The Mink Incident

The mink incident was fierce with fuzz. Impulse. Mania. Cooked palette. The library made our flaps unthinkably amethyst. We dreamed it on rocks. I’ve got Cubist muscles. Propellers. Bend against buying flies. We engage our muse by fattening our amusement with roadside attractions. Fastened against bombs. Jump the abyss. Deviate beyond. I attack the nail. Slither around a Platonic cave. Then we walk the mockingbird grid. My sonority stuffed with volume. Anything pink. Meat. Swollen ankles. Breasts. Unrolled into gas stations. In the morning, my electrons orbit a grapefruit. And in the evening, my quarks all gather into sympathies of form. That’s my thermostat on the wall anchoring apparitions in warmth. I seep with embrace if served an emotion in a bowl of hope. I slash inside explaining things. Beside the rope of the swinging trapeze are indications of daring and scrutiny. Go. Fly over a wandering elevation. If the world tilts we will widen the firmament, our binoculars stirring with vision. I’m the correspondence lingering in glass. Our happening is your lucky strike. Eczema on a pyramid. I engage my car in accommodating rubber. Play Hamlet in a rocking chair. I cause a crustacean on an easel to discover its inner stadium. I see the sanitarium and bite an echo. A propane emotion sings. I dance in the house and the house dances in me. And this is called real estate. Because the bomb flaps around the hole that the investors bankrolled in utter convection. I robbed the perforation so that this would somehow seem parliamentary. Magnetically pertinent, like a dissonant sugar. I felt like an incandescent dot. My parabolic gaze looking up from the book of love. A gratified pulse. A railroad consciousness. The intellect is eager to correlate. It wanders indentation on a set of amazing wheels. My firmament propeller is blue and wobbly. My library curls gently around this. I can hear Dante’s inferno hissing. And consider alternate ways of being in the world.