What Are You Doing Differently?

Like vapor, you take a stroll through a circus of thoughts, and just like that, there you are, a poet in the making. If it's a photogenic life, there will be many opportunities to water the begonias. But if it's the life of a vagabond, begonias won't matter as much as hope. We all belong to something. The vagabond belongs to the staccato pulses of a syncopated asceticism. Luxuries fall out of a book like scraps of prestidigitation, humming as they become meaningful. The thunder cracks the air open like an egg of lightning, and the path becomes evident as silverware on a nonexistent table of steaming backbeat. A cavern, through the fiber of a moment, forgets itself and thinks about twisting a diamond neck into fingers of light. Narratives are inherently sepulchral. A life in segments describes itself as a hood ornament and that’s all there is to it. Nobody gets lost by choice. It’s not that kind of universe. The architecture is more like music here, and religions toy with the concept of evil. Time is combed with nails, and all the clocks are coocoo.

What are you doing differently, dear rags of thought, as slowly in your search for quintessence the heating we feel in our minds is beginning its overflow into speech? As humanity continues its descent into chaos, ideas glow like bumps in the brushwork of drunken calligraphers. Within the peremptorily mutable, we find - by virtue of meringue – a new form of writing better suited to the illiteracy of the age. Sweet being worthy of boiling, shall we get busy at our spices and try soliciting the slash and hullabaloo of the wind? I see a face in the window at midnight. I believe it’s the ghost of George Carlin. It’s one of those nights when the wolves are silent and the moon howls. Sometimes you can tell when a language is attempting to storm the Bastille and when it’s just resting on the page like a watermark. It’s a lot like putting on a shirt right after it’s been pulled out of the dryer. The distress or pleasure of the sensation will largely depend on any number of variables, everything from weather to sex to a plunge into Sanskrit. Yesterday these words were about deepening one’s experience of life, and already today they’re beginning to depart, and seek a new Eden with which to abolish, garden, and mend the world.

Writing is like folding clothes, except that the volcanos are active, and clothes haven’t been invented yet. The carpenter’s knee is outside, although the position of either knee remains to be seen, since the narrative made a sharp turn to the north and we all felt keenly the immediate ease of going in another direction. Many things begin with a coffee grinder and end with an appliance. This is not one of them. What we have here is a knitter with a collection of roots. There is the smell of rich black dirt in the air, and a clear potential for taffeta. Emily Dickinson sitting at a small desk, about the size of a nightstand. It’s not really a desk at all. It’s a table. But we’re not here to quibble. We take what the words give us. We see a new art begin to tell a story, using black like a font and blue as a means of escape. We call it the art of black and blue. It has a soft side and a tendency to gorge itself with words, as if were the ticking of the pillow and not the endorphins of sleep that cause most of our buffalo to erupt in soap. Writing isn’t a career it’s a calling. That is why the panacea dispenses with itself, and suggests instead an understanding based on drinking. Getting shitfaced. Because the Enlightenment is over, and nothing makes better sense than art, which needs us, and offers such sumptuous alternatives to algorithms and data structures. Things like twigs, and bacchanalia.