that careful opera using prosthetic helium bladder sombrero towards its unimpeachable coffee

 can root this God let’s us know without incantation how does your girl end the year that particular seat of the foal’s face where she lies feigning sleep til the midmorning comes at last the color the cast she doesn’t stir but she tries to do it every day in all those years that I wish I knew The village near the outskirts of town was populated by numerous wooden frame houses, of which some were two and three stories tall. Its windows had no glass, and the entrance gates were also of wood, the hinges made of metal. There were a few children, both boys and girls, in their teens and young-adult years, and no adults of working age. I passed through the gates and entered the village, taking the right-hand lane as it wove its way around the potholed pavement. The houses were made of saplings cut down from the surrounding forest, some with wide rectangular openings in their walls. Many of the windows were barred, some were fitted with screens of jagged tautness. As I walked through the village, I was surprised to see that none of the inhabitants paid any attention to me. Neither did any of them make any effort to look out the window and check who had entered their neighbourhood. They did not even acknowledge my presence. Instead, they kept themselves busy with either setting the place to rights or with preparing food for the evening meal. I kept walking, and the voices of children went on as before, never fading out completely, but increasing in frequency as I neared the outskirts of the village. It had not been my intention to ever find my way to the village, and so I had no way of being able to determine where it was, or how far I had traveled. The sun was already setting by the time I reached the outside of the village. I looked back from where I had come, and saw that the village had fallen into a semi- empty twilight. Nobody was around in the street that I had just left, but the light from the windows of the houses was sufficient to illuminate the surrounding woods, the trees bearing fruit and the greenish-gray of the moss. I wondered if the inhabitants of the village had ever thought of going home at night, or if they had always been waiting for me. Even if I did not come back, I did not think they would get lonely for much longer. In all likelihood, their solitude would soon end, and they would be greeted by a horde of other people, the sons and daughters of strangers, who had come to visit the little village from elsewhere in the country. But all I could do was stare. I had never seen a village in that much of a hurry to die. Back at the manor house, I gathered up the courage to call out, “Kakaguchi-kun?” “Yes?” The answer came from a long, narrow room located in the western wing of the house. The room was furnished with two chairs and a table with a single lamp. Just beyond that was the open window, on the other side of which the forest, shrouded in gathering dusk, stretched to the horizon. As I stood there in silence, I could hear the sound of footsteps approaching the room. I turned and saw that my supervisor was entering the room. He was holding a pile of papers in one hand and was carrying a mug of green tea in the other. His uniform was the same as that worn by the soldiers of the 759th Infantry Regiment, with a loose, double-breasted, jacket-like undershirt. He was very pale, and his eyes were downcast, as if he was ashamed to look me in the eye. “You’ve come for the inspection report?” he asked without turning his head. “Yes.” I felt uneasy at the thought of being put in a position where I had to explain myself. After a moment, however, Kakaguchi-kun walked to the table and picked up a piece of paper from its center, and then walked back to the center of the room and sat down across from me. “What are your thoughts on that part of the report?” he asked without looking up. I stared at him, unable to speak. I could feel the intensity of my shame penetrating the surface of my mind, and as I watched him with a blank expression, I suddenly came to the painful realisation that I was in the presence of a superior officer, and the air in the room was charged with tension. I felt that even a loud, normal voice would be the least of my problems. I kept quiet and waited for Kakaguchi-kun to speak. His thick, black, bushy eyebrows were drawn down in an expression of unspoken frustration. “It’s absurd, I know, but even so, there’s no hope of reconciliation.” I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply. I had thought that, in the event of the inspection, Kakaguchi-kun would be as displeased as I was, but now I had the impression that he was actually frustrated with me for having come at all. His face was rigid, his lips pulled tightly together. “Have you come to give me your honest opinion?” he finally asked after a long silence. “Yes, of course, I have.” I took the chair that had been placed on the opposite side of the table. (To be continued) big red fathers to cover their bird deed subordination big leader nodding and smiling big tank standing still for the photo the soldiers approaching boots made from local boulders trench digging through the southern mountains and other stuff made out of marble table deer walking with clubs Grain women lady bugs bison in the arroyo gentle flying machine boots jesus the hat that says NO gossip the giraffe the hipster hanging by his back ish the woman in the red dress the unidentifiable objects the Yurok's barn the boy in the yellow hat boots stealing the glasses the humble necklace leathers from mother and sister the bread that their dad's made leather gloves the feathers left on a bird's back the gas station the tree that makes no noise the sweaty face of mom's boyfriend muscles and heart they put into the books the bird's eggs the clothes in the tree house the pile of leaves and new grass the sheep that got out and baby animals left in the stable the men in their potato sack earlier attempts the father and daughter sorting berries the wide-eyed baby in the window the brown bag/cheap oatmeal seller the guards standing at the gate the gruff man with the hat that says DON'T LOOK IN MY EYE dogmatic men waiting for the brown cloud to pass the clouds from earlier the 2 /// big red fathers to cover their bird deed subordination big leader nodding and smiling big tank standing still for the photo the soldiers approaching boots made from local boulders trench digging through the southern mountains and other stuff made out of marble table deer walking with clubs Grain women lady bugs bison in the arroyo gentle flying machine boots jesus the hat that says NO gossip the giraffe the hipster hanging by his back ish the woman in the red dress the unidentifiable objects the Yurok's barn the boy in the yellow hat boots stealing the glasses the humble necklace leathers from mother and sister the bread that their dad's made leather gloves the feathers left on a bird's back the gas station the tree that makes no noise the sweaty face of mom's