S. wants her son to be me. She has decided that she would most like her son to be me. And what am I? I am limited, certainly. Or I am a tree--a linden. I have been enclosed by two-by-fours. A woman had asked me to stand as if for a portrait, but, instead of cribbing my likeness, she had built a construction of two-by-fours about me. Good wood. Animation through symbiosis. Re-animation through symbiosis. Through hosting that which you wouldn't mind sucking on your body. I had been placed on a stretcher, but it became a cot at the back of a room. There I lay, forgotten. I am on a cot forgotten. Parts of her were iguanoid, macaquish. She was a pastiche of macaque but overall pleasant. Pleasing. She lay where the waves his the shore. She lay on her stomach and allowed the waves to do as they pleased. She started out perpendicular to the waves, but then they made her parallel. And then they pulled her out and she had sand in the seat of her suit. It hung there. And children get sand in their suits, but, for whatever reason, do not have the dexterity of patience to get it all out. Their little hands and fingers look dexterous, but they are not. These children are not quite used enough to extrication. Later, they'll get it. They are simply young--say 23 or 25. You're just young. I was once young. So lurid, at the seashore. What a scene.
Superabundant. A nimrod, a nixon. The water in the Styx was run through a machine, through some charcoal and sand. The boy was a monger, a gripper. He became a dope. I have been a dope.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
One chip in extraposition. It is extrapoised. That I never saw her coming bothered me. It bothered me that I never saw her coming. Say there is a small child balancing on a curb. A small child balances on a curb. Well, she has a small yellow bottle of bubble liquid and a small pink bubble wand--the end of which is a pink circle. She loads the bubble wand and blows bubbles onto the face of this child balancing on a curb. I walked right behind them--neither of them saw me. The child had her forearm over her eyes and balanced on the curb. The other one blew bubbles in her face. This was one chip in extraposition. All the chips ground down. Water added. A paste ready to smear on foreheads. If the hair is aflame, then it's a firehead.
A benzene ring. A buildup of creosote. A peninsula with a boat in it. The color pink for a bubble wand. She was severe when it came to letter writing. When it came to letter writing, she was never severe and often ended her transmission with a Yours. But I never ended what I wrote with a Hers or a Mine. A pleopod. Something that once crushed me but then let me. What did it let me do? Or what did it let out of me? It let a lot of frustration out of me. After, I pulled ferns over my body. These were ferns with lots of grainy red dots on their undersides. As a child, I thought I'd put them in my cap gun. I had PopPops. These felt like bits of sand wrapped in a piece of tissue paper. These PopPops could be popped under water. I had a friend who would do them between his teeth. And there were the BoobyTraps--the things that you'd pull with two strings. We weren't devoted to one another so much as addicted. To say each other is to say two people. We loved each other. To say one another is to say more than two people are concerned. Concerned about what? Concerned about the difference between devotion and addiction. The difference, of course--the definition that bringeth understanding--is another abstract noun. We were addicted to one another--that is, to each other and to a number of other people. Exes. Let us not bring up the question of our exes. One is bearded and lives in a small house next to me. He has a black car--the hood of which is pocked from hail. For him, I took large bits of cardboard and covered these large bits with tin foil. I made a large thing he'd be able to put over his car, but, when he saw me trying to fit this to his car, he told me to stop. He asked me what I was doing. He had a beard. He was a question of an ex. I told him I was making armor for his car. In the next hail storm, all he'd have to do is put the armor on his car and nothing would get dinged. What about me? he asked me. He must have meant that he'd get dinged as he'd run out and put the armor on his car. So our devotion was to one another. I was devoted--no, delivered by her--to his beard and his car and to the armor I made. He was not devoted to me in the least, but he worked at a record store, and he loved another man there. They had cats there, too, and--whenever he wanted--he would pet them and allow them to knead his lap. He was strange, and lived in a small house next to me. It was always so easy to guess the days he'd be outside and on his porch. It was easy because it was only nice days. Nice days only. Whereas I would go out any day.
