Prose Sonata In
Music is a
dimension of memory and mode. The notion that certain effects of music
are so much like feelings that we mistake them for flashlights is
illuminating. Imagine enamel. Impersonate yeast. Music baked in
appeases the pain of romance. It awakens the soul. It is a raft of
floating in the air like a fact cracked into pine.
Music articulates the forms that language cannot set forth, like
slowly getting into a hot bath, or feeling the current of a river pull
against your legs.
Music is an essence of scale. It is a graduation of treasures
beyond the world.
Music is the
lapping the sand of foreign shores, chromatic tones touching the ivory
of incorporeal dominions. Blocks of sound gliding up and down. Hammers
pounding pandemonium on string.
Words scar the air like a reptile immersed in Mozart. Skin heaving
tongues of wet trembling sound.
A piece of music can embody a feeling a debut of doubt a triumph of
a man sitting at a table pondering a fragrance.
Space hemorrhaging thunder. Snow somersaulting in a glass wound.
Shakespeare crackling with sonnets. Being and nothingness mingled in
Music is made by instruments, oboes, pianos, violins, and clarinets.
world of sound is constructed with percussion and tone, melody and
Thelonius Monk leaning into a keyboard to draw sounds out of rosewood
The native hue of resolution is immaterial. Perceptions render the
accessible to thought. Top hats and chandeliers. Jets and blackberries.
The savor of fugitive phenomena. The play of fingers on a keyboard. A
nuance percolating through stone. A cobweb floating in a borderland
The shadows between notes widen with undulation. The lights and shadows between notes trace
implications of a space haunted by portent and otherworldly phenomena.
The cold edge of the abyss. Impressionist paintings on the walls.
Meaning is thick when it spills an emotion. Piccolos, pianos, drums.
Violins creating elusive effects. In such instances we are being led by
the ears towards a knowledge of the human heart. Ermine and art. Energy
The play of lights and shadows deepen a consonant twisted to sound like
quartz. A watercolor fantasia welcomes the interval of a perfect
fifth. There is no single emotion that cannot be splattered with
The life of a pin or a mood rippling with vespers deepens the hyacinths
reflected on the surface of a pond. The pop and crackle of a fire in a
stone hearth walks the walls between notes. Saturn’s rings provides the
raw material of sound pulse of an inner spirit not one but many human
emotions harps and the human voice ribs, blood, heart, spleen, bladder,
bones, muscles, circulation light prismatically broken into separate
colors those quiet browns in a painting by Rembrandt art is not a
material place but a non-place stars trembled by the handshake of
gravity a veiled blending of hues a sound sliding down a closet door.
Music comes from the body the blaze of white in new fallen snow
nailed to a nerve circumnavigation of the tonal globe in an invisible
realm. A G-flat descending to F elucidates a photograph of deer.
Evanescent harmonies breathe a blend of emotions into an otherworldly
domain vapor dangled in knots flutes and clarinets in the dark lower
register. A box of laundry detergent vivified at noon by a ray of sunlight.
Humanism means headlights, the crucial ingredients of a conviction.
There is a music for that, too, and it comes from the din of traffic,
cantatas of gas and combustion.
But there are worlds not so immediate as ours. Not so decisive as a
sidewalk. A school of smelt just below the surface of the sound of a
sound surrenders the invisible made visible to the ears gravity and
ointment violins in their lustrous upper range a railroad redeemed by
melody the give in a trampoline a thesis of light in search of a prism
sonata crowded with meaning the heart teeming with feeling.
A music born of words is like an earthquake folded into a harp a raw
tone of nervous beauty copper pipes zinc counters a stretch of air
ribboned with larks the muscle of proposition lifting a volume of tints
in Proust are unzipped by music a cymbal brushed with drumsticks
the smell of popcorn in a movie theatre busy words huddled in ink
shells columns vaults a gladiator entering the ring embossed wings on a
A realism consistent with horses gravity described by carrots might be
twisted into winter. Thus music has fulfilled its mission whenever the
voice pours out of the head in gleaming overtures of pitch and
The writer as musician the painter as a phantom amid a uniform gray a
shape taking form in the light the diffusion of tints in the cream of
clarinets. The baroque organ had a transparent tone that was oftentimes
absorbed in angora. Preludes, nocturnes, arabesques. Feelings are
genuine it is words that sometimes fail us. The biography of a crowbar
explains the failure of the human face to topple the tyranny of the
Pain is a tool. We can use it to make contrast, history, heaviness and
sauerkraut. The creaking floor of a tool shed a rubber tongue bouncing
an alphabet of bees.
