The Mouth

The mouth, braced beside its letters, entertains an aesthetic torment. What do you do with a language inflated beyond its capacity to scurry across the ocean floor? One should inflate the wheel affectionately to comb a coma. Bend it like an intonation. Despair stirs the paper like music. It's like a bowl of cabbage soup painted against a background of nothingness. The soup is dipped with a spoon because the cabbage resembles the human brain. The orange is sliced below on umber where it chills the mind with solemnity. You must scratch the air to elicit chocolate. Hold the scratch towards ghostly deliberation before flapping away. Beyond maturity, everything sticks out of the veins. Eyebrows, mustache, lentigo. Little histories that get drizzled into skin. 

Clarity trembles around the monstrosities found below. Alan Watts said life is wiggly. This is but one example of life on the verge of crackers. If you knew Susie, like I knew Susie, you would probably bring a different suitcase. We have entered a new era. I don’t like it much, but here we are. Self-checking groceries at the behest of giants. I like to disappear like a crab until it gets disturbing. I back into corners on all ten legs and brood in quiet indignation. As do we all one time or another. All it takes is a little dyspepsia to discover the divine in a stem of effervescence. The mistrustful constraint in the communicability of thoughts is just plain silly. Once the interaction of magnets occurs, life gets appreciably wigglier, and transcendentally lavish.

The mouth softens under everything is a frame. It's easier than you think to slip into obscurity. It’s a plane of being whose silence is graced by an immediate eloquence. The social element is injected into art by an act of sabotage. Don’t look at me. I’ve got an alibi. I was at home increasing the depth of counterpoint. Art explodes its insoluble solutions into balls of dense, puffy delirium. The river grabs a taxi and fiddles with a tableau of demons. The whole time we stood outside it looked like the building was on fire. I swear this is the last time I attend a gala event barefoot. The question remains: how shall you fill the void? Fill it with fog, and violins.

Adjectives form details that trickle into plump usurpations before sunrise. It is silly reductionism, of course, to claim that you and I are just bags of molecules. Which is why the adjectives are here to save us. A red barn is not the same as an exuberant or duodenal barn. Nouns embedded in adjectives lend themselves to the alchemical hijinks of acrobatic poets. There is a constant interplay between what is replicated and upended - an image - and what is actually happening in the blackberries. You can feel the compression of it circulate among the veins, hear it creak among secrecies aged in wormwood. The baldness of such intensities are too steep to pull into words. This is where the adjectives come in. They jingle against the night, testing consequences.

It’s mostly my mouth that gets me into trouble. There seems to be a disconnect between my frontal cortex and mouth. I have no impulse control. Therefore, indiscretions are rapidly forged into a malleable algebra. If x equals y than I don’t see why the universe shouldn’t go on expanding forever. The same principle applies to the manufacture of half-truths, metamorphic pyrites and alloys of shameless mythomania. Events move much more swiftly at first, which is why the mouth gets dry and the words tumble out like dice from a leather cup in a Montana bar. Thoughts are born in the mouth, and dark absorption lines shaped by conversations occurring shortly after midnight, when the moon is in the waxing gibbous phase of its lunar cycle, and the sting of time has been annealed by the general drift of language, and rivers of iridescent reverie.