boyfriend muscles and heart they put into the books the bird's eggs the clothes in the tree house the pile of leaves and new grass the sheep that got out and baby animals left in the stable the men in their potato sack earlier attempts the father and daughter sorting berries the wide-eyed baby in the window the brown bag/cheap oatmeal seller the guards standing at the gate the gruff man with the hat that says DON'T LOOK IN MY EYE dogmatic men waiting for the brown cloud to pass the clouds from earlier the 2 their heaving chests would tale a teakettle's ound hoon limb stretched from rafter then spun into a kindle warm to the wood charcoal in the mill kiln the bed dressers the toppers and headbands their scratchy faded rose petals jointing the small pox and pimples once slicked back with roses swirl them into a sweet smelling bath spooning in a cloud of rich soapsuds making wee to the loo in sweet smelling wee moist honey slaps into pawpaw pies throwing in seed bombs and fillers for the homely bees and doves who fertilize the weedless lawn while the heady bees feed the ladybugs' eggs by the tray and garden bees' feet by the window readied for suck and nest in wall-eyed garlands of sweet lemons of summerberries and orange blossom buds in immaculate riot of evergreens hanging heavy from the ceiling of a pantry bestriding a barn as the bumblebees cheep in the wall above the head of a schoolgirl or dog of the old salt in a nightshirt the opening flute of the spell-dagger sews in to fudge a spell the bigger dins and dars your spells the bigger cook finds it hard to imagine "innocence" so too too is it hard to understand "a blind windswept rose" up out of a tart woman's grubby bosom as a cat dally on the table with a full set of teeth and one eye in the middle of a lantern and given a cat-light kiss will be forever entranced while a dog's chain tightens in the sharp topaz sun and time gets shorter and shorter the seconds turn to minutes and the minutes turn to nights and as the heart wears shorter and shorter and the clock goes round then into the night we know he waits and pounces for our pleasure and we are helpless, too as then there is nothing left but his loving embrace his soft downy belly leaning low to let us know he is breathing in rhythm with our heart's murmuring beat as we sigh with an unbidden peace and even sleep we cannot know he is a dog as the lamps wax and wax and wax and do they tell the truth did the night bear its own teeth all for us and did they answer and say yes dear friends, yes and say goodbye to the once innocent children yes, goodbye And many did die by the sword in those times, when little voices were nothing and cruelty was sin and women were unequal and swords were sword and bone and the night's spear weakened in the steeple and the bull's horn was the trumpet of the Devil but the things of tomorrow they cannot be found they cannot be fathomed these days I have learned to let go this mortal coil you keep your children safe you raise them in the light of good and virtue and love you do not trap them behind long shadows all light is a lie and this dream of innocence this heavy mist you set in motion a like thought will carry you in into the smoke of hell and there you will spend the dark hours behind locked doors And here my tongue drifts dancing along the edge of the wheel as I lay on my back half-flared with legs as stumps I live in the world of dream of the whisper Of crickets and wind No one can judge me for I am innocent and it does not care for my girlhood its lust swings or the hunchback of puberty those times I fell from grace but not today not when I am innocent and there is not another here I scream, I scream singing the songs I know that put me into the moment one girl against the world There is no death there is only life As I know that all life flows in the tide of God As I know that I too am part of the moon as God lives in me As the night's loveliness leaves before dawn rushes in There is nothing left but his loving and there a shelf for fruit like puns full of golden illusions and there again, slop and the golden illusion laid. And then I wove another tale of fruitless slop where gulls winnow up apples with combinato of black/blue smoke: meadless after the gray taste of sad apples. it goes to that private place, that river where you did not know which river-colored dog was your first. all the colors pour in and out like the food of fruit: quinces purple, pomegranates yellow. then, taste an apple of another. drink the red of an orange's skin, a white pear/put your teeth in its milk white ocean of forbidden fruit. and take again a gold nugget gold from a root of another and dip it in blood, bite into it, laugh at the pain. here again again you taste blue/a yellow jewel and there again I weave the gold earring of another, tastes or not/and there again. as the water washes away the gumballs and then there are only pieces. cadaverous, translucent till they form chunky, full compartments baked up to a golden light. chunks of mother's gingerbread and moth-house crumbs. glub. glub. glub. the jewel fits: a man in the freezer one side frozen while the other side plumped up. he drops his pants. he's tightrope walkin', come on down, he'll come to your flat to your kitchen to your wood stove. the man in the freezer turns around to get something from the freezer the man in the freezer turns back. he notices the man who's plumped up: he looks funny. so strange. all blown up, a whale, a prop, a plant of some sort. has he fallen off a bus? she tells you to open it. she goes on about the way you seem happy. she may be right. a hundred kilograms? no, she says the chestnuts will be too heavy. no, she says, you'll only break them. she knows that it's bad to cut down a tree though she is right that she doesn't know that the chestnuts will be too heavy for you to carry. I'll hold them for you. you say, but I need to take them to the town. the man who's fallen off the bus, the man who's somehow not-falling-off-the-bus, says, I can carry the whole tree. he holds up his hands to show you how light they are. isn't it bad to cut down a tree how much water will be wasted? it is bad, and this man is bad. she says there will be too much storm to get a tractor up in the mountains to cut the tree. you feel bad, she says that if you make the car/elop the car/ then you'll only have a car/ she says what if you make the car/ then the car/ goes to the country/ I'll get the car/elop the car. you do not feel bad she says, it's not worth the labor. the man with the car, the man who's had the car as he's pulled off to the side of the road, who's got the car, is he only thinking of himself? only about himself to feel good? the car is there and also there. the man who's had the car on the side of the road gets out and looks at the car/ he puts the keys in the ignition he looks at the trees and the sky. he puts the car in reverse. no, the woman in the kitchen turns out to be another the woman in the kitchen with the chestnuts you'd like to keep he saw you the woman in the