Essences And Sentences

Can one create a simulacrum of free will?

No.

Free will is free will. It is either free, or it is not even will.

Free will, by itself, is sturdy. It is nascent. It is art. It is warrant. It is a block of thought and water baked into a brick of prose.

Think of this as a grape. Bursting, as Keats described, on your palate.

In, of all places, an ode to melancholy.

Then ask yourself: what sort of life have I led?

Writing is strangest when it moves through the eyes seeing the world for the first time. This is why I employ black to promote the power of red. Why sorcery overrides the dictates of logic. Why perceptions shine on the page. Why gauze is sometimes in fashion, and sometimes it is not.

We feel trapped in our own ideas. Dew beaded on the fronds of a fern, the gleam of rails in a train station.

Ink is a medium of the intellect. It is a fluid. It is sometimes black, sometimes blue. Its viscosity allows for expression. But it dries instantly. Allowing for durability. For pipes and canoes and the beckoning of the wilderness.

Pull a shape out of a chair, and you still have a chair. Essence is a sensation. I feel a surge of joy at the very idea of pi.

Europe, on the other hand, is accomplished by thinking. Lips flap, words fly. Spain is described as a luminous feeling. France is described as a story of bulbs and burgundy. England is described as Jimi Hendrix playing Voodoo Child on the Lulu Show.

I wear a mask of turbulent steam not to dissimulate, but to simulate the simmering of galaxies scribbled into space.

Like rattan. Talking fills the vineyards of autumn.

My friend, who are you?

This is my new metaphor: bone. Each personal history has a certain weight. Water reflects the vagaries of thought, and reverie, which is a soft light, a loaf of bread, and a squirrel. Everything of value stems from diversion.

For instance, I love the sound of rain. You can find everything in it. Everything and nothing. Definitions always fall short.

Avoid politics. Consciousness is fueled by amazement. A flight of steps embowered by sycamore.

Forgive me if my fingers infringe on the beatitude of your knees. The clarinet is a parable of valves. Listen to the robins. The world is accelerated by foment. Ronnie Wood in a beet field painting the sky. Braque, accompanied by Apollinaire, meeting Picasso for the first time. The physics of walking. The hardware of talking.

Distill a participle into a jar of pickles. Consider this an elegy of glass. Surly women. The smell of sex.

Les Demoiselles D’Avignon.

Is there a force strong enough to stop war? Such is my vision. My movements are telegraphic. A coherent incoherence. And so we danced all night. And the war came to an end. In our minds.

This is my knife. Watch as I hurl it. Watch as it bounces down the street. Clink, clink, clink.

No allegory is complete without a winner. Which is why a fight broke out at last night’s bingo game.

Fog argues with oak. Coalescence is a meridian in the rhapsody of a stump.

Each road is a mental adventure. A memory of silver. A thermometer registering the absurdity of winter’s temperatures.

It is astonishing how crude, vulgar, violent, and materialistic life in the U.S. has become.

The metamorphosis of thought is dramatized by tin.

Or a sweet and bubbly strain of music.

A squirrel sitting on a rock eating a peanut.

Our emotions are faster than pianos. Each river has two shores. The Beatle’s Revolver plays in a '94 Subaru.

In 2010. And nothing has changed. Except everything. Which was books. And ghosts. And words employed in melody.

Certain things cannot be denied. Especially cemeteries.

I find it strange that no one comments on these things.

I cannot give you a good reason as to why I write. But here is a sentence swarming with shrimp, and here is a polymer in the creation of a protein.

Here is a freshly squeezed Philippine sponge, dripping.

Here is a private thought. It’s invisible.

Except on paper, where it ceases to be private, and becomes a passion. An explanation. For the need of decoration. Ornaments and lies. And the little irritations that fill a day. Make it what it is. Or was meant to be.

A circumference. A farm. A declaration of freedom.

I am but a humble piece of meat, studying the curls of your hair.

What can a goldfish tell us of reality? Are we truly the inheritors of something sublime? Or merely deluded?

I cannot help but notice that our planet is dying. Even the dinosaurs weren’t this savage. They merely left a legacy of bones. Imprints and shells.

What will we leave behind?

Ideas of free will? How will they take shape? What form? What essence? What value?

Spars, whispers, paths. All of it gone. Gas stations included.

And Gargoyles Ride The Deep

Innocence is an engine of bronze, tin drops in a skull of yellow excursion. A stem of fire on a ship whose light has an interior shore.

The worst evil is the innocence of evil. The highest innocence is in a sense hideous. It strips the world of its soft deceits.

There is a candle on the sideboard. Light it with your breath.

Exalt the implicit fencing in since. The elbow, pushed into infantry, insults the contrasting nouns.

It is how a string undulates in the underworld.

