Dressed In The Algebra Of Travel

Within the domain of the subject, the ink crossed beyond the drapery to a place where grace distresses knowledge. The subject loosened its hold, and the room expanded into a mess of pasta and clouds of steam. The banging of pots. The chopping of knives. How long would this capharnaum last before it exploded into arias? There was a story someone tried to crush in a cave, but it resurrected itself as a novel and swallowed the person whole. They became images. A gust of wind under the wings of a falcon. Two window panels clacking shut. A bright yellow flower in a ball of glass. Lipstick awakening on a mouth of bronze. Wreaths of mist in the Black Forest. Sometimes what is inside is outside and what is outside is inside, and in between are flocks of Godwit and cherub. Grant a whisper into the ship at midnight. Walk around in the sky. Deepen your understanding of feudalism, and how to destroy it with a bloodcurdling candor. Every philosophy wants to free itself from its own philosophy and inject itself into art, a green wind quivering in moiré. Art explodes from a state of pure immanence and sows museums. It sends a message of gallantry during muscles. I would not exempt this flavor for a wind below my wings unless I had something very chic and glamorous to wear to the Angel Baby Aphrodite Ball. There are things accessible to consciousness only through a cheerfully employable negation of everything irascible and reverberating. It is when the repressive violence of form lets itself go that a ghostly emergence of pulse brings blood to the eyes, and the gates to the city open, and out walks a giant oboe dressed in the algebra of travel. All the levers opening and closing, opening and closing, opening and closing. To welcome us. To bring us into the light of understanding. Which turned out to be something altogether different from what anyone expected. We dreamed of certificates and validation, and although not entirely disappointed, were provided with chocolate, and durable khaki pants, and told to pound the air with our petitions, until it turned black and blue, and released all the hostages of heaven, and all the hostages of hell, and everyone danced until sunlight creased the sullen hills, and the call of tropical birds dusted our audition.