisite shoulder do things no other shoulder could which is to shoulder the shadow of the moose on the moraine. The wilderness on the tip of my tongue is dripping with fire. I’m principled as a knife. I have the blade of position, the edge of perspective.

One of these days you’re going to come walking through that door and I won’t know what to say. I’m always on patrol. I’m always watching for that rhombus in utter incarnation. The jiggle of meat in salt and oleander. You won’t find any indifference here. I’m not going to coerce anyone into believing that any of this matters. It’s just a nuclear tattoo jacked up on variegation. I recommend the hash browns. But look out for the pancakes. They’re dynamite.

No claim can be too inflated if the immersion is honest and the fingers are willing and the strings on the guitar are flagstones of justice. I presuppose nothing. But I do find that hauling anything can cost money and should be properly secured. When I think of things that a thermometer might represent I feel like soliciting as many opinions as I can, some of the rubber, some of them worthless, some of them haunted and seething.

The sounds are taffy to this form of salt. Oil in the dust coagulating into little green men. Elves, I think. Are we in Ireland suddenly? Is this a word, or a world? Every word is a world. The word is a detail waiting for a sentence to theorize pounds of old thoughts said aloud.

Hysterics are the pyrotechnics of fate.

Although there are other ways to look at this. There always are. Other ways. Theories. Speculations. Goulash and metronomes.

The light of a pearl is a glistening sphere of opulent beauty. I try not to worry about the puddle on my shoulder. I like it when the medium becomes a phenomenon. The camel’s bushy rock confesses to a spinal cord and stands up. We pile up while praying to a cosmetic. Everything is religion. Even the horseradish has a fatuous merit to uphold among the mushrooms.

Marijuana also makes a nice handbag. You can bring it to your visa interview at the U.S. Consulate or gym or favorite restaurant and your introversion will be quenched by symbols. Much of my life has been recorded in rocks and my fedora now swims with radar. The interview was conducted by an ogre, but the view from the window was pleasantly stiff. I paint everything with saffron. It decides what I will do to pulchritude, if there is any geometry I can further advance with my urine.

The human bladder is a place of immense natural beauty. You will love the crows and frog hopper ride. I tend to favor style over content, but you can decide what is true for you and let the rest just crash and burn. Firecrackers will always lisp the patina. Music is so important today that I will spend the entire day walking around the planet in my sweatpants distilling hormones in my little corner of paradise. Forget the walls, it’s the doors that you want to open with your bare hands while your insecurities rustle among your nerves like a school of herring lost in an observatory.  Just smile and wave at the penguins. You’ll be glad you brought a chair.