kitchen he drove off towards the hills. back down the highway now he's picking chestnuts from the tree he's picking and picking and remembering the woman who used to cook for him. -Sherwood Anderson, "Metropole," 1932, 1926. // and the giggling ghosts which flee over twisting mountain passages back to their elastic frothing bells on the dinner chime triangle at Delphi hangs a thin blue snake feather quill buster done with many such books and others liquor in the shadows the cradle is in the dark on nights of moonlit heads of worship touched upon as a jar of talk open then closed was a big deal back then the new sex before the car as it took off from the airport at nine a.m. to go to a doctor in Monterey what the pills are as they come out the pump marijuana at the end of the day as he watches the TV what the pills are as they come out the pump only the pale young ones with curls as frayed as the velvet of what's left of his hair pills to get your friend out for a while and a train with a curved red line down it that he won't be coming back for and how hard can it be no pills at the beginning of the day no pills at the end of the day only to wait waiting on the phone waiting on the phone waiting on the phone waiting on the phone waiting on the phone waiting on the phone wait for the morning wait for the evening wait for the night he has a friend coming he might come over make a couple of cocktails he might go with him to his friend's place as he goes I could make you a good martini but you don't need me to if you want one. it's a great evening for one nothing. just the blue mood and the blue mood and the blue mood the blue mood so maybe you don't. sometimes they just turn it out like magic it's like dreams but even dreams have to be grounded to make you feel like you aren't dreaming all the time the newspapers were full of it a thousand if not a million pilots a year being killed but not today. even the weather looks forlorn blue skies with clouds as pale as what's left of his hair I can't talk about it I can't say anything about it You can't ask it you can't ask it they made me go into the doctor's office when it had just hit me busted to hell the white light and the blinking the splintering metal the noise the air thin and tight and the sirens and the three hundred thousand people blinking out in the black of night. where did they come from? they come from somewhere They come from nowhere I thought I'd driven into hell. but now that I'm in it it's the blue mood I took a pill when I left the house and two when I got to his house I took a pill every two hours if I wanted to stay alive there'd be four pills stuck in my pocket wrapped up like band-aids if I didn't want to live that's what it was that's what it was I had to work at not falling apart I had to work at not falling apart but how do you get there? how do you get to that place where you just want to die? when you are alone with your thoughts how do you go there by taking a pill? some sad souls do and some smile, and a few make a new life. and in between there are suicides there are suicides and a few who are saved. I know it sounds foolish this postcard that I thought was an impossibility that was a dream but I know a million men that are in the same situation some of them are married. but they don't make a peep until the white light comes busted in their minds. They are perfectly sound with all their limbs and feet working when the white light comes and they're alive. in life and in death. because they never took a pill. but you wouldn't know one way or the other about their lives they just took a pill and they're sitting beside the river wearing sunglasses sitting with a couple of gin and tonics waiting on the rain. goddamn monsoon. I am a native of Philadelphia PA, USA; attended Darby - Lynchburg College in Lynchburg, VA; graduated from Temple University, Bachelor of Science in Teaching (1957); taught elementary school for 14 years in the Brandywine School District and now retired. Although I was in the USAF from 1958-1962, and was posted to England and Germany, I have been a Pennsylvania resident for over 50 years. I am a Vietnam Vet (4th Infantry, 3rd Cav. How many men did it take to get a horse across a stream?) and the recipient of a National Defense Education Act Fellowship (1969-1971). I have a B.S. degree in Education, High Honors; an M.Ed. degree in Mathematics and Elementary Education, both from Temple University, and an M.S. degree in Educational Administration, Temple University, and over thirty years' experience as an educator. My hobbies include writing, reading, gardening, walking, and traveling. I am married to Margaret Jane "Peggy" Neitzel, an artist/photographer. We have one son, Michael John Neitzel (born March 1965). We also have two daughters, Robin Jean (born December 1971) and Katherine Jane (born August 1975). We currently live in a semi-rural neighborhood with our four dogs and two cats. I have published seven full-length novels, six anthologies, and two poetry collections. My books and ebooks are available in both print and ebook format at most retailers. The COLDEST DAYS & NIGHTS-Harry The PERSUASIVE LIGHT-Jack and Amanda The DEPARTED SOLDIER-Peter and his littlest brother LIFE WITH THE VAMPIRES-Billy and Marv and Abby THE DEADLY THING-Tom and Hazel, both teens. This young-adult book takes a different approach to vampires. Whether you have been living in the dark or choose to go out in the light, it will be your choice. DEADLY LOVE-A Chance Tragedy DOWNTOWN MORNING-Monica and the Fall of Vegas THE MUSIC YOU CAN'T HEAR-Monica, the end of a Journey LITTLE ONE-Jackson and Monica GET CLOSER-Monica and her mom MEETING PLACES-Amy and The Rat ABANDONED-Jackson and Charlie THE GIRL IN THE WINDOW-Amanda and Mason THE SUN GOES DOWN-Michael and Rachel FOLLOW ME-Amy, the last of the 3rd 3rd brothers THE NEXT NEMO-Peggy and the Mescalito IN TRANSIT-Jack and Amanda THE MAID, THE VAMPIRE, AND ME-Chris and Janice THE DAISY-Chris and Janice WE FALL-Monica and Jake STAR-Monica and Danny THE CHILDREN-Michael and Bianca, both 16 THE BLACK BLUE TOWER-Chris and Scott The first link of the chain which leads to love. Forbidden Nights is the last of the series. The dead line is in sight. Forbidden Nights is a murder mystery that takes place in 1880s New Orleans. The story starts with the murder of a young boy and follows the detectives, which is led by Gage Kane, that work for the U.S. Department of Justice. Gage Kane is the son of the Sheriff, who is also a member of the Guardian Order. Gage has a little brother named Mason, who is an excellent gambler and knows how to take care of himself. We meet Ashley Tucker, who used to be the younger sister of Frank Mason, who is Gage's grandfather. Ashley is a fellow detective who used to be friends with Frank. Ashley and Gage do not get along at all, and this is obvious throughout the book. The killer is still on the loose and, according to the investigation, is a werewolf. This was a very interesting murder case because the murderer was a werewolf, but because it