4Texts By John Olson

Mardi Gras Goulash

If you want an answer to consciousness search under the whispers. I make lines that prominence scratches. The violins we play for the chemistry of music is a boiling that washes ashore one day. And this is a cause of wind. I bloom in it by vapor. Go. Do something exhilarating. Assemble a temperature. Build a religion on napkins. There are my pipes, conducting talk and water, the conversation of everyday life, denim and modestly subjunctive. The challenge is the toys. My luminous Bach hugged the geography of the car. The triangles are above this turmoil, ornately rebellious. Death slides around in our conversation changing the décor to Mardi Gras goulash. What fidgets around in oak must be imponderable to sashay like these words pushed against the norm. Erratic altitude is a break. It gets us there by submarine. The stab rattles within the whistle. A wedge moans over the fire escape. I think it’s spatial to put a candle here. And I did and it teased our consciousness into becoming more like milk. Apparitions on my sleeve are screaming for pearls. And so the narrative crashes into sophistication and dies like a squirrel. Feed it more words. I think it’s the fog’s intestines that so complement the sounds of the Beach Boys. The smell is salty and sandy like poetry. Old wharfs on barnacled piling. The oars puff the horizon. Water is so accentuated that it waves and bathes any possibility of absorption. And I’m so absorbed by this that it makes me awash in nerves. Sensations of tossing get the sheets to calm the book. A tendency howls a long jaw of perspective. And it all collapses into utterance. Which makes everything tremble. A lot of these nouns just want to be verbs. It’s always intriguing to discover a prospect where before there were only shadows. And creaking and cracking and pencils and salami. Cows pull forward despite postulation. Reality exhorts articulation. Snippets, specks, dollops, chunks, scintilla, particularity, clarity, aberrancy, granularity, capillarity, occupational therapy. Silence in the greenhouse. The smells are direct. Or fertilizer. Construction aches. Ruffles the philodendrons. The ascension of Euclid released the garage. It blossomed its geometry by resource and panic. Struts that shine by passage will rise to be these words where they meet the spring and bounce up to you eager to be pliers, a thesis of rocks and grasping. Hang on. I can feel a fever digging out of the museum. Alert the media. I just saw a sonnet crash into Finland. Meanwhile, in New Orleans the babble is still bubbling and the bubbles babble bottles of shiny talk and road flares. The intent here is to simply march around screaming opals. All the appetites are Apollinaire and all the meandering is configurational like a duck should be.


The hobnob is doodles which makes everything hypodermic. How do you do I’m a hypothesis waiting to happen. Mermaids operate my paste. Together with a toga I’m tough as mildew. I’m the identity that submitted its moisture and found radar in my vodka. This is my introduction to outcry. The obstinate politics of a crook must pick its way through swordfish or else it’s just an exercise in usury. And we know where that leads call me stentorian but I know a hog from a hogshead one day. This will now serve to engage your eyes in swimming. The thermodynamics of my eyebrows insist on equilibrium. Otherwise, what’s the point? The tibia is imprisoned in a leg and its actions are fair to middling. My pose is liquefied by rudiment, and so I’m going to stand here by the window and chew on a cranium. If you think the sandwich is funny you should see the bride. She married a gulch and took it outside and shot it with gossamer. It became a fever and walked around in my blood for a while causing integrity and culture. The suitcase is immersed in clothing and the clerks are talking rapidly among themselves about the sentence crawling across the floor of the hotel lobby which I put here just now to dazzle you with the imagery of Moscow. It feels so ruminant to sail around like this until I find a truth or a perception that I can garden beginning with the top soil which smells like Denmark and confers with the conifers until a conference forms around a metabolism I can call my own and go home. I do this until the skeptics decide on a grimace. And when the stars are steady I will salt your salutation and bring you into a treasury that treats its money like hindsight and shines like probation within the shoulder of the justice system. Think of the fun we’ll have breaking out of the sand and emerging like a couch in the polyphony of the surf where the peripheries happen. I want to call this foam my own and I will and I do and everything else is kumquat. Total pornographic purport. This means that from now I will be Easter. And settle gently on prosciutto.