She was devoted more to him than to me. She emoted. She pent time trying to get us to part. What of it? She was fraudulent. She was devout. She was mad at her loyalties, and yet she kept them. Marked by mint. Eelware. I gave her eelware. My gaff was to give her eelware and to find a cat beneath my sink. I had to remove a panel to get to the cat. The cat had been painted purple--but by whom? Well, a neighbor of mine must have painted that cat purple. I started to wash it in the sink with yellow soap, and she--the one devoted not at all to me--got angry. So I called her Gertrude and begged her to leave. I gave her any number of the keys I had found on my wanderings. I told her some of these. Some of these what, she asked me. I got the purple out of the cat and had to wait for neighbors to come home. I wanted to ask them how the cat got like that. Within a braided house. The house we lived in was braided. By whom? The author of the house had to do more research, but he had found a line that he liked. He wore long underwear that he had dyed another color. He wore the long underwear his friend had died in. In which his friend had died. Innocuous. My reading behaviors were once catholic, but now they aren't. The difference between devotion and addiction is dementia. Proportion. Her mantle became so bright when we parted.
A benzene ring. A buildup of creosote. A peninsula with a boat in it. The color pink for a bubble wand. She was severe when it came to letter writing. When it came to letter writing, she was never severe and often ended her transmission with a Yours. But I never ended what I wrote with a Hers or a Mine. A pleopod. Something that once crushed me but then let me. What did it let me do? Or what did it let out of me? It let a lot of frustration out of me. After, I pulled ferns over my body. These were ferns with lots of grainy red dots on their undersides. As a child, I thought I'd put them in my cap gun. I had PopPops. These felt like bits of sand wrapped in a piece of tissue paper. These PopPops could be popped under water. I had a friend who would do them between his teeth. And there were the BoobyTraps--the things that you'd pull with two strings. We weren't devoted to one another so much as addicted. To say each other is to say two people. We loved each other. To say one another is to say more than two people are concerned. Concerned about what? Concerned about the difference between devotion and addiction. The difference, of course--the definition that bringeth understanding--is another abstract noun. We were addicted to one another--that is, to each other and to a number of other people. Exes. Let us not bring up the question of our exes. One is bearded and lives in a small house next to me. He has a black car--the hood of which is pocked from hail. For him, I took large bits of cardboard and covered these large bits with tin foil. I made a large thing he'd be able to put over his car, but, when he saw me trying to fit this to his car, he told me to stop. He asked me what I was doing. He had a beard. He was a question of an ex. I told him I was making armor for his car. In the next hail storm, all he'd have to do is put the armor on his car and nothing would get dinged. What about me? he asked me. He must have meant that he'd get dinged as he'd run out and put the armor on his car. So our devotion was to one another. I was devoted--no, delivered by her--to his beard and his car and to the armor I made. He was not devoted to me in the least, but he worked at a record store, and he loved another man there. They had cats there, too, and--whenever he wanted--he would pet them and allow them to knead his lap. He was strange, and lived in a small house next to me. It was always so easy to guess the days he'd be outside and on his porch. It was easy because it was only nice days. Nice days only. Whereas I would go out any day.
She was devoted more to him than to me. She emoted. She pent time trying to get us to part. What of it? She was fraudulent. She was devout. She was mad at her loyalties, and yet she kept them. Marked by mint. Eelware. I gave her eelware. My gaff was to give her eelware and to find a cat beneath my sink. I had to remove a panel to get to the cat. The cat had been painted purple--but by whom? Well, a neighbor of mine must have painted that cat purple. I started to wash it in the sink with yellow soap, and she--the one devoted not at all to me--got angry. So I called her Gertrude and begged her to leave. I gave her any number of the keys I had found on my wanderings. I told her some of these. Some of these what, she asked me. I got the purple out of the cat and had to wait for neighbors to come home. I wanted to ask them how the cat got like that. Within a braided house. The house we lived in was braided. By whom? The author of the house had to do more research, but he had found a line that he liked. He wore long underwear that he had dyed another color. He wore the long underwear his friend had died in. In which his friend had died. Innocuous. My reading behaviors were once catholic, but now they aren't. The difference between devotion and addiction is dementia. Proportion. Her mantle became so bright when we parted.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Whatever it was I saw--it was fragmented. I saw a blemish in most of the things I did. I saw armature as something invented by someone I once met. A scaffold, maybe. Maybe we met on the scaffold. I must learn to see past the blemishes in the things I do. If I can move past that scape, then, maybe, I'll be able to droop a little to the side of contentedness.
