Neon

Ontology is syntax. Words go through my eyes making my thoughts fat & glittery. Does the sky begin at the ground or at a higher elevation? The words behind everything operate by rock-a-billy. Illocution is more like dogs. Benzedrine is parakeets. I feel nervous & colorful & ready to carry out tasks of savagery & glory. The flowers of anonymity blossom in a miscreant anguish.  Shake your hips baby. Is it a good feeling? Emotions sparkle with wallpaper. Your arm is my rudder. Go ahead. Lick the toad. This is how we gain favors from consciousness. It’s a joy to drift around in your bones. Everything is linked to an idea of itself, & this is called neon.

Words are packed in images because science is pink & happy. I encourage water by swimming in it & do the same thing with my tongue. I toss it into sentences where it feels anonymous & wet as it flings itself into moonlight & becomes a trout. I’ve got a copy of Baudelaire & a keen sensation of time. Sometimes the future arrives from the past & rain glistens on the prairie grass. My shoes are old but the road is older. Depth is implicit. Or not. A day will come when there is more to a chair than a chair. Perhaps that day has come. Everything wants to sit down.  Can we leave it at that? The rest of this sentence is expecting the insects to scatter. And so they do.

The whole business of narrating worlds as contrapuntal alternatives to this bounded, parochial reality gets conversational after a time & the seriousness of it gets a little indiscriminate, to say the least. You can’t fix a world. And you can’t make it go away. But you can create moraines of vagrant thought, ideas fumigated with metaphors. I wish I was a catfish in a river of whiskey. That’s how serious I am. When I’m empty of things to say I sit quietly beside the graves. Please. Have some confidence in your singing. It’ll open your chest to a sea of mongrel abstraction.

What does it mean to believe in something? I believe in the power of yes. And I believe in the power of no. I believe in the power of contradiction, & I believe in the power of caves & the power inherent in pain. Texture is a literature for the hands. What is a thought exactly? It’s untidy, I know that. An inflammation of the brain. Which is soothed by postulation. Have people lost touch completely with the real? What kind of species are we? 100 billion neurons are not enough to ponder the fullness of oblivion. And it doesn’t stop there. It never stops. It’s an eternal beginning. I lie on my back & stare at the ceiling & dream of words dripping Paraguay, & rain.

If we unvented God, or any notion of God, he/she/it would be reinvented within five minutes. Some need a God, some are happier with gods, & some people get jazzed kicking the God can down the road & insisting that God doesn’t exist. Everyone knows that as soon as you say something doesn’t exist, it exists with a vengeance. Because the idea that we’re here, existing – eating, fucking, showering, working, playing board games, listening to old jazz records, looking for a diagnosis on Google, & feeling euphoric or bored or angry & wondering how it’s possible a complete clown of a man is president of your country & making important policy decisions, & so many crazy things happen, black swan events to fuck up your day, so many things utterly out of one’s control, there has to be – must be – a single unifying agency responsible for bringing into all existence & making it harmonize & blend & wobble & orbit things elliptically, etc., for any of it to have any meaning. But what is meant when we say meaning? Significance? Purport? Intent? Meaning for humans is a strange craving. It’s all this self-awareness. We go around with this ocean of consciousness in our heads wondering what the fuck kind of reward we get at the end of this crazy mother-fucking quiz show. Am I a bubble? And one day I burst, & that’s it? Pop. And I’m gone. The “I” is gone. That pronoun. That one letter word. Vanished. Empty air. Empty mirror.