John Olson - The Parrots Are Monumental On The Rue d’Orsel

My wallet is cluttered with identity and lamination. I say sticks and balls to those who are about to embark. Heaven’s nails are pounded toward the impenetrable. The umber. The amber. The lumber of life. Those who kill do so because the infantry to which they belong expects it of them. There is division between the body and the soul. There is division between bone and meat. George Braque’s papier collé fondled the world more earnestly after the war. The blot below my mohair is still mated to a railroad. Army symmetry is necessarily piquant. This is so cotton and beards may occasionally pounce on a consonant and fill it with opium. Grain and cloth humor the skin. Buckle a clean belt to stir the waist with structure. Heave lightning through the trees. Invite the shine of heaven to jingle in the doctrines of lobster carnality. Circle these penumbras with lucidity and string. The hives of the library ox hum like pages in a book of endless occurrence. There is a history to being, a leaning to learning. The books further attract the light of an inner knowledge not found in any laptop. This is the introverted world of the contemplative, dabs of plaster dangled within when the world grows silent in the forests of Bohemia. Those sciences devoted to insoluble flavors will one day unravel. The concepts bend like phantoms and move down the loaf to the appliance of spoons. In subversive death the scent of life is always served with depth and understanding. Exclamation pounds with the larynx hammer just as the ship is hoisted onto the shore. The harness is expanded for jellyfish. The eggnog door exudes brightness. We propel ourselves up the Mediterranean seeking a glimpse of towering majesty. The revolt is now a firmament mosaic, a swirling design of intention and broth. The parrots are monumental on the rue d’Orsel. To go outdoors is to fulfill oneself with private thought and still remain open to grace. The squash in the market incandesces. The pumpkins culminate in plump apotheosis. There are shouts. There are shots. There are shovels. Even the shadows hiss with anticipation.

John Olson's blog.

A Poet of Excess and Expansion.