happened in 1880s New Orleans, the lawmen don’t really know how to handle such an animal and the monster, for that matter. The detective Gage knows the identity of the killer. Baron Durocher, a third generation French werewolf, is the serial killer. Baron was once the master of the werewolves of New Orleans. After he was killed, the remaining werewolves took their secrets to the grave. The best friend of the only female werewolf in New Orleans was Gage's father. He is the detective who is leading the investigation. He has been asked to come back and work the case since his father passed away a few months ago. Other members of the Guardian Order that come to help include the Warden, B.J., who is a former soldier, Janice, a detective, Maggie, the tracker, and his sister Ashley, the sheriff's daughter, who is on the murder squad. // and the giggling ghosts which flee over twisting mountain passages back to their elastic frothing bells on the dinner chime triangle at Delphi hangs a thin blue snake feather quill buster done with many such books and others liquor in the shadows the cradle is in the dark on nights of moonlit heads of worship touched upon as a jar of talk open then closed was a big deal back then the new sex before the car as it took off from the airport at nine a.m. to go to a doctor in Monterey what the pills are as they come out the pump marijuana at the end of the day as he watches the TV what the pills are as they come out the pump only the pale young ones with curls as frayed as the velvet of what's left of his hair pills to get your friend out for a while and a train with a curved red line down it that he won't be coming back for and how hard can it be no pills at the beginning of the day no pills at the end of the day only to wait waiting on the phone waiting on the phone waiting on the phone waiting on the phone waiting on the phone waiting on the phone wait for the morning wait for the evening wait for the night he has a friend coming he might come over make a couple of cocktails he might go with him to his friend's place as he goes I could make you a good martini but you don't need me to if you want one. it's a great evening for one nothing. just the blue mood and the blue mood and the blue mood the blue mood so maybe you don't. sometimes they just turn it out like magic it's like dreams but even dreams have to be grounded to make you feel like you aren't dreaming all the time the newspapers were full of it a thousand if not a million pilots a year being killed but not today. even the weather looks forlorn blue skies with clouds as pale as what's left of his hair I can't talk about it I can't say anything about it You can't ask it you can't ask it they made me go into the doctor's office when it had just hit me busted to hell the white light and the blinking the splintering metal the noise the air thin and tight and the sirens and the three hundred thousand people blinking out in the black of night. where did they come from? they come from somewhere They come from nowhere I thought I'd driven into hell. but now that I'm in it it's the blue mood I took a pill when I left the house and two when I got to his house I took a pill every two hours if I wanted to stay alive there'd be four pills stuck in my pocket wrapped up like band-aids if I didn't want to live that's what it was that's what it was I had to work at not falling apart I had to work at not falling apart but how do you get there? how do you get to that place where you just want to die? when you are alone with your thoughts how do you go there by taking a pill? some sad souls do and some smile, and a few make a new life. and in between there are suicides there are suicides and a few who are saved. I know it sounds foolish this postcard that I thought was an impossibility that was a dream but I know a million men that are in the same situation some of them are married. but they don't make a peep until the white light comes busted in their minds. They are perfectly sound with all their limbs and feet working when the white light comes and they're alive. in life and in death. because they never took a pill. but you wouldn't know one way or the other about their lives they just took a pill and they're sitting beside the river wearing sunglasses sitting with a couple of gin and tonics waiting on the rain. goddamn monsoon. I am a native of Philadelphia PA, USA; attended Darby - Lynchburg College in Lynchburg, VA; graduated from Temple University, Bachelor of Science in Teaching (1957); taught elementary school for 14 years in the Brandywine School District and now retired. Although I was in the USAF from 1958-1962, and was posted to England and Germany, I have been a Pennsylvania resident for over 50 years. I am a Vietnam Vet (4th Infantry, 3rd Cav. How many men did it take to get a horse across a stream?) and the recipient of a National Defense Education Act Fellowship (1969-1971). I have a B.S. degree in Education, High Honors; an M.Ed. degree in Mathematics and Elementary Education, both from Temple University, and an M.S. degree in Educational Administration, Temple University, and over thirty years' experience as an educator. My hobbies include writing, reading, gardening, walking, and traveling. I am married to Margaret Jane "Peggy" Neitzel, an artist/photographer. We have one son, Michael John Neitzel (born March 1965). We also have two daughters, Robin Jean (born December 1971) and Katherine Jane (born August 1975). We currently live in a semi-rural neighborhood with our four dogs and two cats. I have published seven full-length novels, six anthologies, and two poetry collections. My books and ebooks are available in both print and ebook format at most retailers. The COLDEST DAYS & NIGHTS-Harry The PERSUASIVE LIGHT-Jack and Amanda The DEPARTED SOLDIER-Peter and his littlest brother LIFE WITH THE VAMPIRES-Billy and Marv and Abby THE DEADLY THING-Tom and Hazel, both teens. This young-adult book takes a different approach to vampires. Whether you have been living in the dark or choose to go out in the light, it will be your choice. DEADLY LOVE-A Chance Tragedy DOWNTOWN MORNING-Monica and the Fall of Vegas THE MUSIC YOU CAN'T HEAR-Monica, the end of a Journey LITTLE ONE-Jackson and Monica GET CLOSER-Monica and her mom MEETING PLACES-Amy and The Rat ABANDONED-Jackson and Charlie THE GIRL IN THE WINDOW-Amanda and Mason THE SUN GOES DOWN-Michael and Rachel FOLLOW ME-Amy, the last of the 3rd 3rd brothers THE NEXT NEMO-Peggy and the Mescalito IN TRANSIT-Jack and Amanda THE MAID, THE VAMPIRE, AND ME-Chris and Janice THE DAISY-Chris and Janice WE FALL-Monica and Jake STAR-Monica and Danny THE CHILDREN-Michael and Bianca, both 16 THE BLACK BLUE TOWER-Chris and Scott The first link of the chain which leads to love. Forbidden Nights is the last of the series. The dead line is in sight. Forbidden Nights is a murder mystery that takes place in 1880s New Orleans. The story starts with the murder of a young boy and follows the detectives, which is led by Gage Kane, that work for the U.S. Department of Justice. Gage