Friday, July 3, 2015

The Lonely Gaze of Men in Nightclubs


A silken air bends the greenery in a tangled mind. That would be the mind of the earth, which is a splash of calculus on the face of eternity. Which is chronology when chronology occurs and the lonely gaze of men in nightclubs. It’s the naked rupture of excursion when an excursion is called for and the personification of prayer in a radio vibrating with the definition of eyes. The eye is a ball of jelly. The human eye is an organ that reacts to light and allows vision and colors. It does delicate things and lives in the head. It liberates form. It does not completely answer why there is something instead of nothing but it does a good job drinking a canvas by Cézanne. Two eyes are better than one. Three is the optimal number. A third eye in the forehead drags winter behind it. A third eye in the head pushes the impact of an olive into the sag of time. Sometimes all it takes is a little concentration to discover sewing, or infinity, or a sale on light bulbs at the drugstore. Quarts of philosophy may be transacted by semantic obstetrics. Gravity thickens as we approach a planet or a headlight made of words. You must act like a cloth when the wrinkles of local emotion jerk forward churning in abstraction. This is the time to play a sublime accordion. This is the time to construct a symptom of rain. To open a suitcase in Wisconsin. To feel the planets ride their orbits in tranquil velvet space.

Wednesday, July 1, 2015

The Joy of Insignificance


Last night during an interview on Marc Maron’s WTF podcast, Judd Apatow remarked that Jerry Seinfeld likes to tape a photograph of the universe taken by the Hubble telescope to his dressing room wall. It’s a reminder of how insignificant he is. He finds it uplifting. I know what he means. If the consequences of our actions are so insignificant in relation to the rest of the universe, the stifling weight of responsibility is lightened. It’s exhilarating. If a joke flops or offends someone, who cares? An ego is just a fragile egg of nonsense anyway.
This explains a lot, but not everything. It doesn’t explain hemorrhoids or toggle bolts. We must search elsewhere for clarity. There’s a book that rises with innocence and a book that breaks the chains of dogma. There’s no philosophy that doesn’t require a little sweat. At low tide the sea recedes into itself and furnishes the sky with indigo. Camaraderie floats on tolerance. Hope matures into coalition. And yet one has to wonder: what is the true spirit of evocation? The bow of our boat pierces the fog. Wine mellows the nerves. We construct a new paradigm by singing and invocation.
I have needs like anyone else, but no radar. I have to stumble around, feeling my way as I go. Timid creatures blink their eyes in the fog. Theories of undulation multiply like colors. A hawk hovers over Ireland. James Joyce lifts a bar of soap to his nose and sniffs. Certain things serve my needs, others show different ways to tolerate the world. Some things are simple pleasures, and other things shatter preconceived ideas. Take the bees, for example. What marvelous creatures. Sucking, humming, pollinating. Bees are parables of ecological equilibrium. And yet they’re dying. Sometimes the referent escapes its sign.
I go to the hardware store. I need some caulk. It comes in a tube like toothpaste. Squeezes out like toothpaste. I need it for the window in the living room. Mildew has invaded the space between the window frame and the wall. Yesterday I tried cleaning it as best as I could with a product I found under the bathroom sink called Method Tub and Tile Cleaner, which boasts being made up of non-toxic chemicals. What would those be? Curious, I read the ingredients on the back of the bottle: water, potassium citrate, ethanol, decyl glucoside, lauryl glucoside, sodium methyl ester sulfonate, laurel ethoxylate, polyquarternum 95, ethyl levulinate glycol ketal, ethyl levulinate propylene ketal, benzyl salicyclate, citral, linalool, methylisothiazolinone and methylchloroisothiazolinone. I spray it on the aluminum window frame and rub hard but it has little effect. I try some Comet cleanser. That doesn’t work either. I hope that the caulk will cover it up. I squeeze a line of white goo and run it down the window frame, then smooth it out with my fingers. It looks good. Some measure of equilibrium has been established in the universe.
The ghost of Picasso clanks by. I can tell what kind of day it’s going to be. Even the mint has a refractory taste. I feel the need for some speculation, for further reflection, for birds and words and rings and things. Why are we here? Where do we come from? According to the Bushongo of Central Africa, in the beginning there was only darkness and water and the great god Bumba. One day Bumba suffered a bad stomach ache. He vomited the sun, which dried some of the water up, and so some land appeared. Still writhing in pain, Bumba vomited the moon, the stars, and a host of animals, including the leopard, crocodile, turtle, hippopotamus, elephant and human beings.
A bomb of spit thuds on the ground. The sky is boisterous. I can feel the frequency of the philodendron. The pickle emits a metallic sound in the mouth. I stand next to a Cézanne which hangs in the air like a fever. My anonymity lodges in a stick. The water is sublime. Descriptions will stir if the weather holds. The universe explains my fetal position. The puddle explains nothing. It’s lost in its own reflections. An amiable distance flourishes under the chalk. Wonder rips the outdoors into moist circumferences of thought. I clutch the immaterial. I think of Apollinaire on the western front. I think of caulk, and chalk, and the joy of insignificance.
 

