1.
When it rains, my eyes are aqueducts, or Aqueducks. I bend a tincan lid with pliars
as if I had a plan, stepping away from the margins again as if this were white space--
to be speaking without speech, to be thinking the unthinkable, to stomp & move, to build
bone-structure as if Kazantzakis was translanting rain within the troposphere, into
what we cannot give in return; splinters underneath the die-stamp, or the cursory of you
half-around the circle of my life, like the bright lights of this city belonging to us in the
corner, Of what severed the sounds, Of what you use to extinguish my fire, blowing
the dust off of a book or the blades of a fan. You know, don't you, that I'm the noise
of your beaten drum, inescapable, like neurotensin inhibiting the activation of midbrain
serotonergic neurons produced by loud sounds & stresses. What is this? a sea bird
in a used bird cage, surrounded by salty air.
2.
Turn your back on them for a minute & run, earsplittingly, fragmentally-persistent
& hover from the Karoo or somewhere-air. The Greatest Show on Earth is packed-to-
the-gills with affection. The cotton fields have turned to concrete, symbolizing the electricity
of women's voices, frajilia, stinky romance in (is) a spaceship crashing on HAL's
dew-ridden prioperception, in the cobbed psyche' of a pelagic fish there is less-than-20%
drama in the middle of August when you sit inside amidst the A/C & wait for seasonal
ditties & carols to come roaring. This evening, I thought of putting my finger inside of a
woodpecker's hole, but thought better of it after thinking of whaling vessels that break
international laws & treaties, felt it within the physical body, the process of pulling on
shimmering black satin. My uncle wants me to purchase every color possible of shower
curtains to use as backdrops for photographs & I'm lost in every color's combination,
mostly at night when I walk underneath the bright boiling moonlight, like Beauty is truth,
truth-beauty—just jump out of your Bentley, let it roll swiftly down the hill, listen for the pow.
My family, I wonder about us, but we are not a pee-with-the-door-open kind of family
unless your metabolism is your icon, or if your rubbish is getting a fair amount of sleep.
Okay, well, it's good to see you. Thank you for dropping by, and dropping a few lines
since the beginning of time.
3.
I am feeling confident & vulnerable, yet I have become separated from a kind of medium.
I have been hearing a lot of good things lately about pseudo-clever drivel & booby-traps.
She's history. I mean, voiced opinions, whackjobs that quote Literature just to "show out"
to the greedy elite. What foolishness, like a Laocöon, or a racoon with delusions of grandeur;
let's admire our strange & wonderful sleeping dreams. Ingmar Bergman films intoxicated
my "influence" to such an extreme that my psychological symbolic purposes have melted
into a Fruedian-slip that dresses in a slip & slips into the most consolable vignette of when
a voiceover recites an individual mass in my brain. Why do you want to be a phantom?
When people utter metaphorical quotes, it reminds me of horn-rimmed glasses & Oedipus.
WHOA! Blow my mind, people, like Chicken Soup for the Everythingist, or Grammar Girls'
quick tips about sagging breasts that do not sag when you walk through a cold graveyard.
I am feeling vulnerable & confident, the medium is large & my tongue, before speaking,
has emoticons dancing off of the edge. This has supreme significance like a suspense
thriller with ambiguity & complexity, romp with glee. My confidence is soaring to new
heights, thanks to gasoline prices & picking daisies & driving with them in silver-noir
atmospheres.
4.
I do not have a chisled jaw, nor a perfect nose, but I have the interior of a stone balloon.
That pain that you may feel in your fist as it travels up your arm is like a swimmer's wet-suit
ensemble. Climate is an untouchable tendril, but our solar system is burning like incense.
A Noosphere is incomplete, like cocoa powder extracted & pressed into poofy black ice, or
carbuncles, or irises, opals, or Bristol stones, hard wax & rosin, & this is when Cary Grant
enters the picture with arsenic; the camera-lens is the Glass of Antimony, amethyst of
tralucency. I miss the trembling sweetness of your voice, no longer a rarity, ear of agile
retirement. I saw a recent photograph of you, holding a cat while making a strange face
at it, & I thought of The Song of Solomon, the way everything disintegrates, turns to ash,
like the opinions of the world. I hold in my possession a giant wealth of secrets kept abreast,
sulphur of suspenseful instrumentation. I would demonstrate their shapes, but it would be
like watching the dissection of a frog. I am homespun like agitated air molecules, & you
were like the wolf having the advantage of first eyeing a man, before he becomes hoarse
& silent at seeing the wolf first. There floats an atmosphere of infinite suggestion. I feel
a special kinship with the codework of our past language. Criterion Collection-worthy visuals
with slightly affected sophisticated soundtracks, but only at the conclusion of our time,
only when you became the innovator of cranking up your own jack-in-the-box that erected
out & punched me square in the chin, while saying, "winner, winner, chicken dinner!"
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