My sister was the one who called a hibiscus a hibiscuit. She was the one who couldn't swim yet, and I was supposed to watch over her. She could have stayed down like that. We wore suits that had styrofoam loads in them. As we improved our swimming, we'd get to take out one of those styro loads. I pelted a kid. I wasn't supposed to pelt a kid, but I did. I watched what I did through a fence. Between each of the fence's slats, there was a scrim. Eachs skrim had a different color to it. She was a little too heterodox. I was skulking.
Very many formenting guavas beneath the guava tree. The outside of the guava is yellow. The inside, pink. I was bereft, maybe. But of what. I was false. What I thought was false, but I thought it close enough. And what if I am negligent? And what if I am not really bereft, but, really, faking it? I smell some mock orange, I guess. I have smelled the mock orange. Or I didn't smell it with any volition. I smelled it because I had no choice, because I was standing right next to it.
Whatever I was, it was boxed in. I was put into a box and taped. Given nothing but a die cast car for all my efforts. Watching tapes next to me. The whir of plastic through rollers. The whir of images in front of my old man's face. What it came down to was a cuff I was supposed to receive but never did. Let me say this sotto voce. I never received it, the cuff I was supposed to get. Weak pinkies, I guess. He tried to tell me that he knew someone who died from eating raw potatoes. Or, the thing was, a potato root was grafted to a tomato root. And all the poisons still came up and pumped in to the tomato--this poisoned someone later on. This poisoned person had ridden bikes. This person would speak to someone in a shack occasioanally caustically. Would you please pass me the hematite? The blood stone? Do you know your crystals? Do you know what it's like to have to wear a gold ring that's been fitted with an amethyst? Do you know what that is like? And your husband is tinkering with machines he makes as you attend the UFO meeting. Too much traffic. A life in a hovel. Somewhere, the idea was to wear two more scarves than anyone else. The child spent too much of his time designing badges he'd like to win and wear.
Smoke tow. What I had was not an aversion to a woman. I asked her if she found me disgusting. And she did. I sat in a swivel chair. She sat in a swivel chair. But our orbits never did anything. Saw a wretched movie with her. My favorite part was one small part in a hospital--when they were watching something on tv. But she liked the end. It wasn't that she was windowdressing. It was that she was dining with someone else in a window. So I saw everything. She was wearing the same clothes she had worn when she went out with me earlier. She wore jean cutoffs often. Sort of strange. Small black shoes. Too often, she touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. A sort of strange way to thank. I was happier. I thought it was a race, when it wasn't. I thought the end of it all would be when I sold the piebald creature I had found. It wasn't a horse, a no one seemed to tell me it was valuable. I had consulted several arbiters--all of whom stank of pox. They had pox because it was in fashion. I have been told that no one can tell a proper story. We have lost our raconteurs. We have lost them to curtailed cocktails--lines of them, at least, in front of the new signage. What do you say to this misery? What do you say when you see someone studying? What about being callous, especially with gestures of your hands? Take the little man off the glass before you drink. Stand in your garage and watch leaves come down. Tainted. Unhygienic. Things said of my influence. Or is it an effluence? Bootless, I suppose I should brag so much about my socks. I have no boots, but, sure, my socks are fine. But the more I walk, the more I ruin my socks. Maybe she was too kittenish, but she wasn't. Maybe it was my antibiotics? But it wasn't. If you're going to wear a new sweater on a date, don't go in for the frottage. You'll only ruin it.
My sister was the one who called a hibiscus a hibiscuit. She was the one who couldn't swim yet, and I was supposed to watch over her. She could have stayed down like that. We wore suits that had styrofoam loads in them. As we improved our swimming, we'd get to take out one of those styro loads. I pelted a kid. I wasn't supposed to pelt a kid, but I did. I watched what I did through a fence. Between each of the fence's slats, there was a scrim. Eachs skrim had a different color to it. She was a little too heterodox. I was skulking.
