A Language Isn't Just Words

A language isn’t just words it’s a way of attaining elsewhere. It’s also a way to make the heart of a palomino pump its energy and burdens into a fiction. I like to write in the sky where the clouds are folded into fingers of crackling silk. Exempted from accuracy and truth, we abandon ourselves to lingerie and ceaseless correlations. The lights of Reno, the rhetoric of sage. Consonants tumbling into mountain rain. Morphic resonance, cogitatum, apodictic evidence, introspection, intentionality. A letter from Virginia Woolf. An intriguing set of vertebrae played like a xylophone. This is how perception, rendered in gray, makes concessions toward reality. Venice in the sfumato of a late afternoon. The phosphorous glow of Pacific waves cresting on Poipu Beach in Kauai in late evening quiet with a full moon framed in a ring of noctilucent clouds. I find the sea mysterious, sublime, and terrifying. I always wonder about what’s on the bottom. Metaphysics and coral. Metaphysical snow globes. Mermaid brothels unanswered howls. An embarrassment of riches, a space of humidity and glass for the opprobrium of cactus.

Where there are trees, there are leaves and branches. Things are weirdly encompassed yet infinite in the synaptic forests of the brain. Metaphysics snows on the ganglions. Righteous glia and neurons of the mangrove register the blue vastness at the surface of the Pacific where the curvature of the planet is revealed at the horizon line. This is how perceptions puzzle the strings of the violin with a bow of prose and a sternly monitored chin. I can’t explain why I said this. My cloud flashed. It’s an orgasmic muted in deep pleasure. I can generate a wavelength of love on any train in the country so long as it’s running on good rail and sketchy intentions. One day I shall pen a biography of fog in the luminous ink of the midnight sun. I’ll do it for kicks. I’ll lure it into being with the coals of a capable etiquette, the linguistic tinsel of subjunctive collisions and cognitive dissonances. They say its easiest to run where the sand is packed hard and I find that this is true. It’s not uncommon to make the discovery of the ego’s illusions at the beach. It’s a crunchy nugget of self-awareness, like inwardly cringing during an acceptance speech.

They say we know less about the ocean than we do the other planets and stars in the universe. The same could be said about consciousness, that ocean in our head. I’m not even sure why anyone imagines it’s in the head. Some of it might be outside the head. When consciousness becomes words it lights the chandeliers with a figure of speech. And this is called heat. This is how the search for consciousness can look stupid as hell on a sheet of paper and yet ignite your brain. Memories wrapped in glittering mirrors will yank you out of life and drag you into the steam of a dream. I know a fool when I see one. The mind juggles words like a court jester. Speech is a vulnerable undertaking. You can start out with the best of intentions and find yourself looking for a napkin after blurting a confession of fraud and irony. All these things are true and happened on a mountain. Percy Bysshe Shelley isn’t dead. Let’s not kid ourselves. No intensity goes to waste. If the shoe fits, fine. You don’t have to wear it. I walk around in existence all day doing what I can to redeem the various predicates I’ve put into play. I order what looks good. I eat it. I look around. I thank the waitress. I get up. Grab my hat. Leave a tip. Head for the door. So no. There are still delicacies. Things to assess. Things to do. Things to say. Exits and entrances. Last night I listened to Fleetwood Mac. The early days. The Peter Green days. And then I began to drift away on a black horse of desire, and let it all happen in music.