This has been one of
those days where you want to mutiny. Jump ship. Get the fuck out of Dodge. Next
time I plunge into a vat of rhetoric I’m going to keep stirring until it
becomes a meringue of dalliance, waves of mutinous insouciance.
I feel rapid as a stick & anxious to do something about justice, or its
lack thereof. Consider me a newborn among the gypsies. I’m the fire around
which everyone stands, listening to flamenco. What a dream. Now if I can just
achieve it. Maneuver some noises around until they powder the stage & blast
hole in the entire opera. The rules are ok. It’s not the rules that bug me.
It’s the infernal fictions, the lithe denials.
The palmistry flip is a promise to
saxophone my toadstool. Therefore, the typhoon bells carry my junket. The
bagels are dynastic. A representative lap whose principles bear the crumbs of
idealism. I must remedy the frequency with gossip. The fresco succumbs to its
imagery & the guitar honks like a lute. You must take these words with a
grain of willow. I’m weary & shuffled like a pancake on a plate of
introspection. This is where the fork meets the ceramic & the meringue
settles into contrast. Friends provide amenities, which are manna for the
splendid feathers of morning, & come to me in the dumps of afternoon as
parsley & volleyball. The sorbet of pain engrosses its bowl & paroles
semantics. I wander a rub through the plumbing of a pillow. I represent
blisters. Quintessence provides the foundry for the experiences to shine into
pitch.
Pervasive is wiggly. I feel a mild thought overhead ride the
elevator down to a radiology lab & unbind the descriptions of identity as a
newborn shovel. That which is dirt is possible. That which is possible is dirt.
And so the flowers assume the lactation of language. Perception is a labor with
a wide gnaw. Smell is more than punctuation: it’s a form of hunger. My umbrella
percolates the sky. And I feel fine. I don’t know why. But that last gas
station looked licked. The tongue of the sun came down from the heavens &
made everything glisten like a gallbladder.
I hear a clink & the horseradish
succumbs to my philosophy. We’ve been talking all day. Which is to say I’ve
been talking all day. To myself. And a horseradish. And this is tyrannical, if
not a little incompetent. But I’m not here to judge. I’m here to play signified
vs signifier. Insulin vs intern. Hop is the hoop of hope. Think what a
difference a sensibility can make to a work of art if the transponders blink
like evergreens. Vancouver Island! Posterity is but a few miles to the north.
Most moisture is luscious. The freshness of a set of keys is essential to
wampum. This is proven by the mechanical theory of gases, which is downright
indemnity, or footlocker whack.
Our poles are poles. Our
pools are pools. Our poles have polarity. Our polarities have pools. Pools are
pointless. Poles are polar. The pointlessness intrinsic to polls are bowls of
holes. Holes are halls of holy jolt. Delicate mutual distribution of space in
space which is spatial. Which is glacial in the Alps and jigsaws in the valleys
of Germany. The sallies are tallied by tacit orgasm. Ocelots scratching a
nondescript wall. Petulant screws disheveled shovels & an outcry. Why do
windows matter so much? The facts are tacks. The quaffs are tucked in fiddles.
And the moon floats in the puddles at midnight. And midnight is a bright
symphony of beautiful imprecisions.
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