The News From Hercules Road

Hey friend, what are you up to these days? Me, I’m hanging loose on the bed with a cat digging around for the month of August. August is where I float in my skull like an albatross of grace and beauty. I find minerals in Immanuel Kant. The morality of animals, the Palace of Westminster. And here I am sitting at the end of this sentence eating a tuna sandwich and scribbling words in the Dead Sea mud. When God was finished with the tigers, he made lambs, according to Mr. William Blake, who writes to us from Hercules Road, London, England. Mud likes to hang out in poetry because words like to stir up sediment. The sediment of sentiment is on the bottom. And a clear pool of singing women brings me some feelings in a paragraph. Am I sometimes obstinate? Yes. There are things I will not do. I will not put lipstick on a refrigerator. I have no theories of the organic and the inorganic. But I do have a bowl of molecules undergoing a sequence of reactions that results in pictographs and batteries. I affirm everything with saucepans. Why should it bother anyone if Galileo was being egocentric? He wasn’t. Galileo was being heliocentric. My feelings tell me that innocence is a pulse. How is the value of a feeling determined? I use a piano. I climb into the sky and get a hammer and build something. Let me show you some feelings. This one is blue and this one is walking around in my head twinkling with congeniality. I have to go now and look generously to the spirit within, even if it means dead people glimmer their way into our dimension like Christmas fairies checking in at a Motel Six. Breath and laughter are rubbed together to produce trout. This isn’t surprising. Everyone wants to pull things out of the air that aren’t natural. It leads to enchantment. We must defend what we love. Enthusiasms are rare. Imagination gives you everything. But capitalism  wants to take it all away. Do I speak irresponsibly? Very well. I like to go underwater and hear the world when it’s raining. And then pop back up in Clarksdale, Mississippi.  Heaven isn’t a place. Heaven is the sky in my knee. The rest of my day is a letter postmarked from nowhere.