Believe it anyway. Bend everybody toward the horizon. My despair just happens to eschew myopia. A highway is never about distance. It emerges from a need for speed and has a way to make that happen. The revelatory is nowhere near a study. The smash of those ideas was unrivalled behind the studio until we poured lighter fluid on the charcoal briquettes and all hell broke loose. We were all affectionately rippled by its music there. I painted the gulp the army took at the Mexican border. If sophisticated alive as we had been, we found ourselves going at it there. The bas-relief of it. The truth of it. The physicality of it. Everything moving forward. Everything exaggerated. All the deformations tooled by desperate philosophers.
We throw hints at the
wall hoping for something like an accordion to drive around in music. The snow
is at it again, flowering into snowmen as it falls. I like to rub what we feel
together. This generates work for some of us. We don’t mind. Most autonomy
already dwells in it. The fish tube. The unpredictable. The granite kitchen
counter. Build there among its coils. I will gush holes, and excel at coasting.
The Pythagorean fiber slashed beneath us offered drugs of a sort no one was
familiar with. All we remember is that it was made of math and fountained
numbers. My sleeves still simmer from the flight. The twitching guzzles at
blood.
If there is indeed a
beyond, don’t drive with cruel intent. Drive with refinement and
sophistication. There’s a vividness in today’s poetry that has yet to be
further explored for its moonshine. There’s a start there. We should get going
before anyone can figure out what the sidewalks were trying to tell us. What
the blots were about. What the cracks meant. Anybody clashing beside our
ablutions is welcome to convulse in its grace and beauty. The engines lure
everyone into a false conclusion, which keeps the story going. Emotions run
deep. But I can’t tell you how I feel. There are no words for it. I feel
compelled to wear a mask. Anything we glitter is fine by me. The orchid’s
architecture has a sense of hemorrhagic vertigo. They so grow so powerfully I
think it comes from their grace and delicacy. I like to watch people chew their
points into glaciers. The rest of the journey is optional. But you might want
to hang around anyway. The glow we pound aloud at Christmas has a gluttonous
plan to get us through the season with our gloves off and our vulnerability
showing. Which proves nothing. Gravity is just all feathers.
A deliverance of
unprecedented bubbles has arrived in time for the festivities. The world swirls
around in a gyrational West Virginia dance. I set an escalator inside its
basis. I get ugly straining to lift a world beside a theorem. What the singing
did was topaz. We meditated above its resilience. Everything bristles on the
escalator. What a dusty world we’ve all become. The escape toward its
percussion gave us hope for an evening of Proust and apple cider. A souvenir
gut they clubbed into inanition. We should each shoot this sand as we would a
pillow or a sachet. Confusion twists it among gestures. We walk without
direction. Our story, meanwhile, spirits gleefully along waving at anyone and
anything. 92.3FM, Las Vegas. There must be some kind of way out of here said
the joker to the thief. You get the picture. ‘67 Mustang. Top down. Desert air
blowing through your hair.
My blue suede shoes have
since become language. I’ve learned how to pull my weight along a path of
awakening during a concentration induced from chaos. This signals the garments
in which I languish. The gravity engines idle in a steady prolongation of weightless
optimism. The solace of a comb does it with nothing. I am my own hair, and I
wear it with a cognizance of baldness creeping in. Someone somewhere goes to
cry privately somewhere else during the language that curls around our
motorcycle repair shop in downtown Metaphor. Somebody burst this drawer open
and letters and underwear went flying through the air. Can anyone out there
fold my exhilaration into a Bob Dylan song? If we leave right now, we can reach
the end of this sentence before sun comes up and the 3:10 from Yuma goes by and
the period makes it final. This has been a poem. It had me wondering. I wasn’t
sure. It made me feel weird. I’ve never owned any blue suede shoes. But I do
now.
