John Olson






When I think of an ego I think of an egg.  When I think of a shake I think of a malt.  When I ego an egg I shake of a mood.  When I shoulder a pen I pin of a think.  When I moon of a mood I inhabit a pen.
     This is why Philadelphia is so energetically blistered by evocation.  When melody is plunged into the spinal cord it brings matters to a head.
     When I think of Whitman I think of horsehair blankets and creaking windmills and the clank of a hammer on an anvil.  I think of an America as it existed in the mid-19th century and as it existed in Whitman’s imagination.  Whitman’s robustness and expansiveness are qualities that nourish a poetry of vision and creosote.  But how does this account for George W. Bush?  What does any of this have to do with George W. Bush?
     Whitman, even after the horrors of the Civil War, remained stubbornly optimistic.
     Allen Ginsberg was not as optimistic.  And yet his poetry savors of a quixotic tongue licking the asterisks of heaven into place.
     It is comfortable to eat a cake unlocked by melisma.
     Can you emanate the 17th century at will?  I can.  I use a fan occasioned by algebra.  The delta of Venus where the noodles declare the thunder of desire.
     Gasp at the California pea.  How it is huge with smallness.  How convincing it is.  How it smells of two padded hammers.  How it roars with invention.  A cantata upon the forehead. Nerves indulging daylight.  Drums and jasmine and fingers in the form of words.
     An addiction to snakes crowded with rattles.
     Thank you for reading this sentence.
     Words tinctured with meaning eventually become estuaries and sunlight.  Rippled mud. Words nailed together to build ruby in a river, meaning in a feeling.
     There is no map to ecstasy.  You get there by reinforcing the feeling of Ottawa.
     A thing has substance when we give it a name.  Wedges of air tinkling with reindeer. Romantic pork.  Jeremy Irons as a thief in Morocco.
     Thursday is orange.  Friday is wrinkled and primary.
     A story about a rag written in sand.
     Gone are the days when an odor could lead to a giant eyeball full of muscles and light. Yet it is still amusing to describe reality as a kind of hedge infected with literature.
     Words in an ecstasy of green going all haw haw.


Copyright © 2004 John Olson.  All Rights Reserved.

Back Home Next