The Méret Oppenheim Teacup Solution

My wrinkles arrange the beak by which I speak. I lean forward. I lean backward. I light an energy to glide into cockeyed.

The clatter beneath our prayers has the sound of oarlocks in a bayou. If you allow the embryonic a place in this denim, we’ll find ourselves an intriguing intestine to describe. It will grow into pigs.

Biology is a symptom of grace. The prodigal makes it flourish. This linen moans with acceptance. I can feel it in the sparkle of your eyes. This junkyard of words and expressions. This long tall sally. This plump verification of wax. We draw up experiments there drop by drop. The local pharmacies pay us with locomotives.

Have you ever tried putting a diesel locomotive in a coin operated parking meter? Good luck finding a parking meter. They use apps now.

We use our locomotives as one might a Méret Oppenheim teacup: that is to say, sometimes a great notion deserves something better than a dying security. It needs trees and sweet morning air. A good roll in the hay. And a Méret Oppenheim teacup.

Meanwhile, my plan is to treat the bacteria with respect until a disease gets here. It may be a while. Wings smear our bohemia with pushing and pulling. The nation has lost its bearings. Only a disease like fandango can cure us of horizontality. What’s the trick to burning mushrooms, anyway? All I require for now is a donkey, a compass, and a Lucinda Williams album. Look over there and watch as I bend my journey to the caress of her music.

Assume an aroma and strut around. I welcome the mint on my tongue. A language vessel can sigh for rattan, but it takes a supreme court decision to establish oligarchy. They squeeze the medicine and clash with its precepts. Can anyone say they were surprised? You can peer through a submersible window to see the luminous monsters swimming by in hourglass cotillions. But will it bring you heat and credibility? Will it corner your demons in rum? Soon after my languish vanished, I saw it shattered on the ceiling. And that’s when I knew. I knew everything. Everything there is to know about drumsticks. And Malibu. And the perverse craving I have for lilacs.

Once again. I cannot emphasize this enough. If you’re contemplating a career, consider Méret Oppenheim’s teacup. Her fur teacup. Sip your ambitions and struggle against the tide. I won’t stop you. I don’t even know you. Growl yourself into denim so I can see you better. Surely as sleep approaches morning, the sun will scatter its temptations all over spring. We’ll know better then. Better what to do. And what not to do. And put it in a constitution. And send it to El Salvador.