Large easy thoughts concerning distance blurt irrepressible samples of fur and blue iron. There is no reason for distance, and so it exists, fulfilling itself by personal and impersonal means, including Chicago, and an overall feeling of glamour, which is best put forward by string. A book for the air viscous with gestation, words evolving into skin.

This is how a sound in the air that is yet to be uttered might be uttered and represented by various things: bathtubs, gondolas, auks. 

A piece of thunder, daylight crashing into stone.

Imprisonment is mental, but don’t say that to a prisoner. There is a difference between a metaphor and a town of wax. Existentialism is still a viable enterprise, but without Sartre, dashboards continue to mimic the geometry of sand, their round contours beetling over a panel of dials and digits, things to press to make our life more convenient, or at least more complicated. Complications nourish illusions of immortality.

Dip your brush in a color that flirts with space. Here we have South Dakota, a vast expanse of rock and grass culminating in Deadwood, one of the finest dramas HBO has brought forth. Leave no stone untouched, my friend, for wherever there is burden, there is Mick Jagger dancing through a drug of athletic heat.

The glow of neon in a leather book. Fables of meat. Emotions like clay. The lard of insinuation and the warmth of an arm gregarious as hair.

Dig the sound of the universe. The effluent drop of a curtain. Testicles commencing a fresh new needle of life. The wiggle of sperm still warm and viable in the litter of asterisks left by a night in Nebraska.

The truth of texture is in the text of sand. There are realities that resist the bullying of authority and sand is one of them. Another is cowlicks. A sunset leaping a creek in majestic glissandos. A machine made of words twinkling on the diadem of night.

No emotion can exist without a hat. Nor does pain mean napkins. If there is a tornado on a butte than make the tempo goofy, emotional as a personality figured as a ribbon. The road to marmalade leads to the palace of milk.

Boldly go where no larynx has gone. Tie the water in a knot. Be a magician. Wait for the elevator doors to open and then leap out, waving a shillelagh and a map of Ireland.

Notice the black attached to the shine of a cup of coffee. You would have to be crazy to put cream in it.

There is a horse at the end of this dream because there are people sitting at picnic tables eating prawns and oysters. The afternoon is dense and alphabetic like the literature of dirt. Flowers rise up and sprout like arbitrary equations, novels on a rack in a Cincinnati drugstore. The rhetoric of cells sometimes resembles a stool festooned with electrical cords. Pliers and leaves affirm the testimony of thumbs. Fish and crocodiles alive and alert in the vagina of a clock. Time is the uterus of space. As if you didn’t know that already. But why must the human body be so fragile? Sometimes it seems as if words floated on the paper hallucinating existential blisters, strawberries so sweet and juicy it is like plucking kisses from the ground. Roots and all.

One day I stood under a giant bell from Kobe, Japan, and realized how acutely baroque a fish with knees might be, or a glass rattlesnake clear and green with the perfect temperature of a nerve, a pink consonant in the mouth of a gourmand of vowels, octaves boiling in a jewel of sound. Emotions are rags of steam. Perhaps this is why Americans love guns so much, big explosions, the crack of definition as opposed to the softly amorphous, the effeminately amorphous, like the goo of dreams.

I love pancakes. Drama slapped with abstraction. Don’t ask why. Today is the birthday of aluminum. Mirrors are completely unreasonable not because history is a symptom of war, but because the dispersion of words keeps us warm and glowing. Nature is beautiful because it tries to indicate more than it is. It is a tambourine hungry for a soft rhythm, a raw spontaneity breaking out of the stupor of afternoon to build a new boat out of semantic lumber. The delirium of balloons. Oblivion gurgling stars. Fables and conjuration. Everything Rimbaud dreamed before he left for Aden. Black pearls of an inner turmoil blessed by an Arabian sun. Heat like a disembodied presence, shrugs, tongues, chaos. Everything a proverb. A souk in Cairo, water from an ancient well, or the way an old man sits among his shards and pottery.