Today, I want to talk about butter. At least, I thought I did. Everything changed as soon as you sat down to read this. I thought about butter and then I thought what about butter, what is there to say about butter? If it also involves inflating a chicken, I’m willing to talk about anything. Maybe I’ll just sit here and say nothing and let the words do their thing. Until our next disagreement regarding eccentricity - curse, or blessing - we must address the matter of balance, and what it is that remains in flux. Do Fascists like or dislike eccentricity? Some people choose to absent themselves from the frolic of our little exchange and spin wildly around the room spouting haikus at a homiletic yottabyte. It takes cotton to make a cloth, and chinquapin to fill a crepe. If you give a word an s it becomes a sword. What this means for oil production, I cannot say. There are people who prefer to sit in a corner saying nothing. That would be me. And the many ghosts at my side, gliding through the words as I write them down in a churning chromaticism, like the creation of butter, which is our background, and gives us something to talk about.
Who are our eyes when we
aren’t there to see for ourselves? Writers. Musicians. Funambulists. Looking
down. Way, way down. Backstage, everything is taking place in front of a
harpsichord. The elements are poised to produce a drama that is plaster in form
and Shakespeare underwater. This can go and open the door. I know it can. That’s
why I’ve painted your knees with a deep hue of intent. Everything that happens
here is destined to move in circles, to catch a glimpse of heaven, to hum
something from the hymnal that is our voices in congress. Instead of being in
the thick of things, I choose caution and the unknown. It’s a tragedy, then.
Yes. Why, you ask? Write this down. Any kind of paper will do. The answer to
anything depends on swarms of regret. The ink comes easy. The struggle is in
the search. Whatever rises here may be heavy with self-importance. Just ignore
it. There’s another bus coming. Distant and unthinking rays in apricot split
the air in half. The sky falls out and rolls on the ground. You can say it
happened here one night when your eyes weren’t there to see for themselves the
whole charade get real, and insists on setting the whole train of thought in
motion, gleaning as it goes.
There’s a tale unfolding
amidst the frost. It has my breath in it. Whatever flesh there is to display,
it sparkles as it hums along. I am not doing this to distance myself from form
and structure. Far be it for me to suggest undulations in the upper melee help
fantasticate. After understanding why our temperament tends to strike the
mutable with a squeegee rather than a carbohydrate, I began to feel
butterscotch, and a little aberrational. The moon - like a lozenge - crumbles nearby,
not because it’s there to incite desire, a craze for the echolocations of
elsewhere, but because the oboes serve the purpose of ornamenting the very
existence we harness to our thought as it pulls the sentence forward into a
timely and rather drowsy cavalcade of drunken words. I didn’t get dressed to
squeeze your reticence into surrender. I’m here to engage your fluids in a game
of nirvana. The first one to fall off the back of a hope wins a night in a
lovely and magnificent despair under the protective guise of Scarlet Johanssen.
Why else do thunderstorms crackle in algebra? It has little to do with
hardware, and everything to do with enthusiasm.