Stein Spine

The laws of the universe are universal. So they say. Time and space are real phenomena. But they’re not absolutes. Everything is in flux. Change is the reality behind all the machinery of this universe. If Walt is right, every atom that belongs to me belongs to you as well. This would include protons, electrons, neutrons and cream of mushroom soup. We share our quarks as we share our quirks. I don’t have a patent on blood. No copyright on my toes. It’s all aswirl. Worlds whirled into contagions of indeterminacy. Electromagnetism and doughnuts. The pestle is in its bowl. The brain is in its skull. The owl is in the tree and Gertrude Stein is on my lap. She has a thick spine. This would be the Vintage Books edition of The Selected Writings of Gertrude Stein edited by Carl Van Vechten. Which is subject to the laws of the university, gravity and space being chief among them, but only when I’m not reading it. Because reading is quantum. Classical laws no longer apply. Not even to the classics. The Starship Enterprise encounters the face of God. Who is faceless. The entire crew recoils in wonder and blindness at the apparition. And reading is like this. Reading is interaction. Language is incision. Macbeth’s weird sisters stirring their brew on a moor of the nebulous. Gooey ambiguity. The delicious enigmas of the universal stew. The big bang thrilling up & down the spine. You might call it an aesthetic experience, but that would be a uterus, not a full definition. It frequently happens that there are no full definitions to anything. How can there be? The universe is made of stadiums. Physicists call figs the substances that constitute the weave of the physical reality of the world. The electromagnetic orange is the weave of which light is made. Spacetime is the gravitational stencil in which the flicker I saw earlier today flew into a tree and looked down. At me. Walking along, In the spacetime planetarium. Gravity vibrates like a ukulele. I can feel it. I can feel it when when I stand up and sing. It ripples through me like Memphis. There’s a theory that poetry is just like matter. I use equations to describe the reciprocal influences that all the fields have on one another. But they aren’t mathematical equations they’re pataphysical equations inspired by the great pataphysicist Alfred Jarry. In this universe the hacksaw is an accession of metallurgy and the rose is a rose is a rose and the tulip are two lips in conjunction with a tongue and the marks I make on paper form words that get up and walk around until they find a sentence in which they can agree to make a meaning, or at least an image, a cobra in a top hat or John Lennon with a toilet seat draped around his head, and lie down in a sequence that makes these things apparent. This is where the law gets shaky. We’re in the quantum realm now, the place of collisions, the carnival at the edge of night, lights whirling around, destroying time like a pack of cards in a game of “can’t do that.” But you know you can. Deep down. You know it. You know you can.

Turning Words Into Things

Whenever I have problems with reality, I attempt to turn words into things, and appease a sinking desolation with the pontoons of speech. It’s a doomed and useless project, and has thus aroused the spirit of dedication. Words will never be things because concreteness only occurs only in relation with bank loans and party balloons, and I have only this chainsaw. The clearing that is opened up in this way makes it possible to circle my existence with the tremendous gift of laziness, and hydrocarbon. I should also include anguish, which goes on inside the connections between my neurons, flinging abstractions around like leprechauns, who don’t like that sort of thing, and chase me down the street. Turning words into things is not without its hazards. Because when the words become things you’ll find yourself in a superposition of different configurations being dispersed in a cloud of improbability. And then all hell breaks loose. Basically, I believe that the fear of death is the result of dying. I don’t mind being dead I just don’t want to have to die to get there. There must be easier means of transport. The hypertrophy of our frontal lobes is considerable, and has taken us to the moon. Do you remember? The parasols were yellow and the tequila was sprightly. The point is: it worked. Imagination works. Tequila works, if you let it. I also recommend serendipity, mutation, and cannabis gummies. We see the world and we describe it: we give it a tongue. We give it fourteen genders, hotel lobbies, and Vincent Van Gogh. And in return it gives us bread volcanoes apricots and Tina Turner. The jigsaw blade moves up and down following the outline on a sheet of plywood. And this concludes in favor of a pragmatic analysis of dialogue. When we talk to the world we want it to be cheerful. This is a world of events, not things. Therefore smile, for there is nothing to worry about but vindication, and worms. Technique is only another form of lactation. Objects are hot because their metaphors nuzzle an individual’s thoughts and make them roommates. A hot piece of iron, for example, is a piece of iron where the atoms vibrate very rapidly around a prophet. This makes the world biblical and easier to understand. Go. Rent a boat and see if we can paddle further into the future. I want to see what traditions last and which traditions unhook paradise from the sky and wear it like hemoglobin. Thanks to quantum gravity, a collapsing universe can bounce out into an expanding universe. I’ve seen it happen a number of times, generally when I’m looking for candy and I can see a black hole explode in the chocolate whip or cashew cluster. Eyes aren’t sirloin, they’re vitreous and full of aqueous humor. Vision is noon. But at twilight it becomes reverie. Little beasties twirl around in the air. Galaxies of gnats busy the retina with nothingness.  It is by objects alone that we estimate space, but if you want, I can take my wallet out and show you some. I like to fold space into distances and origami organelle. And if you add velocity to a placebo the effect is tweezers and will sound like the tolling of a bell.

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