Very many formenting guavas beneath the guava tree. The outside of the guava is yellow. The inside, pink. I was bereft, maybe. But of what. I was false. What I thought was false, but I thought it close enough. And what if I am negligent? And what if I am not really bereft, but, really, faking it? I smell some mock orange, I guess. I have smelled the mock orange. Or I didn't smell it with any volition. I smelled it because I had no choice, because I was standing right next to it.
Whatever I was, it was boxed in. I was put into a box and taped. Given nothing but a die cast car for all my efforts. Watching tapes next to me. The whir of plastic through rollers. The whir of images in front of my old man's face. What it came down to was a cuff I was supposed to receive but never did. Let me say this sotto voce. I never received it, the cuff I was supposed to get. Weak pinkies, I guess. He tried to tell me that he knew someone who died from eating raw potatoes. Or, the thing was, a potato root was grafted to a tomato root. And all the poisons still came up and pumped in to the tomato--this poisoned someone later on. This poisoned person had ridden bikes. This person would speak to someone in a shack occasioanally caustically. Would you please pass me the hematite? The blood stone? Do you know your crystals? Do you know what it's like to have to wear a gold ring that's been fitted with an amethyst? Do you know what that is like? And your husband is tinkering with machines he makes as you attend the UFO meeting. Too much traffic. A life in a hovel. Somewhere, the idea was to wear two more scarves than anyone else. The child spent too much of his time designing badges he'd like to win and wear.
Smoke tow. What I had was not an aversion to a woman. I asked her if she found me disgusting. And she did. I sat in a swivel chair. She sat in a swivel chair. But our orbits never did anything. Saw a wretched movie with her. My favorite part was one small part in a hospital--when they were watching something on tv. But she liked the end. It wasn't that she was windowdressing. It was that she was dining with someone else in a window. So I saw everything. She was wearing the same clothes she had worn when she went out with me earlier. She wore jean cutoffs often. Sort of strange. Small black shoes. Too often, she touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. A sort of strange way to thank. I was happier. I thought it was a race, when it wasn't. I thought the end of it all would be when I sold the piebald creature I had found. It wasn't a horse, a no one seemed to tell me it was valuable. I had consulted several arbiters--all of whom stank of pox. They had pox because it was in fashion. I have been told that no one can tell a proper story. We have lost our raconteurs. We have lost them to curtailed cocktails--lines of them, at least, in front of the new signage. What do you say to this misery? What do you say when you see someone studying? What about being callous, especially with gestures of your hands? Take the little man off the glass before you drink. Stand in your garage and watch leaves come down. Tainted. Unhygienic. Things said of my influence. Or is it an effluence? Bootless, I suppose I should brag so much about my socks. I have no boots, but, sure, my socks are fine. But the more I walk, the more I ruin my socks. Maybe she was too kittenish, but she wasn't. Maybe it was my antibiotics? But it wasn't. If you're going to wear a new sweater on a date, don't go in for the frottage. You'll only ruin it.
Monday, November 12, 2007
tops of the spot
I was a tyro, I suppose. I sat on a cane chair, and she did, too. Earlier, her friends had dropped her off in a white car. They had white teeth. A blind man knew who had white teeth. He always knew who had the whitest teeth, and everyone thought he was magic. Really, though, he just listened to whoever laughed the most. He knew that person to be the one with the whitest teeth--what since she showed them off laughing so much.
She was not frail, but she had broken more limbs than I had. She knew what it was like to be encased, to be carapaced. She once had lice. She once drank much cream--a carton--because she saw it in a pink and white container in the fridge.
This desultory relation of mine, I thought I saw him in a hallway. As it turned out, he was younger than I was and was in a woman who had the same name as his mother. This was not unstable to him. I asked him if I could sample his armhair and he said no. I said what of your headhair, your liphair. He never said yes. What he said was that he'd speak to my father and tell him to get all his sights lined and his rounds cased. Speculation as to how much throbbing. Is the flux bloody or phlegmmmed? What of my shabby cuffs and collar? What of my shappy face?
