l a p I d a r I a n
Behind every pathos is a renaissance flawed with propellers. Specimens of feeling bounced off the back of a participle, existential and tin. We speak of wire and incline toward thinking. These words may not connect with what you’re thinking. But they are words. Fifteen vibrations and a slow induction. If a sound is apparent than the apparatus is working. This is why we give names to experiences. Names like calculus and consciousness. Gratification and warmth. Polypropylene and calcify. Any color is deer. Nailing is suggested by the plenitude of blood pounding in necks. That is where meaning has a home in dishes. Slap a postulate silly and what you get is mountains. Pearls and personality. Foreign perceptions. Cubism. Tickets or rain. Braque’s rebellion had shattering implications. Space itself changed shape. Space became a sudden insatiable pencil. Space became a dos-à-dos. Mass became a mattress. An imposing stone with regard to the material world. Reticence has its charms. The pulse of momentum in a ghostly dog. A highway flare gravid with night. It is steep to consider screwdrivers. Burlap begins the glitter of revelation. Sidewalk ripples tumbled into amulets and chickens. Tarts equal to tinfoil will later be narcotic and laboratories leaking reality will shout beauty into blisters. The wagon is enforced by incentive, and drips with screwy merchandise. There is fat in the yell during the epaulet idea. Its chill was pink among that Democratic chemistry and lace hoists that made the calculus nasty with just the right dashboard. As pills to columns and garters to gargoyles, the oblique in the ketchup is inundated by quandary. Such pastels as yonder calendar persuade the eyes that reality is some haphazard mirror, an apology to the toes and an occupation for the nose. The beatific biography of a mechanic is the ultimate kayak in phenomenon and elevators. The fairytale skies that milk themselves in the pine are bundled in delicate membranes. As a lighthouse imbued with Tuesday the magnet is tongue to the ladle of names. The driveway is soaked in its gravel. The earthquake is nestled in its pegs. A raft drifts through the cafeteria beckoning to our inner nature the way a grease will sometimes anticipate thought. Hack the mime with your twinkle dart. Humor the next beast with cleats. How a femininity evaporates indicates that it snows within paprika. There is oil in pathos and hickory is habitable in a tripod bean. Heat is an exponent to the finery below the waterfall, its intricacy an engine for the geography of personality. Zinc was once a highway. A humid scram alone could denote its
vaudeville. Floating was always beat, and you the logo king in which a blunted eyeball later inveigled its own manufacture at the bureau of existence. The power queen in her syntax is only thrust and quill. Chaos pantomimes gristle because the crocodile is pertinent to its bones. Go yell something unassuming at the environment. Ask yourself, environment of what? The verbal gauntlet as a black gardenia. Umpteen rough adobe adverbs slowly lavish in their house and quaver. There is a word in which light is a fork and beauty is varicose. In which sound is deliriously venerated and the misfit apparatus cajoles perception with its scarves and tarpaulin. To which a lanolin nose is appended by shadow and tornados are hacked into jobs. Our laughter grows green over it. The xylophone ripples with jewels. The azaleas engage the garage in conversation. The hose is wound. The car is parked. There are cans of varnish on the shelf. There is a zinnia in each window. There is an emotion that thaws and a feeling that hardens into ideals and words. There are words that drip and words that nail. There are words. The delinquent antler once had an automotive hole in which to breed its vast economy. A lamé can unbind its eggs in a labial mustang. The sword of day lacerates the pond. The story is crammed with a blue chicken. Anyone’s elbow can drop into autumn. The washing sparkles. A wavelength of henna squirms in the toolbox. Pathos is anyone’s back. Sugar the kayak. Pepper the ball. It is lambent to fecundate blackjack, but gallant to revive the velocity of red. Poetry is a dangerous gastronomy. You can eat the sun, but thought hungers for silk. The diet is more like fog. Rain in gravitational bedding, a database of dirt with a washcloth on it. Imagine a lung with the color of a swimming pool. Imagine its apparitions. The current in an eyeball. The automotive splendor of a pink appliance rumbling with pushy lactations. Here is where reverie turns native with wolves. Zippers are used for clarification. A flock of mirrors in a quantum bicycle honor the squid surrounding the lighthouse. We can feel ourselves in lilies. Mittens on a cold February morning. Another verb ignites in fur and beckons the river to quicken its blade. The lake gets up and carries itself into the mind of a goldfish. Can there be an art of emotion? Can an emotion be created in the same way that a house or a boat or a poem is created? A tattoo animates a jiggle of skin. A biography is written. A life is lived. A knowledge is acquired. A song is sung. A momentum is formed. An appetite is appointed. A tongue is upholstered. A fever is enameled and an anthology of exotic temperatures turns to stone. Emerald, opal, and turquoise. Onyx, chalcedony, and jade. ~
JOHN OLSON
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