In songs, nasal-sounding webs & ethereal embellishments abbreviate would-be saharas. Spiders pulse, as quasi-consciousness disobeys its metaphysics, & a doubling — wet with treasure — thickens reality.
Like space camp, you name everything, breaking open a morning chorus on time: the bright alarm clock’s manifestation. Puncturing borders, optimizing litter, insisting that slippages stand a chance against logic: yes, yes please. An expressionism of ferociously inconsequential intoxications attracts, as when these little two minutes of lo-fi winglets each become gifts of quantum Hersey Kisses; the mayhem that begot them, now looking back at it, was only an emulsifier. The palpitations of love commandeers their affection, while its privacy, the more important realm, justifies their exactness.
& plunging bottomward to find the light, even as the stars lose their grip on the sky, somewhere turning my body around & nothing but a Van Gogh on the wall, an open window, a curtain, a building in the mid-90s somewhere in the Bronx that I was led to, holding my mother’s hand, & now that hand on a book, a book of photographs called Photographs, as fake rain & NASDAQ’s string of numbers stream over my eyes, which are closed. The noises of the sea among the noises of the computer & my breathing, eyelids unalone as in the color of music formed by yawning, by taking my intestines & witnessing them grapple with my body, & laughing at them.
For example: Space Camp 1991, or a blue guest tied to a barge, out of perhaps a dream dreamt in a trench under white hospital sheets, or tiptoeing into the aroma of waterfalls, blue foliage filled with guitar chords, blueishly a kind of blue, as in, hey, what am I doing eating spaghetti like a fairy, as these blue baseballs begin to weep blue tears under blue clouds, under blue stars.
& under the fluff of orbits, bathed in freshness, a glass of milk on a table, & language replacing consciousness, & both of them going back & forth, as only little children or old people do. Illogical expectations happen, musically, reinforced purely by a subjective earnestness: synth pads, synth pads, synth pads. The parable goes something like this: on the spaceship: a piano. On the piano: a photograph. In the photograph: a boy in a spacesuit. On the spacesuit: a badge. On the badge: a spaceship. In the spaceship: a piano. In the piano: a spaceship. In the spaceship: a photograph. In the photograph: a piano. In the piano: a boy in a spacesuit. On the spacesuit: a badge. On the badge: a spaceship. In the spaceship: another piano, but this time, it’s a micro piano, i.e. a piano that can rest on the side of a red blood cell, peacefully. & inside that red blood cell: a book. Inside that book: a fragment. Inside that fragment: a word. Inside that word: two words.
Two words: take off.
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