Prosome

I have a dream of John Ashbery, no, John Cage, maybe they're one, like an Irish uncle of yours who's also a German math teacher who's just come into your little town in Spain where you are strolling with him in the Mercado and stopping to admire a strange lace portrait of Dali which he drapes over his head while starting to giggle, and the ash of the cherry of his cigarette falls and tumbles to the gutter into a glass jar with the remnants of an irtyu jam or pickled fish or something. He buys you a pillow embroidered with a marvelous scene, an orator standing before an amphitheater next to the sea, and he's reading from a scroll held out at arm's length, and he's smiling, and the image is one of catatonia, but there's no chance of ever stopping the essential operation, the surgeon deftly cutting, then stitching up your sides where the laughter had broken through, robins passing banderoles transfixed by invisible flumes, helixes of fire ladders, and little demons of flame are climbing them, upward, and downward, and oughtside in, or maybe the robin's helix is a mobius, like a cage of ashless flame, and its hymn is a vision assured in its warmth, and twisting your report like a dagger whose handle of turquoise is carved like a man with arms outstretched and feet together, and the blade is secretly deep, and painless in the navel of some pregnant lady, it's a dream afterall, and you've already mentioned Salvador conjoined to your face, and madder lakes have read here.