Anyone as thin as her should have worn all sweaters. So what of the nap. A grasp, a jerk, a sheet pulled tight over her face. Pulled tight over her face, the sheet flattened her nose. She screamed into the sheet, and a wet spot opened where her mouth was or would have been.
She was not frail, but she had broken more limbs than I had. She knew what it was like to be encased, to be carapaced. She once had lice. She once drank much cream--a carton--because she saw it in a pink and white container in the fridge.
This desultory relation of mine, I thought I saw him in a hallway. As it turned out, he was younger than I was and was in a woman who had the same name as his mother. This was not unstable to him. I asked him if I could sample his armhair and he said no. I said what of your headhair, your liphair. He never said yes. What he said was that he'd speak to my father and tell him to get all his sights lined and his rounds cased. Speculation as to how much throbbing. Is the flux bloody or phlegmmmed? What of my shabby cuffs and collar? What of my shappy face?
Anyone as thin as her should have worn all sweaters. So what of the nap. A grasp, a jerk, a sheet pulled tight over her face. Pulled tight over her face, the sheet flattened her nose. She screamed into the sheet, and a wet spot opened where her mouth was or would have been.
the marble has pimples
Whatever it was in the sky, it scudded. It scudded, scarped. The scarp face of the rock cliff. What if I were to rub my face against the cliff. Looking up, I see something scud. This something in the sky is not black as it should be but green maybe. Dark green. Hephaestus puts weight on his sturdy legs and asks about boxing. Cabalistic, this is. Gnats on a meal I made so carefully. I am not a part of this outfit. I am part of this outfit, but I do not approve of it.
I pulled a creature out of the sea with some help. The creature was green and had ridges on its neck. It had a beak--but if this beak was for coral--for reef--or for me, I could not tell. This is what I drooled upon. The first one I drooled within. I drooled in it. I drooled on it. I drooled with it. Legs that a bandy. The man is a father. Or he isn't a father. He is someone that's been brass hobnailed into one place. He has a hook made of metal. He has a hook made of bone and of wood. What he would like to know is which hook you would like him to chase you with. You may not say none. Not one. Not any. You must pick a hook so he can chase you. This man, this father, this man hobnailed to a floor with brass tacks.
Fraud liquor in a green jar. It smells strong, but it isn't. Sweet talk me, please. Give me a wheedle and see if I will budge. I made lint come off her on November 17th. Now she works in a hospice maybe. Palliative for the dying. What answer do you have for triage?
A shrike is a magpie. Miss Lonelyhearts skinning a rabbit in his legerdemain. Show me Hephaestus sprinting. Have him help me win the Soap Box Derby. Fine. So I am nonspiritual. So I have dismissed her as hulking. It is not her frame that is hulking. Finally, I put a stop to all kneading. I had them all measure themselves up and oppose me. I wanted them each to ditto my fright.
I pulled a creature out of the sea with some help. The creature was green and had ridges on its neck. It had a beak--but if this beak was for coral--for reef--or for me, I could not tell. This is what I drooled upon. The first one I drooled within. I drooled in it. I drooled on it. I drooled with it. Legs that a bandy. The man is a father. Or he isn't a father. He is someone that's been brass hobnailed into one place. He has a hook made of metal. He has a hook made of bone and of wood. What he would like to know is which hook you would like him to chase you with. You may not say none. Not one. Not any. You must pick a hook so he can chase you. This man, this father, this man hobnailed to a floor with brass tacks.
Fraud liquor in a green jar. It smells strong, but it isn't. Sweet talk me, please. Give me a wheedle and see if I will budge. I made lint come off her on November 17th. Now she works in a hospice maybe. Palliative for the dying. What answer do you have for triage?
A shrike is a magpie. Miss Lonelyhearts skinning a rabbit in his legerdemain. Show me Hephaestus sprinting. Have him help me win the Soap Box Derby. Fine. So I am nonspiritual. So I have dismissed her as hulking. It is not her frame that is hulking. Finally, I put a stop to all kneading. I had them all measure themselves up and oppose me. I wanted them each to ditto my fright.