 

Monday, June 22, 2015

The Other Side


Let us assume a sensation that is humored by clouds and hair. Let us assume a feeling of scintillation. And the intention of it is yelling. And there are punches and riddles. Let us assume that there is an airplane made of glass and coffee and spurs. The snow I’ve nailed to this sentence is a gratuity. If I slap the water like a hawk it glitters with crustaceans and minerals. It isn’t really saying much, but solitude is good for the soul, as are wildebeests and sunlight. Is it possible to chisel redemption from a waterfall? I don’t know, but there’s a shameful amount of homelessness in the United States. Taxi headlights penetrate the night. Did I mention meeting Buffalo Bill one night in a dream? It’s true. I had just developed a wattle beneath my chin and was thinking of growing a goatee. I admired Buffalo Bill’s goatee very much. This proves that the true nature of the dream is cradled in desire, just as we suspected. This is why the mind rides a whirlwind of words. And the willow is glued together with a kiss. What a strange proposition life has turned out to be. Culture is ontological. It has to be. Otherwise, hair is just an enigma. My emotional spectrum is resonant with red. This explains nothing, but if we all assume that our reproductive organs enjoy a wisdom all their own, there is a dark genius at the heart of it, and causality and keys. We all live in a jukebox paradise. Consider the hum of gravity as a form of singing, an undulation of energy extending throughout the universe somewhat like a stethoscope, or trumpet. I think of this every time I iron a shirt, or watch the snow fall on a river. Distance plus velocity equals we’re alone. Equals whipped cream in a red mug. Equals ambient web. Equals the sag of time in a sidewalk. I don’t say these things for the sake of sewing, I say them because my mind is pressed against the door and I feel full of water, like a color walking in bones. I’m trying to get to the other side. The other side of what, I don’t know. I’ve just heard it’s greener on the other side. You know? I mean, how can it not be? Who doesn’t like to stand in the shower murdering syntax? It takes time for the blood to circulate. Once the sexual morning gets going the rest comes easy. You just hop on a Corot and let Lake Como do the rest.

