Gregory Klassen- Untitled

The sad history of neon awaits me at the end of the hall. How will I get there? How will I pattern the bronze? Any hand propelled by airplane is much too parliamentary to participate in paper. True expression requires an affectionate jump. Imaginary grievances have always been more my torment than real ones. A human being is an animal soaked in personality. It takes a cold and hard mathematical formula to emulsify a mood. It occurs to me that a wedding is all surf and thrill. The first time I was ever invisible I operated a temperature called hurry. We have but one rose to pledge to opinion. I cannot help thinking Mr. Audubon a dishonest man. A fine note snagged on a sundae and proffered to us all as a baritone. In our world of perpendicular walls and floors it is the blade itself that matters as the newlyweds recoil. Life is never entirely intestinal. It is also a tissue of rain, fountains, and fire. Everything else is either metallic, or plywood. Whenever I find myself growing vaporish, I rouse myself, wash and put on a clean shirt, brush my hair and clothes, tie my shoestrings neatly, and go out into the world to add another chapter to my autobiography. Time is but a jackknife between mayhem and rhapsody. The 16th century was cauterized by flippers. Yesterday I languished in silk. Today I crush the minutes under the hooves of my reindeer. Now I am going to enter on the subject of self, which is a spectrum in gusts and giddy as a waterfall. Its miraculous transformations fatten on values which are largely pardonable, and cockeyed. A muscle inflates the daybreak of the hand. Pelicans squabble on the sand. In the midst of the world I live like a hermit. I have conversations with Peru. My occupation is entirely literary. A cerebral sparrow ornaments the hood of my jeep. The angle of incidence equals the angle of reflection. I better understand the pragmatism of skin with that thing they call a name. I am not in the least judge of the proper weight and size of an infant. But I do know how to name it. The slow wheels of time permit a sense of linearity to seek consummation in curbs and percussion. This very habit would be parent of idleness and difficulties were it not also delicately sprinkled into a silver vial, covered with spirits, and ignited. A fable is born. The penumbral chain is all glaze and piccolo. Tables with false tops, trap doors, thin wires or threads transform the rodeo. For the first time anything seems possible. Becoming someone else, for instance, or the ability to walk through a wall. The laboratory of invention is an affable adobe. Mirrors are practically useless to me. Chopin turns the air blue. A resplendent spittle hurts the time into licorice. The great beauty of poetry is that it makes everything algebra. A body of air twisted into fish.