The Universe Isn't Empty It's Just Sleeping

Nothingness feels like velour. Velour ain’t nothing. But it is velour. And that’s saying something. Something velour. All things verifiable are germane to velour. The purpose of velour is to educate the fingers. The purpose of fingers is to educate velour. This is a funny universe. It’s all velour. Velour all over. The universe isn’t empty. Virtual particles pop in and out of existence. And they’re all velour. The truth is velour. Lies are velour. This is a lie. I’m telling the truth. This is velour. All velour. Except for the parts that aren’t velour. They walk around like they own the place. They fold themselves into nouns. They glitter and endure. And they like to spin. Spin is an intrinsic degree of freedom. This is called a wave function. It describes the wave characteristics of a particle. So you’d better put something on. Something red. Something velour.

This sentence is around here somewhere. I know it’s somewhere here. Or maybe it hasn’t been written yet. Maybe this is the sentence. It’s delicate making these decisions. Ask me where the femur resides in the mammalian anatomy and I’ll hand you a jacket and a can of spam. This is my way of saying I don’t know where it is. This so-called sentence. This subterranean toolbox of chthonic wrenches and seventeen neologisms based on a principle of monarchic rule. I know the sentence I’m looking for I can feel it I can even smell it it smells like a Memphis recording studio after Bob Dylan got done recording Blonde on Blonde in June, 1966. There were a lot of sentences around then, a lot of them hanging from the mouth in psychedelic colors, syllables flashing colors and rolling dice, a quirky syntax moving in untidy bones across a sheet of ice.

If you feed a sentence nothingness it will feel like velour. But I don’t want to go into that just now. I want to listen to the beat of drums. I want to dig holes in the air. Deep holes. Holes of elsewhere. And fill them with words. Move away twisted eye. Dry mechanical fingers join the rattling percussion of a hummingbird to the fox of the poetry chickens. I light up my knee with the jewelry of movement. I have a beehive wardrobe and a shawl of informal temperatures. Dazzling admonitions help lend beaks to the management of noble emissary hums. Genitals are glorious answers to the injuries of existence. Iron denials. I rattle like a blister and go where the poplars smell of rain. Rafts of weariness carry us into sleep. And the night swallows our pain.