The clarity of lines turn fickle behind the hum of a greed assembled from mushrooms and glitter. It all comes down to glue. Nakedness elevated to stone.

A pink contraption fights a close shave. Papier collé and a riveted philodendron teach the necessity of knocking. It grinds the eyeball toy into a cuticle of overly indulged knowledge.

Knowledge is the gauze and effect of zinc. Stir once to materialize a prophesy. Stir twice to catch a sleeve.

Pepper is but greet and room. A liberation pyramid drifting through a forklift. The cloud holds a life. The belladonna dazzles a bruise.

A finger without knots is less than a knob but more than a balloon. Kaolin mosquitoes glide by opposition. Emotion boosts a bald astronomy. Metamorphism is the job. The parlor is the afterlife.

The gape door is garnished with sunlight. The tower has been modulated to reflect a cantata. It was medieval England. Everyone carried a pulley.

Shine with distinction. Demand piles. Unnatural umbrellas. The breath of bedbugs. A catalogue of nebulas. A book of pain. Brushes for the great voyage of the pickle. A harness more skin than ocher.

Let us, therefore, freely build the puddle. Grace is an operation whose garish doctrines warrant a little electricity.

Let us create sonnets with flickered anonymous lips. Shatter change to an energy with limousines. Tailor the concertina to multiply its sounds into cheese. The hothouse intent was out walking. It moved with a clumsy improbability.

Punctuation bites.

If the house has to pack there is a skulk in it. The reticence grazing along the obscurity rubbed the sneer to miscarry a hungry soap. Its nimbus was soothed by absorbing a snake.

Pushing is pretzels to furnish independence with a pharmaceutical. The herd bleeds zippers. Lightning veins travel the power being.

Phenomena turn gluttonous. They swallow one another. They swallow the world. When everything is swallowed, the swallows swallow the rest.

Nipples are respectable. They are soaked in the work of the dimple. The dimples of sperms. The dimples of worms. Dimples in tests. Dimples in guests. Dimples in the sheen of consciousness.

The spine precedes its neural paths. The haunted chrome of ambivalence exceeds the cinnamon embodied in the oddity of blisters.

Apollinaire sips the words of the painter and reproduces them in fish, the flapping of flags, the sandwiches of nerve and trial, and the cartilage of alligators.

The bones of argument are oracles of metal.

For it is the Etruscans who marked the world with ceremony.

And it is sleep that troubles dreams, not dreams that trouble sleep. When the whale turns wife, volume unbuttons the sky, Cate Blanchett dresses in armor, and gargoyles ride the deep.

Come In

It is anonymous or glue to excite the cream of the mind into animals. Hurt will swim in it like a definition of birth. The river stirs its simple mirrors. Dogs, by implication, smell the evergreens.

The tonic which is teeming with thought floats a bicycle made of urge.

Pepper from incentive, not hills.

An architecture of willow which scratches the sky is forefront. Everything else is butter. Pharmaceutical planets converging on an aerodrome.

Apollinaire ambushed the bruise because it was too parenthetical to carry into pulp. Blister between a finger and an old conflagration.

Intentions are all I have, including plays, reflections, and Braque.

Think like a geisha, act like a Cubist.

The organic must breed hinges and strength to reach today’s ceiling. The late examination so jingled it disturbed the potato. Stink as a mutation, as a mushroom does. Byzantine cotton for apples and virtuosity. Thought was the joy we flopped on the floor, a symptom of paregoric, as if yellow disintegrated into description.

If you use words as I do, as popcorn, the chowder will change into calliopes.

Invite an almond so that a murder’s height reflects the plumbing from silver. The creamy emotion has been spread on our needs. Perception through indispensable chains is providence. The incentive disturbs me but the itch is within.

Myriad smacks unsnap their peculiarities on a cloud of dust. Hirsute dump that a ground disfigures.

The mongrel air proliferates in silk. Words slide through it igniting remembrances of cribbage and crab. Mint eludes the trousers. It is a pleasure that is vague to the bulbs but specific to wind. Call it the chisel that an hallucination banks. The deliverance inside the brain. Indigo more bride than abstraction. More enthusiasm than travel.

Sandstone fits the escalator within. Words are shattering. Awed leaves in the anthology below my world. Smack because the semen develops alone. The ghost of an ox is apparent in sex, but what shapes the water in a ceremony of drool? Spirits have spun our pronouns into roots. The house begins with asphalt. The thumb is an incentive to swarm the knife with our fingers.

There is a grebe that bangs against the roof of the mouth. It is a slap to the stars to think existence grows from brightness. It grows from stress. The same blade in the emotion that an alternating current creates from incense.

Pronouns are eels. Pull them into the water. Bottle the red until it writhes in deeper attraction. Clasp the winters that sanctify teeth.

The air bites shrewdly.

The door is a category of amber.

Come in.