Cuticles Curlicues And A Life Of Fog

Language isn’t always about curlicues. A metaphysics works it. A moody ripple moves the there of it to the here of it. I see it as a grammar dripping the lines I use for daily existence. The dusty feeling I have for walking turns the pages of my life as I move from paragraph to paragraph. The words do everything. They tilted my forehead to look like Balzac. A hectic metaphor echoed across the ping pong table, causing actual presupposition.  I banged our paddle talk into the beyond, where it belongs, along with my Euclidean fish. Your orange ghost sells a wedding ring there much akin to swimming in our grain. Wilderness has a lot to say about prospect. In language, we roll toward wisdom, and ripen in wire. A solace plays inside it, a hugged ablution in among the lost attention spans. There are roots to it beyond the will to deformation. My cuticles spread into fingers sometime after all the trouble I had with most of everything. I quit construction to live a life of fog. In college, my thunder was almost conspicuous. But one night I paddled the Orinoco with Picasso. We felt the weight of it on our consciousness, and our eyes glowed with Fauvism. The local semen brought everyone news of our discovery. I cracked ocher with absence, and fed my legs to the wiles of the sidewalk. We pull on our ambitions, expecting them to stew into fierce simulations of fencing. Without them, we are walnut. Their balloons are neither going across the sentence as words or claiming semantic roles in a farrago of squirts, they’re serving the horizon of our love, and each has a palette with your face in it. I seldom howl at the sublime in my fire. Instead, I adjust my belt of roots and ape virtuosity. I feel friendly toward any acceptance of what I do with the ocean inside my head. Therefore, I shall release a mobius vapor to indicate the presence of a power beneath the snow. The ghost we pinned to the palate of our mouths is as sandstone as anyone they hire to play Hamlet. Something beyond wood fulminates this into another hymn. Each resource evades your ability to walk around in plus signs. You’re either a pulse, or a driver’s license test. This escalator is taking us somewhere without maps. I was against it tomorrow. I put it in a stream of consciousness, grabbed a marking pen, and wrote Ulysses. We sanded our grammar toward it, until it was soft, and had struts and asymmetries. My window has a heart. I include snaps on my jacket as a cause of sculpture. Coordinates carry my plans for a new day of pamphlets and cabbage. I fell off the planet swarming with harmonies and minutes later dilated with revelation. There is a dry monstrosity about the implications of work. This wanders around looking to redeem the faith in evasion. Until we let go and find ourselves in a Pascalian circumference, the grip that keeps squeezing our narratives until they burst beyond the hooks and knots of attachment will not undo its doing until it is done pursuing figures of speech and other forms of igloo. When I quit a sidewalk, I glow with the panic of it, and thunder to speculate what might become of the cracks when nobody stops to appreciate the quiddity of the unfamiliar. But I do. I take it in. All of it. The whole kit and caboodle. Then I cure it with silk and wear it like steam. And this exalts my spirit, and convulses like a bistro in Lisbon.