Everything is Happening
There's a computer in that tree, and suddenly everything is tangible. Like we stormed through Alaska with feelings on our side. Like we anteloped candles to produce paper. If everything is the way it could be, then nothing would get done around here. I asked for twelve pens for the table. I arranged them according to productivity: reds next to blues next to ones that are black. And a sort of calm came over me. Like I was in a boat sailing to another boat. You said something about complexity. You said something about ancient mariners toiling in dirt and grime. I knew about your April, but I didn't say why.
But I am a tiny speck on the south side of the moon. But I am not part of the diaspora. But I participate in the reconstruction of the genus species. But I am not in love. But I am terribly in love. But for one dark corner my house is full of lamps. But for the generation that favors tabloids where would I be. But for you how would I sleep.
The Germans speak in German metaphors. They are concerned with the solar system, and arrange furniture according to their dreams. One of them thinks in red. Another uses adjectives sporadically. They are part of our hemisphere. We talk to them about snow. How mountains look like men. How to stumble into somebody. We want to discuss shapes. The triangle in the computer. The earth in a room. The dancing cylinders before they faint.
Reciting the Flagpole
They asked us to produce paper in libraries without paper. To recite the way we folded through the storm. We climbed the flagpole, minding the way the wind deserves to fly. The manuals had pages left to comb. We were happy like the stars. It was today that day, and we thought of the past by thinking of binoculars on lawns. We thought about objects in tents, like kettles and brown rice. And we moved closer to each other by way of natural selection: we placed squares around the books we wanted most. We wanted to impress them, but they left the room and the poem, and now they're placing markers in a state we've never known.
Are you floating through the solar system, or have you just arrived? This is the story of a man who knew nothing about airplanes, but embarked on a journey through the southwestern United States. We were waiting for the radio to say his name, to explain his audacity to mow gardens and rake fields. But there was nothing to say, except: "Hello, world. It's Friday. It's Tuesday. It's a day you want it to be, if you want the day to be."