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Reasons I (sh/c)ouldn’t do this 100 words thing: I’m not a writer, in the slick sense, crafting words -- too crafty. Distance between columns oozing off slick glossy pages or those sandwiched snappily in the smartest papers, and those of committee constructed politician’s speeches seems small. Lies hide in hefty vocabularies intended to weed unwanted readers, lies hide in wasted emotion thrown to the masses. I don’t wannabe another liar. The public proliferation of words is daunting. What will I ever say that hasn’t been said? No thing. But I’m throwing my wasted words down anyway, ‘cause scared silent sux.
Bitter hearts are not for keeping. Ya, that’s right Crane…go fuck yerself. Take a bite, a ravenous hunk of your own in your maw, if the acrid juices dribble down your chin, don’t stop to wipe. Keep chomping till it’s gone. The whole you’ve left is the solitary fecund orifice in your pathetic body, an alternate will stir in its place. Roots will fill the bloodied gash to pump again, and if they don’t, cause sometimes they won’t, you were a horrid hound to start, shouda clawed the walls of your mother’s womb, just to try and hang on. Bathetic!
Crssoing teh iwllamsbufhg brigde in a xati cba, teh caacphnoy of uhman mdae enrivons becomes spelndid buaety, NYC sparksel, amicaer's crwno jewle frmo a ditansce. Wneh i jgo orev this brigde, ftoo follows ftoo, my breath coems faster, I lsoe myself in wvaes of traffis'c niose. Boundde by syklines on eithre side, the silver tippde waves of the rivers depths below, i am great and small after all. My fragility and power made real by the threat of death by nature that looms below and the power of people-order in the constructed city scape. We are so cizilived, aernt ew?
First impressions- snap judgments or grains of intuitive truth? I've been logging first impressions from my more reccent romantic interludes, maybe just cause I enjoy taking the clinician's distance on my experiences, but also, I'd like to think, I'm trying to tear apart which is more inherent to said impressions. Before clouded by the female burden of sentiment I put a few words about a persuer onto paper. Returning back to them over the ensuing weeks or months of "relating" the page becomes Tiresies's bowl of entrails. Is all prophecy self fullfilling? Maybe I should stop putting people onto paper?
the radiator leaking steams sounds the same as the squeaky squeal of crickets in the night. sometimes you might think that it is heartache, but maybe it is just heartburn, did you try the tums? the berry flavored ones, they're my favorite. other times happy is hiding, or hiding makes you happy they sound the same. but smiling when you walk alone sounds silent. do they cast radiators at a forgery? smelting metal, bang bang away. Forge a life, shape it, bang it. softly and then loud, but do not falsify except when you are mistaken. we all makes mistakes.
Began snowing early. She didn't notice until opening the courtyard door to let in air, light; out my cat. One look at falling flakes, he skittered under the table, accusatory, afraid. The world wearing snow is beguiling as a movie-plot tomboy donning the sparkly prom-dress. Standing under it, under dressed, her nipples enticingly erect under her pink shirt. Wish she'd shut the door, come back to bed, but she's spinning like an idiot. I see him watching her, transfixed, beady eyed, reaping radiance from his voyeuristic vantage. Lucky fucking squirrel. I call out, she runs in, cold cheecked kisses me.
She ran away, heels kicking up dust by the tetherball pole, pale pigtails bobbing with each bounce. He looked down at his angry red striated arm. He'd been burned bad, indian-burned. She smoothed a hand over pillow rumpled hair, glancing over her shoulder, he appeared asleep. She sighed low, pulled the door closed, and stealthily grabbed back her toothbrush before extricating herself. When her heard her no longer his eyelids popped open like privacy shades, his half a morning erection stirred between his legs. Takes a special girl to capture his heart, one that doesn't care for him a bit.
being a girl's shit. I'm betrayed by my frame and vanity (fond nose) when throwing punches becomes the only appropriate rhetorical response. yesterday, cabbing home with friends(wait...there's a caveat here, fair-weather-friends, drinking buds, never asked for a cosmology exchange) i was a fuck. i just assumed cause they're educated/articulate they weren't racist. Wrong! I try to live a life i can live with, assumed those i dumbly dubbed "like me" doin the same. obviously i'm as presumptuous as the racist. He was bitching about L -train "nig" kids making fun of his hipster clothes, ball-hugging-jeans, beatle's hair. i shoulda swung.