A bright silver tone captures the feeling of hindsight, the mathematics
of apology aching with moonlight. A leaning toward an intimate lyricism
that evokes worn leather wallets and faucets, a steam radiator in an
hotel. A closet crowded with ghosts. The disorganization of vision.
is up upside down.
A truck parked by a diner in Oregon grips the residue of experience and
gives it the tender, subtle, intimate expression of grease and oil, the
mysteries of diesel and the music of gears. Insects attracted by sugar.
Slammed screen doors. An ambient western charm that has allowed room
so many personalities that life assumes the calm reflections of an idle
digression, an oar in the water dragging behind the stern of a small
boat. Aberration in all its forms. Strange, unexpected radio stations picked
up late at night while on the road. Clouds scudding past the moon.
Static. Headlights. Outburst. And then, finally, that piece of music
have waited your entire life for, its sounds are so alluring, so
familiar, yet so unfamiliar, haunting and glad.
Words are tinctured with music so that we may give titles to fables,
haze on West Virginia hills, the curl of leaves and flowers, a bell
tinkling on a gate. A world of dream and enchantments, fountains in
fonts, the clatter of tools in a toolbox.
Space is the music of volume, a man holding a detour sign by a road
crew. All around us are invisible chambers, consonant chords overlaid
with dissonant intervals. A chair moved closer to a window. People in
skins and helmets. Trout swimming under a branch of cedar.
Tone combinations are French as bread, gardens in the rain,
circumference jangly with bells. There results a fluid scale pattern
large as all life, the clash of overtones on a piece of cardboard
someone has used to paint a room multiple colors, the paint dripping
dribbling with random inevitability, like the black in Pollock’s Sea
Change igniting the reds and silvers, little daubs of blue, like the
rumble of a dryer accented with the occasional clicks of metal snaps
the clatter of commingled zippers.
It’s like that. Always like that. A music not quite squeezed into the
words. So that it cries for a sunrise. Rhetoric erratic as a bat.
Eternity Is Mostly
A Rembrandt crock
refrigerated in carnations is like a piece of thunder, a rumbling
tenderloin of air, of which the jackknife is such a splendid example.
Because no assignment of meaning is conventional, the aforementioned
crock is a crock of chalk, subtle, complex, protean, just like the
jackknife, but robust, round, and moderate to livid red.
It is tempting to elaborate, but prudence cautions against too much
caramel and quizzical propinquity. Too many similes spoiled the
The rain is balanced in two respects: topcoats and badgers. Wilderness
and topaz. This is why we prefer to baste our philosophy in ruins.
Pork is a career. The very word in my mouth is a document of meat
teeming with meaning.
Imagine life as an usher in a movie theatre. The twilight of a fine
career. Ushers are a dying breed, like poets. One hardly sees them
anymore. Except in the lobby, taking tickets.
Better to be on a catamaran on the open sea hugging reality like foam.
Clam chowder in a bowl of onyx will lead to entertaining orthorhombic
ideals, words toiling to describe a nomination, an acre of door in a
Galaxy convertible, a heart full of nouns warming experience with blood
A voice in the
corner argues detour as the biography of a narcotic takes shape,
proposing a landscape of geysers and foghorns. Width has much
to do with length. As does walking. Walking anywhere. Walking home.
Walking away from home. Walking to the store. Walking around in
Walking around Milwaukee. Dangling a yoyo. Laughing out loud.
My legs are my current residence. I like to put my guts in orbit. I am
the Neil Armstrong of walking. I am the gutta-percha of guts. I like
Whitman, corn on the cob, and electrical insulation. I sing the body
electric. I am Pink Floyd in the shower. I believe in the importance of
Exult in your hand. A hand is an example of personality, like eggs.
My memory of Spain, on the other hand, churns with aggression. I put
flivvers together to make it happen. Make it roll, like little white
pills. Gambling, grease, almonds, flannel shirts and smooth brown
foreheads. The smell of burning candles. Beads slipping through the
I never feel the same from day to day and this is because of mountains.
This is because biology is beautiful and huge. Prone to the languor of
Some people spend
all their lives trying to make a new feeling. For some people a feeling
is everything and for others it is just a suitcase or occasional sulk
silk or supplement to thought which is a thickening of feeling the
where it is refined and stirred or sublimated into jokes.
Did you know your nipples are omelettes? The horse was just an idea.
