A Touch Of Blue

Is the collapse of the wave function a wicker chair made of ice cream? Consciousness is reverie. This includes Portugal and Spain. There are times I feel friendly and well-disposed, and times when I feel perplexed, stunned, stupefied, and dismayed. Consciousness is never what everyone wants it to be. During its ooze, I find there are spectacular waves that give it heat and Mozart, small but significant differences to unpack, and wear around the home. The universe is exquisite at night, and this is a carnival in my head. The freak show of private eyes and turnstiles scurries about pinching things. The world is palpable, and should be treated as exhilarations for which our biology erects monuments. Something is what it is when it sifts the air for a new decorum. Our language should have a strong affiliation for rivers. And catfish and reeds. In this respect Derrida, as well as philosophy itself, is forever haunted by its airplanes and jewelry.

It was in the solitude of an unsuitable career choice that I became sensitive to certain nuances of verbal expression. Objects turn in the mind like hot dogs in a 7-11 rotisserie. This is my life. It’s also a painting. A woman stands naked in a hotel on the French riviera holding a bath towel gazing at vase of dahlias in a meditative pose. It calms me to look at it. I coax sensations from its surface. And with a tempest of keystrokes, I conjure predicates to dance around me in sequins. And that’s when it hit me: I’m within walking distance of life.

being is everywhere

tent poles make it plausible

we see the sparkle of consciousness

leap back into my brain

when i get up in the morning

but what is it

that makes me think

i can change the world with poetry

when i can’t even tell a good joke

consciousness is exhausting

the average data center

uses 300,00 gallons of water per day

who can keep up with that

it truly is pointless

all of it

can this be taken to mean

that the universe

is just as confused as I am

i think it means nothing

can be solved with an app

i know what to do

i will get a ladder

and lean it against the moon

and climb into Fragonard 

I used to spend hours in a bookstore agonizing over what books I could afford and which I could realistically read within a lifetime. Sometimes I’d pull a book off the shelf and crawl into it wrapped in a bearskin coat. Have you noticed how salt is always in the background? I can tell you one thing. The dead don’t use words. They communicate by salt. Angels float by on Lake Mitigation. Each time I get a feeling I float further into the trees and discover it's hard to believe that such a fragile thing as a snowflake can crash through a window and leave the anxiety of death intact. Here’s what I don’t understand: horses. They’re so intuitive, like poetry. No one can build walls around it and call it a defense mechanism. Or a religion. Everyone needs a meaning attached like a tag on a mattress, which compromises the full weight of your being. Be careful about what you say. People are on edge. An honest feeling will get you into trouble. Can a universe be void of meaning if the waffles look good? I like the way those little square cavities fill with syrup. It just runs off pancakes. But waffles let it soak in. Like the meaning of something. I know it’s there. I can feel it. Everything quivers with something to say, and the there’s a touch of blue in the kitchen window blinds. It’s beautiful. Subtleties such as this are healing. It’s good medicine. Inane thing to say, I know, and I apologize. But there it is. Blue. Obstinately, beautifully blue.