My friend Reesman's an ivy league 3L. We bump into each other when home for the holidays. Yearly his girlfriend gets a little hotter (tits a little bigger), than the last girlfriend. Can't wait to see what the bitch'll look when he makes partner. My sister's a 3L at a disappointing state school. She went some place competitive for prelaw, competed hard for summer internships, top grades, and for successful boyfriends. Every year she got a little skinnier, more tanning bed orange, until the hospital called. She'd eaten six candy bars and washed them down with a bottle of drain-o.
I spy with my little eye....something that's... I'm green. I have a hard exoskeleton. My eyes are multifaceted, with semi-orbital movement. I am flighty, springing quickly out of predatory range. My antennae are ultra sensitive, self protective. I am battered by the outside world and continue to survive, but if you cover me with chocolate and eat me I am anything but bitter. I have a light crunchy pleasant taste, and am easily devoured. Too easily. Question: Who am I? Answer: Dater performing tricks, natural geo-dater showtimes are thurs and friday evenings at locations to be announced. Until I quit...soon.
human life's been eclipsed by the dollar. it's a blow that continues to ripple outward. i don't know the exact historical moment, but it's now ubiquitous. ford/firestone determined that paying off injury lawsuits would be more cost effective than fixing flaws. Money > Life. but the counter argument is if the companies didn't operate effectively, factory workers on up globally would be jobless/broke, roll-over-deaths or poverty? with choices like these, aintany wonder suburb kids growing in the shadow of parents making such decisions shoot each other for sport. if it can't all resemble a video game what fun is this shit?
"Duice." It's juice. She can't form her mouth around the word. She tugs insistently at my pant leg standing in front of the fridge. "Duishe." It's shoes. We're going to the park. She'll spin in circles, then winded by her own laughter she will fall down. Pre-dawn would find us all in bed together, her wet cheecks from night's frights, would nuzzle my bare breasts until her wordless pink mouth would take hold, nursing my dry milkless breast until lulled back into sleep. They are so much smarter than us. Leaving her behind was the hardest thing I've ever done.
In favor of fiction: Compassion and empathy are predicated on experience. It takes the patience and unfolding truths of forms like fiction, drama, and personal non-fiction to bring people the experiential understanding of someone else's situation that could only otherwise be more potently gained through first hand perspective. Intellectual identification of people's problem, UN statistic on standards of living in developing countries can't create compassion. Finding a way to communicate another's situation such that a viewing audience develops an emotional connection creates secondary experiential understanding. It's an important thing. So is watching movies where things blow-up and girls get naked.
i trusted people to want each other for more than the corporeal beings they inhabit. an aquaintance enlightened me, explaining the extent of his will to play something for the purest ends, "Smile and nod, eventully she'll stop talking and i'll get laid." He's got a special "hi-fi" cd of semi-romantic songs that he likes to bring along date two or so, and tell her "i made this for you." Does it everytime, different girl, same cd. anyone could lie as well as he does. Even me. so what's there that isn't image, if the other is so easily fabricated?