Sunday, June 14, 2015

And Here I Am Crawling into the Sky


“One third of our life is spent in sleep,” said Gérard de Nerval.  “After a few minutes lethargy, a new life begins.” Is this your dream or mine? I’m going to say for the sake of convenience it’s mine, and also because the airport is surrounded by hotels, good hotels, the ones that offer a sufficient amount of towels. Dreaming is one way to crawl into the sky. Translating the moon is another. Who speaks moon? Learning moon is difficult. It’s a cross between the Algonquin as spoken by the Blackfeet and French. For example, some feelings are longer than others. Others are thicker, denser, and with the piquant flavor of apparition, which is the smell of sage coupled with seclusion. Is one ever truly alone? The moon tells us that gray is ok but blue is better. Better to be blue than gray. Better to be literature than literal, coruscation than clay. And here I am crawling into the sky. Think railroad and wear wrestling. Magnetize benediction and swallow reality. This is the indigo where it alters a brain. Reality decorates age. Sags beside a gamble. Open fire. Fiddle pickles. I feel alive and hold my trumpet to endeavor gold. I am my own bed about a daub of red and crinkle science in a contraption of fingernail, like definition. Yesterday I saw a man repair a ceiling fan in a cartoon. It caused me to smell of humus. And then I felt the need to be clever and went looking for a splash of divinity to get rid of this feeling, which I did, and it sagged through time. Is our social being ever done with being social? Is it ever truly winter? Yes, and it’s irritating. Sensation serves independence to the balloons. My perceptions percolate through an opinion. I feel a certain sorcery in the construction of blood. I insist on fog. There is a treasure in your eyes called seeing. I want you to see it. I want you to see seeing as I see seeing and see it and be it and open your eyes and paint and bond to a cloth. The drive to be great is flinging itself among the empty. I will send you a tie to think about this. This is why biology has paradise in it. It’s not a gag so much as a blossom. Dreamy and soft. This means fulmination is happening. I like to bubble and chronicle such things. I feel parallels for breakfast that make me myriad in my itching. It’s so beautiful to oblige a sidewalk with walking to the side. Let’s just say that I like to collect sensations and beat them into contrasting hues. The kitchen widens during cows. It makes me demanding and pale. My reactions to Renoir keep changing. And yet nothing pleases me more than a tray of ice cubes. I can say no more about indigo than what I said about the seashore. The chin refines the mouth by being interactive and simple. These are the incidents that shiver at the drop of a heart. And this is the smell that whispers through creosote. These are the words beneath the moral. And this is the moral that makes no sense to be angry at life when the enfoldments wrinkle into pronouns.

Thursday, June 11, 2015

Magnetic Morning of Eyes


Magnetic morning of eyes. Waves crowd the window of rain. The appeasement of squeezing glides through a detour of hunger. Wrap the pickle from the park. My life hangs from a kitchen sink. Wheels imitate the weight of transcendent glory. Colors of the sky crisis plunged in silence. The climate carves horror from the tall pink throbs of paragraph Notre Dame. Words incarnate noise luminous with eggs. The grebe falls listening to focus. Hit songs necessitate thought. Arabesques of secretion apprehensive of themselves. Hot diskus of gold. The sun is sanguine. Air bends with silk. When the river walks through a charm of flowers mahogany swarms with foreheads. Passion extends the invisible ear. Light and snow and paper in undulations of grace. I feel a hopping manipulation in my age. Crustaceans crowded with shapes. A pepper railroad trumpets endeavor at the house of engines. Indentation is about a daub of definition. Wrinkles on an apple. An apparition dipped in idea. Brain full of reason that also insists on shadows, the capacity to gaze and become a glissando. Rocks in my head. Ireland in syllables. Anything involving prepositions is Pythagorean. Even the birch is doing delicate things to the air. Meaning is an interior phenomenon. I listen to the velocity of variation. Proverbs of a box stirred with fireworks. Here is what I think of kelp I think it’s a sensation with heart and sparkle. The social being our colors wield. Whipped cream a map and a red mug as I go to the pump in the morning of delicate agreement. Spheres and keys define the jingle of mind. I boom a bug of needles, my perceptions of time notwithstanding. Fatalism mushrooms sag with imagination and its power to glow. I’m big with play. Let me punctuate the air with a house of language. And so I do and the gamble has camaraderie and is prodigal and kind. The prophecies of the alligator are a fog suckling a headlight. When we ride the green train a thumb of semantic treasure presses the cement. We like to think it’s alive. And it is. We walk in exhibition of our own abandonment and find that it helps to plant roses and boil. It takes time to salt the circulation. Start getting sexual when the fingers expand to include tubes of ceremony. Gargantuan pumpernickel cries of secretion tinged with sandstone spit. Eat the rain. Reflect a hedge. Burst a pencil with a sketch of knives. Magnetic morning of eyes puffing and shaking itself into words. Clap your hands. Submit a headlight. Lift your suitcase and go. Audacity is the power to chirp when the hermitage opens to gauze. If the hills have angels then there is divinity in embroidery and the air is secure in its processions of sound. Any day now could be a day of stains and pleasures. I’m at home in Italy. Blatant, blessed, and taffeta.