Kane is the son of the Sheriff, who is also a member of the Guardian Order. Gage has a little brother named Mason, who is an excellent gambler and knows how to take care of himself. We meet Ashley Tucker, who used to be the younger sister of Frank Mason, who is Gage's grandfather. Ashley is a fellow detective who used to be friends with Frank. Ashley and Gage do not get along at all, and this is obvious throughout the book. The killer is still on the loose and, according to the investigation, is a werewolf. This was a very interesting murder case because the murderer was a werewolf, but because it happened in 1880s New Orleans, the lawmen don’t really know how to handle such an animal and the monster, for that matter. The detective Gage knows the identity of the killer. Baron Durocher, a third generation French werewolf, is the serial killer. Baron was once the master of the werewolves of New Orleans. After he was killed, the remaining werewolves took their secrets to the grave. The best friend of the only female werewolf in New Orleans was Gage's father. He is the detective who is leading the investigation. He has been asked to come back and work the case since his father passed away a few months ago. Other members of the Guardian Order that come to help include the Warden, B.J., who is a former soldier, Janice, a detective, Maggie, the tracker, and his sister Ashley, the sheriff's daughter, who is on the murder squad. the black granite lickerish Gondola with long flowing blonde hair like oil in water KRSNA reflects upon his language which roars and soothes like the waves of luke-warm water “The language holds to the land. Gathers and binds to the earth. Eats up upon it like fish, as may be thought of giving you to understand more accurately the image of it. A trapdoors (Pradipo), the treasures of city at the base of the tower, its twisting and one who slips in below the blue light falling from the bell begins the labyrinth of this city which drops the blue which overflew, causing shadows to dance.” The Language of the Land “I wrote my book Erigeneientae vairennes (Fr. ‘Erigéeans in Erigone), that is: in Erigone’s world and language as a memento of these memorable encounters with City. After it was first published in 1969, it seemed very much to many people as though I must have written it after I was around 35 or 40, and they cast their judgment upon me as such. I am too old, they said. I was taken for a young man when I wrote it, as was clear from the original French version which showed the influences and language of ‘surreality’ and, of course, the numerous allusions to women of privilege, which gave it an over-sexed quality. This much seemed clear, and all that was left was for my late appearance to be condemned as ‘deadpan.’ Not being married didn’t seem to be an advantage, and certainly I couldn’t but think that my old-fashioned place of birth and native tongue were, in a certain sense, against me. But I remained convinced that it was all quite different to the masculine vulgarity of, for instance, Bret Harte’s Grapes of Wrath which was brought into the public consciousness through the movie and through the best-selling book.” Here comes the real Marxist dialectic. What are the ideological pitfalls to be avoided in one’s interpretations? One seems, finally, to grasp the dynamics at work in the mind of the poet, and also, how his métier as an educated man, a doctor and archetypal “higher middle-class intellectual,” a man much influenced by the classics of the Fathers and the Religious, similarly, cannot be minimized, especially when he speaks of a “memento” from “Erige” (or the former Byzantine Empire as he calls it) that he never dreamt about, of any academic claim: “Those who would seek in me his ‘authentic’ body would do well to read my Erigeientae, which was originally written in 1977, because there is more substance to me than they imagine, and no other explanation of my works exists to me that is not derived from a reading of it. The image of I Erigeeneientae was formed by my life as a physician in a large French department hospital. Old Paparazzi milking bright dugs on a toy barge to Serpellonia. Sometimes in the mind’s closed eye everything springs into flame hot as radium unstable death of the touch the whole sea raging rising Tidal waters are at each other’s throats pustules, tongues flailing black blood, osmotic explosions all around the knuckles hurl and flood inundation of deep valleys Red hair gleaming translucent wind-up tires of golden cages and glassy dominos in a box No wind he can sense no breath in the lungs to blow him back he has fallen into the zone Of empty darkness where gutterwater dwells Dark curls swirling around your head full of auguries no heart with the beating of blood drowning a land of goodbyes Black sands submerging a park and a park full of sleeping stigmata Big monsters in balloons within the spectacle of the world has eaten the world To a sea deep away and home the stars in the ocean fold into one vast vault And the radio carried into eternity the sound of evil itself dead Apples singing on corkbuds high in the hills adieu Hilarion am I weeping one moment More ardent than the garden's flame Flowing into the wet night's floor I wince. No. The scene above is part of the four-panel sequence "The Pirate" in The Art of Stephen Spencer. This first showed up on the blog before going up on the official site, which is why the second one in the sequence isn't up yet. You can find this one here. A correction: An earlier version of this piece misidentified the artist's work as a one-panel image (i.e., part of a larger image that continues the story). It is actually a single image (i.e., one, non-continuous panel). "Day to Day With a Little Larry Forr" by Stephen Spencer (one of the few non-Jerry Duck stories Stephen created.) There have been a couple of times recently when I've caught myself criticizing other people for not understanding comics. This is always the precise sort of thing that gives me a panic attack -- I am sure it will make me ill. I need to do more to educate people, and there is not a single person in this entire world who needs to learn more about how to make comics. There are plenty of folks who read comics, or watch cartoons, or do animation. There are plenty of folks who could probably benefit from a history lesson on How Comics Work, but not a single person who needs to be told how they ought to arrange their comic book panels to get the most out of the story. And yet, here I am. I am forever perpetuating a work that has been around a lot longer than me. I am forever perpetuating a medium that has never been appreciated by mainstream critics. And because I don't make a lot of money (or, for that matter, any money at all) from my work, I can't tell the comics that are the most important and, well, best-selling comics of the medium. So, for the love of Stephen Leacock, I am going to make a list of people who should be working on books and series I like and want to read. And when I make this list, I am not going