My fam hosted Israeli exchange students. One of them smelt, she ate canned corn her entire month stay. My sis and I made fun. Mostly we liked them, kids our age, two-years-ish before mandatory service. I asked what each thought of fighting for ideas they often couldn't know or care were right or wrong. Sometimes exited, sometimes scared, privileged one's often said parents would help find desk jobs, so they wouldn't likely face death. As I looked down the barrel of choosing college, they stayed briefly and went away. I don't know if any died, or how many any killed.
the worst line of high school poetry ever penned by me (o.k.probably penned by about 2.3% of H.S. girls circa age 15) --" eyeliner that is black like my soul"-- i shit you not. probably the only direct quote i could dreg from a fortuitously fecund (#$^%&) period of ART (with a capitol) in my poignant young life, ‘cause piles of the smut were burned in some "possessions & artifacts are bullshit - man" bonfire behind the folk's two-car garage. Shit don't change much.
give me a ca give me a tha give me a arsis!! What does that spell! " audience participation moment " thx girls! Ahh the journally minutia of my tiny life ---- I just want to put out there in the world, even tho shit between people who want to fuck each other, or one does and the other doesn't, you know ..."romance," is pretty convoluted, it does have some benie's. People who touch us (I don't mean grope or fondle), even briefly, can leave us enlarged (again, please stop reading this so dirtily), even after the connection has passed away. so thx.
okay, so get this, of all the people to find yourself across the dinner table from...a chaplin! excellente, right? I picked him up, actually. All I knew was that he was a hotty patatty colombia masters candidate. Turns out his deal is christian study, his day jobby is at the hospital. But it really was fun we had great conversation about the business of medicine. The hospital gives him two hours to council the souls of the bereved before he has to diplomatically get them to "move-it-along," the hospital's got to get another paying stiff (eeww ouch!) into the bed.
give us this day our daily bread, give me this day my daily words. im sick asafuckingdog, ain't nobody aroundta hear me hack upa lung, dragged my sweaty-ass into the caustic cold, fever/medicine reaking havoc on my poorwittle synapses, firing all fucked-up. the corner deli was mini-las-vegas, all sin city flashing lights, mind melting color and noise. i musta got the flu shot placebo, now an ass's laugin' his butt off "got so many suckers shot up with sugar-water for good buck" i betcha it's that same kid who tried to sell the little kids oregano that time. fucker. coughwheeze.
Less than fifty phonemes are physically possible to form. keys to community, links of love, divisive dictatorships all built of the same sounds, limited by the vibratory resonance of the shape of the skull, the dexterity of a tongues musculature, the number of evolved incisors, transformed after the oral/aural period into written languages. it's fluid and halting all at once. i can reach and coax and teach or falter in foulmouthed backwash. bloggers, vj's, spindoctors, poets, scientists, Saints, tri-ligunguists, times square, towers of babble. Speech pathology, esl, voting registration documents. The limits of language are concrete. What else you got?
do you ever feel the threads of life piling behind you creating pressure? I'm riding the wave of this tapestry, a cockroach hanging on while the housewife beats the dust out of the fibers, the rug is the complete surface of my life. I, limited by size and scope, can only be aware of small sections at once. But suddenly a particularly great billow from her broom, launches me. The rug seems to become a fuller picture beneath, I am lost swirling above. I want to do something with the moment of flight, before falling back in fibers, encased again.
nobody's ever going to see this, but if they do, i have a project for you. try it. go to Barnes and Noble, get a large stack of books, sit at a table, invent inscriptions, pleasant, thought provoking, banal, develop characters, comment on the book itself, whatev strikes your fancy, it works well around holiday time, but it could be birthdays, lovers quarrels, whatever. Reshelve your little works of dare i say a... now they get the words they paid for..and some other shit too. it is easily misconstrued as defacing property, don't let those naysayers stand in your way.
Staring ceilingward, in bed next to me he's telling the story of the day before he left Tangiers. The cabbie knew well the way. They brought a box of pastry, neither had ever read the man, so, an offering, in lieu of saying, "we love your work." When they arrived, in the middle of summer, Paul sat in 90-year-old swaddling clothes, beside a roaring fire. He tapped idle fingers, on a typewriterless desk, awaiting his soup. When leaving "Thank you for your time." He said no, "Thank you for your pastry." "Oh?" "You can touch pastry, you can't touch time."