Monday, June 4, 2007
TINSELWALLOPPUDDING
I had no choice but to participate in an affair of honor, a duel. The reason for it, I do not know. Why? Part of me wants to be a hat band stuffed with money. Buying this hat would be easy. I would without doubt pay 1,000$ for a hat with a hatband stuffed with 2,000$. I partook in an affair of honor, a duel. My ball hit him in the thigh, busting a major artery. The artery is full of red blood, the vein the blue. Burst a major one, and the surgeon did not apply a bandage or a tourniquet. He anaesthetized the person I dueled's head, then wrote on the wounded leg with his pen. Excellent penmanship. I did not champion him. Championing was what I wanted to do or enlist to do at the time, but I was no longer on our dueling hill. No honor ever came of anything. So I went to Spain, wrote in my diary, made sketches. I left it all to my grandson, who had infected ears. My son had infected ears - so did my grandson.
I once collected flocks of pigeons. Pigeon hawks perched on the Brooklyn Bridge would wait for me to release them. Drunks would capture my beloved pigeons. To get them back, I would have to less myself fifty cents. Dig, I said to the drunks in the park. Chip, I said to the drunks on the asphalt. Chip, I said to the drunks on the ice. Squinch, I said to the drunks on the mud. Wake me up when the drunks do something with a material that is not themselves and is not liquid. Pliant, she must have been. These are Spanish pantaloons. This is my pen. This is the artery in my leg. Severed does in.
I had no choice but to participate in an affair of honor, a duel. The reason for it, I do not know. Why? Part of me wants to be a hat band stuffed with money. Buying this hat would be easy. I would without doubt pay 1,000$ for a hat with a hatband stuffed with 2,000$. I partook in an affair of honor, a duel. My ball hit him in the thigh, busting a major artery. The artery is full of red blood, the vein the blue. Burst a major one, and the surgeon did not apply a bandage or a tourniquet. He anaesthetized the person I dueled's head, then wrote on the wounded leg with his pen. Excellent penmanship. I did not champion him. Championing was what I wanted to do or enlist to do at the time, but I was no longer on our dueling hill. No honor ever came of anything. So I went to Spain, wrote in my diary, made sketches. I left it all to my grandson, who had infected ears. My son had infected ears - so did my grandson.
I once collected flocks of pigeons. Pigeon hawks perched on the Brooklyn Bridge would wait for me to release them. Drunks would capture my beloved pigeons. To get them back, I would have to less myself fifty cents. Dig, I said to the drunks in the park. Chip, I said to the drunks on the asphalt. Chip, I said to the drunks on the ice. Squinch, I said to the drunks on the mud. Wake me up when the drunks do something with a material that is not themselves and is not liquid. Pliant, she must have been. These are Spanish pantaloons. This is my pen. This is the artery in my leg. Severed does in.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
TERRACEVENIALISHMAEL
To curve wood, we wet it, use clamps. Vested, I am here. When it got wet, then dried, it got sticky. I have a vested disinterest - that might not be what you think. I am nonplussed, looking at all those types of fish. A nurse does not have to pay anything for health care, but she has to pay for whitening her teeth. All told, it comes to eighty dollars. I was asked to "crowd" someone - something odd then happened, something I'm ashamed to write about. A man with lots of gray hair said someone died in the bathroom. For that to happen, blood drained out of the head and into the jugular vein. But that always happens. Blood drains through and around the brain and into the jugular vein. That is what people mean when they refer to the jugular. And when you go for the jugular, you are going for blood that had just been with the brain. There exist many confluences of fluids in the human body. A nurse still has to pay for teeth whitening, and she said her income is complicated because of health insurance companies. Often I am shocked by how much, how many veins, stick to the top of the skull when I remove it. Inside, I see no terraces. I see no banished people in human bodies. I would think pariahs would be banished to the insides of human bodies. Whitening teeth costs