A Very Special Relationship

I have a very special relationship with the world. I live in a thimble with an immense and highly immoral robot. Together we peruse guitars and hum the songs of herrings. We are inchoate. We are modern and postmodern, simultaneously, the way manuals are written, and ski poles become paternal, with integrated flasks in the hollow of the pole. The fuselage in which we postulate iconoclastic hiccups is made of a derelict glass. This makes the subjunctive hoot like a drum. Life becomes incandescent, a large fat exuberance with iron rails and a lecherous smokestack.  And so suddenly there’s a kangaroo on a beach, and the setting sun creates a long shadow, which I later find folded neatly in my back pocket, and take it out and give it a shake and find that it’s endowed with grunts and maelstroms of sock. This can change so swiftly inside a sentence that even as the words collect and gain momentum the homilies drop from sight and the atmosphere turns funerial. Everything revels in hazel when it is realized that words are only substitutes and behind them is nothingness, and all the horseflies in the world cannot make a truer beginning than a man walking out of a saloon in a suede indemnification. But a beginning of what? And is there ever a real beginning to anything? Isn’t what is beginning already begun? So how can anyone say that a liquor is onyx when it tastes like kumquat? Clearly, it is intuition that nominates the reefs of a small island and mopeds that bounce around in a ledger full of duplicate fathoms. And what was initially perceived to be privilege is only another onus disguised as a lexicography. This is why I hunt with a pack of question marks and bend the ironic to make dew.