They were filling cocktail glasses with ice. The adults tinkling toasts, and the lush lullaby of laughter, melody, and patter floated out downstairs windows, into cold night, then up to the bedroom above. Isabel says to her squirmy sister, "Do you wanna do tongues again?" a new game, the sisters stuck warm wormy pink tongues out to each other, made the tips touch. Subsequent squeals were suppressed as to not draw adult attention. Isabel asks, "Do you think that's what it's like to kiss a boy?" but her sisters eyes were already squinty cemented shut, willing morning to come quick.
A Husband Hunter stalked through the crowded Christmas cocktail lounge. The wild feathers of other birds distracted her from her prey, but there in the distance, camouflaged by the mirage of refracted light glowing off some bitches silver sequined dress she saw the elusive animal. The suit said 401 K, the watch roared rugged and refined, the hair cut cried lack of current girlfriend. They Budweiser was a strike, but they can't all have perfect tusks. She just hoped that the taxidermist would be able to get the green eyes just right. They'd so match the throw on the divan.
la llorna lives in my life. a friend once told me i choose the maudlin. I said, " you' re full of shit," and proceeded to build the rift that grew between us. As a new year approaches the trite horror of hindsight seems inescapable, stolen children, demolished domestic bliss, sloppy substance use, a challenged churning towards misplaced carreer goals founded on a sense of artistry I'd be the first to find fault in...monstrousy vanity's a likely culprit. Stories strung together to comprise a life, the long low melancholy howl of la llorna's banshee lungs, the sirens call behind it all.
I'm excited. I should be. He's a hot lanky boy body, you know from when we were sixteen, going to all the shows, was the hottest thing. Skinny-punk-mucsled-lads whose well worn screen printed tee-s hung from their angular shoulder blades like louis the 16th's brocade drapes. UmmmYummy. He makes his pay with his camera slung over a shoulder getting paid to capture grrls 4 pages of maxim, nylon, his own stuff isn't bad either. We conversate well, kiss well, dine well. He's planned a wild new year ride, w/all the perks. But yawn...bring the zoloft, we got a live one.
there's a new baby that lives in my building. i can hear her cry out the windows at night. i think times square is at least ten degrees warmer than ninth ave, you can feel all those bodies, all those lights. i would have cracked his glasses, as gravity ordered my flying feet down the subway stairs, had the kitten not caught my eye. Maybe he was just a drunk, but the way his hand shook...maybe epilepsey. Orange, tabbby, licked his slackened cheeck. I picked up the glasses, placed them on his fallen form, and ran to catch my train.
In a coffee-house admist stacks of forgotten volumes, meant to be decorative, I found a families album. No one knew it was there. Old photos, from the forties and fifties. It is full of all the events you'd expect. The central figure is a daugter. She floats through, growing up, communion dress, high school cap and gown, a proud and prissy bridal party. In one shot she stands alone next to a funeral wreath. In another she looks lovingly from behind her young husband, as he poses next to an imposing douglas fir standing in a wooded patch of prarie-land. t.b.cont'd.
A few photos later the fir stands alone, decked with tinsel in the picture window. People once owned these moments. Now I do. What's left crumbles in my hands as I thumb through and wonder. It is so picture perfectly dicotomous. All of the energy expended, bodies heated, meals cooked and consumed, shitting, sleeping, breathing. Singing laughter of tots swinging around tinseled trees. All of it left cold in my hands. A bright flash of light, gone dim. It seems like a bulb left to burn in a room with no one coming to sit to read by the light.t.b.cont'd
The aging black book, forgotten and unwanted, is the sum of some girls life. Did you ever marvel at all the skins cells that are sloughed off while you sleep. In your sheets you leave the remants of you. I'd like to see a lifetime of that personal pixie dust piled up next to the stack of all the snapshots snapped. Two life long piles, the accumulatred minutia of living. When I go, theese piles, sums, would, if taken to with matches, make the perfect flammable matter for my funeral pyre. Commemorating that combustable consumption that is the human year.
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