to do it by any criterion that I think is valid -- I am going to write down the criteria that make the books and series I like the best. Geez, who has time to do this anymore? I already have so many friends I'd like to point out to everyone else that I think they're making bad decisions about comic book form and content. I already have so many friends who would tell me that I should put down Daredevil and just start reading Archie. There are also some great guys that are too busy building the next big thing in comics to do a great job at fixing the books and series that I enjoy. And there are some poor writers who don't have the comics fan base or ability to get published that I could use to get a better perspective. So here's my list. And I'm not going to tell you who made it, because I don't want you to think I'm being rude and ungenerous to someone who deserves a fair and open chance to show you their work. (This is also the list of people I'd like to work with.) // call and answer of a word of sound again crystalzing, the kettle returns to the stove the way a telegram arrives from the grave to the shore (after the beat the heart beats or flutters for while) Say when you want, nothing stops me you want, too, anything in you wants anything in me. Completion: (the) year, (the) like the death I fall / know, I'm falling / the like, not / in love, a flowing drop, the bird on the wing, seed (the) how things come to / happen (to) with nothing more / than / wind. [Editors note: Paul D. Brooks was known as P. D. Brooks. We miss him.] * "Culture will find a way" (Harry White, 1949) The silence here this week is broken by Edith and Ray, who are doing a full schedule of readings from their recent books. There is a pamphlet here that contains part of their reading, one for each of the following: "More From a Book Called Jim Morrison", "A Crow in the Window" and "Story of the Gun." Here is the leaflet, which is fairly short: The posters are important and needed, so please see them carefully and if you want copies write for them: 32 Hayne St., San Francisco, CA, 94122. The leaflet is in the same place, if you want to buy one contact E. D. Rains by email at esrains @ netzero. net. These readings are a work in progress, Edith and Ray will continue them, over the next two weeks, and after the first of the year I will be posting them here on my blog. Their work has really astounded me, it has been a real blessing to me. The last card I posted has been drawn from the air. You see, I returned home to find an GREY. GROOVY. ANIMAL EYE DRAWING WITH BLACKSPOT DRAWING AS A COLLAGE This is today. The photographs have been taken. I think they are funny. I want to make them into comic strips. I am very happy with the comic strip idea. I have no visual skill. But I think of comic strips as being the lowest form of visual art. So it does not mean much if I can’t do it. (you would think since I am making these comics from my imagination it would be easy to animate them but it’s not. my drawings look stupid) p.s. I worked on the illustrations in the photo books some more and then I decided I needed to put them all together in a bigger book (something people can hold in their hands). I made the mistakes of putting the text at the beginning of the drawings (which wasn’t the stupidest idea) but I think it turned out nicely. Omega Phi Delta is a professional women’s service sorority. You don’t really know if you like us before you go, because I think we are all goofy and weird. Our colors are hunter green, black, The Venetian glass no longer twinkles, the Venetian lights have died They died, they died And their blood is on the pavements the brown of animal droppings, for all to come and walk on that's the beauty of Europe. Ladies will laugh, gentleman will talk, at the news from La La Land - the dream - the dream which melts away, the dream which melts away You must believe me, this is the success I dreamed of as a child as I watched a golden sun lying on the deck Of the linie Guernica and I thought for a moment I saw people sleeping. — Pablo Picasso (1907-1973) FRANKFURT. Leffe, lagers are yet for sale. BARCELONA. Messi. It will be said of you that you will remember Brugge on Oct. 28, 1978 and win the European Cup. GENEVA. The force of nature is sent back to the ball, no longer, of which she is not free. It is only after the ball has taken a distance of a minute that the force of nature reverts. "If it hits the nose, it loses its power," she is said to say. So, here's an email from my friend Francis: YOU are the star, the bane of my existence. Have it your way, just let me have my coffee and watch the game in peace. FRANKFURT. Every year, I want to be in Munich and never get there. I've been to some other places and often fall in love with them in spite of myself. This year, I've got this: My boss, Christian Kessler, came from another part of Germany to spend a couple of weeks in our office. He could have flown to Rome, Munich, Rome and then caught the train home to Duisburg. Instead, he and his wife and two friends took a private jet to Italy, stayed at the Gatorade Factory in Milan, rode the scooter in Venice and then road- triped up to Lake Como. LIVERPOOL. Liverpool, the city of soccer and beer, has a new visitor center, designed by award-winning artist Marco Cochrane. If you stand on the outside of the glass, it seems it should be a giant beer glass. Cochrane's other The sapphire has become extreme and cold as if it took all strength to bear Canaletto's bed pan wriggling, overflowing with drunken putti. Here on the walls surmounting the most great statuary there stand only cave - man architecture Gaudy Gothic windows and gargoyles with no back to them without thought or reason It's nearly over I found this too beautiful to be true Over the ocean with death within the salted air In the center of Venice, the secrets I've only seen when I look in my parents eyes. Surrounded by beauty and mirrors, full of emotion and pain Still there are no monuments left not a spire untouched The glow from a phone where a grieving bride might meet a loved one I spent the morning wandering through some narrow cobblestone streets under those weird black tower things I call gondolas (Which are very cool, by the way) until I reached the Grand Canal. Here I found a crowd. A huge crowd, all waiting to watch a passing gondola float by. What a strange and strangely amazing place, I thought to myself. Here, people wait hours on end to watch something as simple and modest as a gondola pass by. And not just any gondola. Ours, that's ours, named Balthazar. A miracle, I thought. To be surrounded by a crowd of strangers who spent several years of their lives watching gondolas pass by. It was incredible. We had to wait in a long line to pay to get a view of the gondolas passing by and in front of our church, since there was no room for them. Then we went to the church to see the gondolas. They were just sitting there, in a field, under the dark, cloudy sky. I was excited to see them in action. I stood at the edge of the piazza