eighty dollars. "Loan" is not a verb. It is a noun. Would you loan me eighty dollars? That is impossible. May I please have a loan of eighty dollars to whiten my teeth. Ohkay. On the Deschutes river. In the tree. Waders are in a tree near the Deschutes river. This looks like a man (sexist prose) hanging in a tree. A man hanged in a tree. What happened between the nurse and the bathroom was not venial. Someone died in there, I think, the man with gray hair said. A man with gray hair said. The gray-haired man. The man, gray-haired, said. Hyphenation is tricky, but most people do not care about it. My name is hyphenated. Oh, is your name hypenated. And locking arms with someone when you walk down the street can be unexpectedly familiar. Or is seems to jaunty for the occasion. This is very triste, tres triste, right now. The pain is in the lower lobe of my right lung. I knew I had a pain in my lung, but, after I felt around in a cadaver, I knew the pain was in my right lung and on the lower lobe. I had a cadaver, and I would touch it. I would touch the part, and then I would try to decide whether or not my corresponding part hurt inside. When I spit up a substance, I see if it floats or if it sinks in water. Is it stringy? Is it thick? Is it thin? Does the water rip it? Yes, the water rips it. My friend came from England to Aix, just to visit me and check on my lungs. Venial. Terrace. Ishmael. Banished, he was ismael. A pariah. Parian. I have been saved automatically by ishmael Stevens. By a Stevens, ishmael. He is "kind of a jerk." He is "intimidated by the class." The hurt happened first. The eighty dollars. I have lost my purse. My purse cost me more than eighty dollars, but I have excellent health insurance. In college, the students are allowed to do things to the dummy. They are allowed to bury it or hold services for it. They are allowed to imagine it grow old or imagine it asleep and very attractive. They are allowed to do the suicide things to it. Look up "best way to commit suicide" on the internet, and nothing really comes back. Some websites pretend to have answer, but then you get inside them, and it's all about thinking about not doing anything. Gregory Corso wrote a lot about stealing wristwatches and wetting the bed. In the one letter I read, he also wrote a lot about masturbation - only he wrote it "masterbation." Thomas DeQuincey didn't go to a party because he was in low spirits, and he knew only his sisters would be there. Allen Tate wrote Robert Lowell a letter of introduction by way of a milkshake. When a vein shuts, it feels like an eye closing. It's is good to imagine yourself closing your mouth, even when your mouth is already closed. Or when you finish a thought, imagine yourself closing your mouth. Or a scrim, a mucousy scrim, a mucousy scrim membrane, should be something you pull on to yourself when you want to be genial, not venial, at a party. If you want to have fun at the party, then imagine the mucousy scrim is warm. If you want to have little fun or no fun or look very sophisticated, then imagine the scrim is cold. The mucous should be yours or the object of your desire's. To my one desire. This is for my one desire. This is when the monkey got tangled in my bedsheets, and I was on the ocean liner on my way to Africa. And I was so mad at that monkey, and that monkey smelled so bad. I wanted someone to get it away from me and tie it up. I never left La Touche because he was such a great short. The zagreeba was what protected us from the animals, though we had very little trust in it at first. Every time I started a sketch, a leopard would crouch near. This is for my one desire. A simple desire. A desire qualified is far more interesting than a desire. To qualify means to particularize - and particulars can become exhausting in anything that lasts long. For example, her teeth were very white because she had had them whitened. She also had poor circulation in her hands - she said that's why her fingernails were shaped in such a downturning way. And yes her hands were cold - so were mine. But my neck was supposed to be warm when she felt it - I see no way any of it, my neck, my neck, could have been otherwise. She touched my carotid. Then I let my jugular be touched. Touch my carotid, and that is all blood that has not been near my thoughts about you. Now touch my jugular, and all that blood contains thoughts about you.