Tuesday, June 9, 2015

The Science of Nowhere


I don’t know
What do you think
Are hills and glue a form of despair
Or mere referents in a poem
Seeking the dignity of a movie
About a reproductive organ
Named Abigail? The traffic today
Was mild on the way to the library
But I golfed my way through Switzerland
A little later and discovered a hole
In a cardboard box that filled me with light
And understanding. This is how words expand
Into eyes and bend the winter air
Into a ceremony of tigers
A tall pink tower
Sparkles below these words
And in it you will find passion and grace
And an escalator which comes in handy
As you move to the top of the tower
Where my hand dances on the ceiling
It’s as if I had a head full of nitrous oxide
And meaning seeped through my words
No matter what I said. Here, for example,
Is a map of my heart. These are the mountains
And this is a lake in which the sag of time
Has been omitted and all we see are waves
Quietly moving toward the shore
Infinity climaxes as a shadow
In a quart of philosophy, the sun
Shining down like a lunatic
Caboose in an evergreen
It’s all about flowers my friend
The literal is only a dime
Away from becoming a dollar
Ninety eight and a vertigo serious as the science
Of migration in a sentence headed precisely
Nowhere 

Friday, June 5, 2015

How the Brain Represents Time


Cartesian materialism, the view that nobody espouses but almost everybody tends to think in terms of, suggests the following subterranean picture: drunk rats dancing on the backache of a powerful-looking man named Richard with a black eye and a tattoo of thorns snoozing in a chamber of knotweed. He will awake to find the dark energies of the universe knitted into rhizomes as time moves over the waters in a paragraph harnessed to the caprice of dolphins and refute the Cartesian Theatre altogether as an inaccurate theory of human consciousness. The hours fall silent. Time reinvents itself. Words incarnate the tangle of the mind. The silk of listening necessitates thought. A cuckoo appears via spring mechanism and goes cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo, thus registering the final bliss of time as it ornaments space with expressions of grace and Pythagorean muffins. The ruins of Rome, the domes of London, the bells of Paris. Broadcasts from the Walter Cronkite 60s hurling deeper into outer space. Time thickens despite hawks. The raspberries mature in their bed. Contraptions of time vibrate Wisconsin. The California sand ripples with wind and wave and the time of the tides moving in, moving out. My favorite clock is a cloud of syllables bouncing on my knee.  Rhythm is time and pentameter is time and prepositions and cork are manifestations of time. We see time in the bark of trees, in the rings of trees, in the foliage and bareness of trees. We know that information moves around in the brain, getting processed by various mechanisms in various regions. Our intuitions suggest that our streams of consciousness consist of events occurring sequence, and that at any instant a young woman will appear and help an older woman to the door. This is what happens when sequence becomes a plane ticket for Paris. Autumn creeps slowly into the air dragging winter behind it. The shiny buttons of Einstein’s accordion increase the sterling morning. I spin faster and faster among the stars. Time is the belch of infinity. Time is motion and shape. Time is salt in a Martian’s ear. A breaker unfurling on Tahitian sands. The opium of grammar, the chronicles of a downtown bus. At 8:41 on a May morning the woman upstairs turns on her shower. A lawn mower roars in the park. The sun rises into the sky. Time is the lip on which the sky walks.