Self-Portrait In A Convex Pizza

The wedge of noise that I rattle makes everything sidereal. A gray temerity. An anonymous pagan. Here it all is: sandwiches, textures, wheels.

An impenetrable smack causes time to point. We strain to milk the ceremony of words smeared on the reverse side of a church.

What is time? Bewilderment. Closets. Symbols. Why does it move forward, never backward? Because it’s held in the hands like a bar of soap.

I am words. We are all words. Everything is words. I am words in pizza. I am pizza. We are all pizza. Pizza is the Tunisia of Geneva. Lolita’s amnesia is due to anesthesia, not pizza. The pizza was an arena of synesthesia due to the freesia in the magnesia. The pepperoni was baloney. “I am legend,” said Melissa, who was full of macaroni.

This time it changes the cynosure to a lyric. Until the thin science of subtleties finds its razor we will continue to sweep the floor. I’ll go get the horses. It’s time we got out of here. I smell the law at every turn.

The problem of looking backwards, towards causes, to see if we have done well is that it only confirms the ideas and concepts we had before. This only serves to check boxes but we learn nothing new. If, on the contrary, we invest in movement, things are always new. But who will formulate this goal?

I remember nothing of the path. The armadillos were a minor help. I noticed that I had claws and wings. Was this a joke? Or a new mode of life? The cat sat at my side. Her pupils were dilated. Completely black. I heard the clatter of metal as dawn crossed the mountains. That's when I started thinking about rags. Carrots. Mistletoe. Dreams of an after-life. Christmas in Budapest. Hegel’s aesthetics. The mesas of New Mexico.

I remember caves. Rapids. The sound of water roaring through subterranean chambers.

I remember membranes and amber, exasperations produced by gluttony. I know how to engage the world. What I haven’t yet learned is how to disengage with the world. I know what it is to stand in a garden while the ganglions of one’s brain hoist an idea of free will into cognition. Is there such a thing? Is it possible to powder the face and put on a wig and attend the ball without being recognized? Will anyone notice the look of Cubism on my face?

Certain representative planets offer some good breakfast deals. There’s that to consider, plus clouds and liner notes. Who does those anymore?

I like to wear necklaces of faucets. Old kitchen faucets. It goes good with my wallpaper. Go ahead. Bathe in the flow of events. Do what I do: hire a painter to defend what happens when the wrinkles deepen and the load gets heavier and threading a needle becomes the focus one’s existence. If you can sit still long enough, the result will give you power. The authority to occur at any time, postmarked and naked in the morning light.