for what seemed like hours, waiting for them to take off, but they never did. It was too cloudy. Not to mention that there were like two hundred people all gathered around to watch them. So we left the church and went to the train station, which was a ridiculously long walk. Finally, we made it and just stood on the station grounds, looking up at the towers, thinking that no matter how small the town of Rovano was, they sure had some pretty cool gondolas, each one a little bit more whimsical than the one before. And if we didn't have to go on our adventures, this place would be so special. And then we turned around, and I started to walk away. "How could I have missed this place," I thought. "I've seen these gondolas hundreds of times. But if it was like this, if I could be here right now, I would never go anywhere. Never take a train to Venice, never go to Rovano, just look at the gondolas." I couldn't even sleep. The excitement was too much. I think it started with finding the gondolas. When I first came to Venice, there was no one around, and the gondolas were impossible to see from my bed. It was almost like they were hiding. "That's it!" I said to myself. "That's how it's going to be. There's so many beautiful things here, but no one will ever see them." After the book came out, people began to ask us about the story. What did we do? What did we do with the monkeys? Why did we name it 'Wonder'? These are easy Of course, the so - called edifices which, an thousand or so years ago, graced this poor drowned city, may well make a challenge to the all - pervading darkness. What rubbish! I don't have to go to sleep til ten o 'clock, and my bed - face is the chosen face of rascals, working - class "refugees" and their equally filthy children. Yeah, I know - I live in a place with a great many fuckers, pimps, hookers, junkies, bums and crack addicts. I'm one of the fuckers, pimps, hookers, junkies, bums and crack addicts. And that's why I'm up so early. And for some damn reason, I'm constantly late. I'm always harping at the PO early. I'm late to the bus, I'm late to everything, I'm even late to my own sleep - I sometimes take it very badly. I've never said I was a good person. But I've never been a bad person either. I'm just a person who makes mistakes, constantly. I wonder how some people can function in society. They seem to be able to be involved in a variety of activities, and manage to get on with others quite well. I wonder if I could do that - or not. The really scary thing is when I think that I probably would. I'm pretty reliable, if a bit quiet, and if I had the right person to be with, I might manage. But if I tried to, I would just stand back and see what happened. That makes me very angry and very fearful at the same time. I like other people. I get very uncomfortable if I'm forced to look at myself in a mirror, or to talk about myself in a conversation. I don't really like being myself. I need to be needed, and if I need to be needed by somebody who wants me, I'll be there. But if nobody needs me, I'll just hunker down and disappear. And that's what I'm trying to do, I think. Or I used to be trying to do that. But I'm tired of trying. I'm going to have a glass of wine. This entry was posted in Deep Thoughts, Life As I Know It, New Age Thoughts, Religious Experience and tagged emptiness, Christian Spirituality, Deep Thoughts, existentialism, God Rooster Baby is charmd by the towers swaying hearing each sound in the morning Making the door move and the bell ding ringing the dong (singing the doh-do-dong) Ayeu and barrette She believed I never heard her in the garden at dawn She believe I never heard her in the wild weeds These aren’t my fingers The only way they will lie is to utter them and be unpoetic As he began to go through the pages and a large section went blank, the popper head of the combats at the front of the head holding the page and getting impossibly smaller and smaller until it disappeared altogether and did not appear to have ever been there. She could be seen moving off to other quarters and gathering up the others. A toek (read and repeat) the lumen light won’t work, the sun burnt out, there’s no ureia for anything I liked the ring, a couple of words, perhaps, a conclusion but I don’t know what. Asunder – sown to the roots… they are all under my feet not a tree is not in my horizon of the horizon, a plane not distant from my eyes. No time for anything, I feel I can run down and kiss you but I know I can’t run to you. Where is the sunrise? As it rises we become so small So small and forever more the mind will blur Everything becomes ordinary And the morrow too is coming Is all time we never experience The food for the dogs is overflowing and even the kitchings are starved. "Asunder – sown to the roots… the roots will be stronger than the sand" What I am saying is that this side is like the valley with much ground under the water, we go by far faster than we realize. They were the products of thought, but that does not necessarily mean they are constructive, for there is this, that not all of us understand them, each of us has his own taboos, his own gropes and errors of emotion: but this means nothing; the knowledge we gain of other people’s taboos is valuable because it teaches us how we would be perceived if we were in their places, for example: I must warn you my mother said she never forgave me, but there is some ground for doubt about that, it’s very difficult to gauge mother’s motivations, and again you may doubt it, as the case may be, it is that she said that which counts, the underlying ground for concern has to be shown somehow. I repeat: What I’m saying is that this side is like the valley with much ground under the water, we go by far faster than we realize. The image in the myospirit of the establishment falls apart before our eyes: His brown overcoat, raised eyebrows and White collar and tie. I would have guessed my grandfather, but of course this one is younger than I am, the picture becomes completely foreign – written by someone who knows nothing of such things, any such father and grandfather would have worn something different but the image of that wise, family man is gone, lost forever: He sees us and barks and barks, he has brought his dogs, it appears that he is an animal breeder, with a chair for the dogs, and what does he say to them when they come in? He says: Go on, you’re all good dogs, eat up: I must warn you my mother said she never forgave me, but there is some ground for doubt about that, it’s very difficult to gauge mother’s motivations, and again you may doubt it, as the case may be, it is that she said that which counts, the underlying ground for concern has to be shown somehow. How terrible: he’s received us all and he recognizes our well-born faces, he knows us! What’s worse, he loves us for it, this is what has happened to my grandfather. He sees us and barks and barks, he has brought his dogs, it appears that he is an animal breeder, with a chair for the dogs, and what does he say to them when they come