Hence, muscle and bone. The taste of sorrow in a fold of Muddy Waters.
Reflections juggled by nouns. Keith Richards smiling at the residue of
meaning in a vibrated string.
Love your brain. It’s the only allegory you have that succeeds at
cocooning pulchritude. Hence, paperweights are generally glass. Gut
instincts authenticate eternity. Energy inspires baggage. It is all
England, all guns and ideas.
Tremble in play. Tingle with brass.
One day, while riding around in a glass jeep, Arthur Rimbaud found a
carrot of flabby asterisks. He took a bite and discovered Etruria. A
warm emotion splendid with arteries. The hulk and hue of meaning in a
fold of sumac.
It has often
been said that fate is a fat mysterious throb called lingering. This is
why is it always feels good to get up and leave. You don’t look for
excuses, you just do it, just get up and walk out. You fold your head
into a lily and ooze abstraction. Squeeze topaz. Spit chrome. Chew
Bare your nipples during the hula.
Seeing is seeing. Seeing is breezy and energetic. Seeing is
cork. Seeing is cemented in necks. Seeing is brick. Seeing is a cello
made of beef. Seeing is a cow made of pearls.
I am saying all that I am feeling I am saying that I am feeling all
I am feeling. I am feeling astronomical. Delinquent and humid.
Humid you. Humid me. What is in you? What is in me? It is exciting to
proceeding and to hurry into hypothesis.
Rawhide is the sine qua non of toothpick helium. He who drives the jeep
has an eyeball which bites the alley to energetic worlds. A beach cow
the sword reflects. Chronic crucial flap dot.
Don’t worry about growing a beard. Beards inspire existence.
carnivals, and rope. A jeep that broods in its metal like science.
The ideal muscle
heaves with gravity, a large black knot lingering in algebra. It is too
soon to stretch the abstraction of obstacle into full arousal. Suffice
it to say that the logic of muscle is capable of conveying a meaning
when it lifts something, a truck, or a belt buckle.
The debris surrounding Muddy Waters is a credit to the credibility of
weight. This causes singing and generosity. A being in the world that
aggregate and gallant.
Power tools are Aristotelian. A saw bites wood a tense bites time. A
language so the table at it gets ocher. A Sunday by the ocean all toe
and cloud. A pair of binoculars twisting space into fonts. An iguana
hemorrhaging thunder. Wet skin in a room of leaves. The funny luster of
passion as you freeze a moment in snapshots.
We live in a Congo of thread playing to the jam of our identity. A
tattoo personalizes the refraction of need. People crawl out of
themselves in stories. Tendrils of sound make it hair. Inflamed and
sudden like a window.
Let the show begin. An extraordinary haze falls over fairyland. It is a
smile trilled in a bowl of ammonia. It is a sunfish shiny as a jukebox.
It is buxom as a balloon in a bayou. It is invisible as the
of tea. It is a matter of energy, Spinoza spinning in plywood, quack
This is the real beginning of wood, a tall-masted ship anchored in a
of nebular apparitions. As soon as sensations function as sails, the
ship moves, and the surrounding world explodes into water, bulwark and
tin, pictures patterns textures, thickness and age, actors on a stage,
foam of a wake, fire and rain, understanding a stern, regarding a deck,
the crack of canvas at daybreak. Knowing something is charming. Knowing
a knot is charming. The particular is charming. Particular and dear.
Particular and trembling. Particular like mathematics. Particular like
two plus two is ageless. Particular like one plus one is clean and
daisy. Naturally, it is tempting to try to peek behind this veil.
Writing is quick to make it hair. Homogeneous and isotropic but not
static. Meaning eyebrows. Meaning nuance. Meaning the reality of
anything is as variegated as the wrinkles and hues of someone’s skin.
Meaning speaking. Meaning spoken. Meaning conviction and barrel and
bowsprit. Meaning age. Meaning air. Meaning spit. Meaning fore and aft.
Molt and molten. All the facts available to us. Every little bit and
particle. Trace, touch, hint, trifle, tinge.
What is missing is percale and what is recent is cotton. Death is
than retail. It is something to have a feeling inside one’s body and
know what it is. Which makes it fascinating and strange and something
put into words. Stencils warts jaguars. Theories nods airports.
Robberies rockets bees. Anything is something. A color is something and
a snack is something. Chafing is natural and alive. The difference in
weight between a thought and a dream. The way wind makes itself
in tinfoil. So that it becomes necessary to float a utopia into
One feels a library is a possible solution toSunday.
Eternity is mostly peas.