To curve wood, we wet it, use clamps. Vested, I am here. When it got wet, then dried, it got sticky. I have a vested disinterest - that might not be what you think. I am nonplussed, looking at all those types of fish. A nurse does not have to pay anything for health care, but she has to pay for whitening her teeth. All told, it comes to eighty dollars. I was asked to "crowd" someone - something odd then happened, something I'm ashamed to write about. A man with lots of gray hair said someone died in the bathroom. For that to happen, blood drained out of the head and into the jugular vein. But that always happens. Blood drains through and around the brain and into the jugular vein. That is what people mean when they refer to the jugular. And when you go for the jugular, you are going for blood that had just been with the brain. There exist many confluences of fluids in the human body. A nurse still has to pay for teeth whitening, and she said her income is complicated because of health insurance companies. Often I am shocked by how much, how many veins, stick to the top of the skull when I remove it. Inside, I see no terraces. I see no banished people in human bodies. I would think pariahs would be banished to the insides of human bodies. Whitening teeth costs eighty dollars. "Loan" is not a verb. It is a noun. Would you loan me eighty dollars? That is impossible. May I please have a loan of eighty dollars to whiten my teeth. Ohkay. On the Deschutes river. In the tree. Waders are in a tree near the Deschutes river. This looks like a man (sexist prose) hanging in a tree. A man hanged in a tree. What happened between the nurse and the bathroom was not venial. Someone died in there, I think, the man with gray hair said. A man with gray hair said. The gray-haired man. The man, gray-haired, said. Hyphenation is tricky, but most people do not care about it. My name is hyphenated. Oh, is your name hypenated. And locking arms with someone when you walk down the street can be unexpectedly familiar. Or is seems to jaunty for the occasion. This is very triste, tres triste, right now. The pain is in the lower lobe of my right lung. I knew I had a pain in my lung, but, after I felt around in a cadaver, I knew the pain was in my right lung and on the lower lobe. I had a cadaver, and I would touch it. I would touch the part, and then I would try to decide whether or not my corresponding part hurt inside. When I spit up a substance, I see if it floats or if it sinks in water. Is it stringy? Is it thick? Is it thin? Does the water rip it? Yes, the water rips it. My friend came from England to Aix, just to visit me and check on my lungs. Venial. Terrace. Ishmael. Banished, he was ismael. A pariah. Parian. I have been saved automatically by ishmael Stevens. By a Stevens, ishmael. He is "kind of a jerk." He is "intimidated by the class." The hurt happened first. The eighty dollars. I have lost my purse. My purse cost me more than eighty dollars, but I have excellent health insurance. In college, the students are allowed to do things to the dummy. They are allowed to bury it or hold services for it. They are allowed to imagine it grow old or imagine it asleep and very attractive. They are allowed to do the suicide things to it. Look up "best way to commit suicide" on the internet, and nothing really comes back. Some websites pretend to have answer, but then you get inside them, and it's all about thinking about not doing anything. Gregory Corso wrote a lot about stealing wristwatches and wetting the bed. In the one letter I read, he also wrote a lot about masturbation - only he wrote it "masterbation." Thomas DeQuincey didn't go to a party because he was in low spirits, and he knew only his sisters would be there. Allen Tate wrote Robert Lowell a letter of introduction by way of a milkshake. When a vein shuts, it feels like an eye closing. It's is good to imagine yourself closing your mouth, even when your mouth is already closed. Or when you finish a thought, imagine yourself closing your mouth. Or a scrim, a mucousy scrim, a mucousy scrim membrane, should be something you pull on to yourself when you want to be genial, not venial, at a party. If you want to have fun at the party, then imagine the mucousy scrim is warm. If you want to have little fun or no fun or look very sophisticated, then imagine the scrim is cold. The mucous should be yours or the object of your desire's. To my one desire. This is for my one desire. This is when the monkey got tangled in my bedsheets, and I was on the ocean liner on my way to Africa. And I was so mad at that monkey, and that monkey smelled so bad. I wanted someone to get it away from me and tie it up. I never left La Touche because he was such a great short. The zagreeba was what protected us from the animals, though we had very little trust in it at first. Every time I started a sketch, a leopard would crouch near. This is for my one desire. A simple desire. A desire qualified is far more interesting than a desire. To qualify means to particularize - and particulars can become exhausting in anything that lasts long. For example, her teeth were very white because she had had them whitened. She also had poor circulation in her hands - she said that's why her fingernails were shaped in such a downturning way. And yes her hands were cold - so were mine. But my neck was supposed to be warm when she felt it - I see no way any of it, my neck, my neck, could have been otherwise. She touched my carotid. Then I let my jugular be touched. Touch my carotid, and that is all blood that has not been near my thoughts about you. Now touch my jugular, and all that blood contains thoughts about you.
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