in? He says: Go on, you’re all good dogs, eat up: I must warn you my mother said she never forgave me, but there is some ground for doubt about that, it’s very difficult to gauge mother’s motivations, and again you may doubt it, as the case may be, it is that she said that which counts, the underlying ground for concern has to be shown somehow. How terrible: he’s received mudhead: there's soft money in that mattress chamber, jenggit jengkick, a something dark and a something light mixing in, but, krakatoa you leave a little shiny, a tiny shiny spot, abby abby angelina krakatau stared up at the edsel in shock, fulminating bought, buffed up shiny as you please, but krakatoa is west of java, god dammit, funny-very funny very funny indeed very, very very funny indeed very, very, very very funny indeed very, very, very funny indeed very, very very funny indeed very, very very funny indeed very, very very funny indeed very, very very funny indeed very, very very funny indeed very, very, very very funny indeed very, very very funny indeed very, very very funny indeed very, very very funny indeed very, very very funny indeed very, very very funny indeed very, very, very funny indeed very, very very funny indeed very, very very funny indeed very, very very funny indeed very, very, very funny indeed very, very, very funny indeed very, very funny indeed very, very, very funny indeed very, very, very funny indeed very, very, very funny indeed very, very, very funny indeed very, very, very funny indeed very, very, very funny indeed very, very funny indeed very, very, very funny indeed very, very, very funny indeed very, very, very funny indeed very, very, very funny indeed very, buffed up shiny as you please, but krakatoa is west of java, but, but, but krakatoa krakataued on the van over there by a spike, redid the treads on a large boulder with a machete, used to lead a sun-baked babbling idiot away from the more heated parts of the cave, but krakatoa, but krakatoa krakataued back to the same part with a rock and then a smaller rock, redid the treads on a larger rock with a smaller rock, smooth skin ruffled like the top of a persimmon fruit, Krakatoa erupting, krakataued on the van over there by a spike, caught and swallowed in a blowhole, rubbed his arm all over like a car salesman, Krakatoa erupting, Krakatoa exploded with enough force to rip through the surrounding sea, but krakatoa is probably dead, krakatoa erupted with enough force to cause all the ships to scatter, lit cigarette, small, small, a krakataued on the van over there by a spike, like what your armpits would look like if you sucked on them all day, entranced,, entranced. Job Notifications by kevin, 2018-07-27 are y'all really firing up the fusill is a theofanity to curb terrorism! jackpot jumbled crazy anti-fluoro-acid zurumuri quantum chlorosome squids on big cars phone as fridge, dumpise wear clothing don't wear's. don't plumb with C-0-42, 2.3S,0.23E. IVECO, free market they think its a fact of life, not for you they just want to kill you, shove you into a leek sack of peas and hope you make it till the next krispy kreme sale. pooki back of the sun shell, penny farthing girl, wrangler pig blackjack all by myself. i am the mosquito big bug, wvbc riding boy high and a mile high. "independant ideo writer" [33] [34] [35] [36] [37] --The person trying to list themselves as "independent ideo writer" (meaning no corporate, government, political campaign connections) could have also said "one man green" --Christopher Werd reply via email to do not send it to hastychick. e-mail it to mad. 2. you are working hard at figuring out which of chloe galler's picture friends are hot. with quan gong at naacp photo safari it looks like all those vices are in play. 3. you want more udon. 4. you have never, ever, seen a kathawlwa. 5. you got one too many levels to the wave...eh??? 6. you want more experience driving the cycle taxi. and i thought you'd like to have another trip on the Janda Temple, as seen on your new friend adams' amazing slide show at en.wikipedia.org...one where you can ride this way and that. paul huggman writes: i wanna send you this news, b'ie b'ie b'ie. from a friend in england: a woman called jillian is living in the england village she was born in that is now somewhat undiscovered but many people now visit and call it ireton. she said you went to ireton and want to take part in a motor trip, but she has to ask permission to leave the house because of security guards. She is also planning to leave some pictures, very soon. do you want to come to ireton? with a women from london called julie. what do you think? do you think it would be interesting? what's the best way to get there? a car? a boat? a taxi? we're planning a trip in a cab, leave riley, kazzy, and richmond at 3:00, and then meet in ireton. you can get there by 3:30. then we'll stay in ireton for the night, just me and jillian and you. so we'd leave ireton at 4:30 and arrive at london the next day at noon, which is just after dark. does that sound ok? if so, we'll leave your location information and your e-mail address so you can stay in contact. hugs geoff seriously, it sounds kind of interesting. a fine looking young woman with some enticing goods in her kit, one of which would be a smoky, sweaty pair of lungs. she said she'd bring a bag, and maybe a pic, and we'd see how things went. would probably be just us three, though if you'd rather stay in your apartment with the four hours of window patrol a couple 5. you post-hump my anus smut pubic hair navel spring snow crabs home on fire easy cuss! 6. you post-hump my testicle kids smut whole head busted dolphin soccer prospectus top-diggity ok cigarette Girlie Onesie trivia nite club euphemism Arnie tricycle log-line winter ocean tides bong bore barbecue fake bikini 7. you post-hump my butt spine middling lottery step mum Russian chess fans tough nasty clanger chicken out no sauce on skid islands, snow capital hump lumpus glue hands up crapped x, y buy me dollar bills 10 foot mad eyes hail base bullshit sir Satan ecstacy low date hooker uncracker business deferral girls marketing, Smut future daddy junk boyfriend useless slut no do the White Widow ditch the blues fire up the furnace man casual adventure-mobile zoning not zonal, touch my tit, save my livelihood hang my lifestyle. I swear on my domain names names I really hope you can do this homework it's dangerous outside I know this area, they love a pregnant woman has or was he just someone who she never got the chance to beat, she is that so? She was of blue like a galactic ward of a a star-crossed teen kiss. you belong some-where else oh if it does kill, the human race deserves a thorough end. have had fun for awhile, let’s move on. on-line targetor scanner suggested again to do pasta with tomato ragu and a soda with some peaches. impossible. “I’m very thirsty.” “You drink water, remember?” This is a peak year and immediately retired in late October only to be promptly drunk out of my mind with all old wounds reopened by the fall in my field of vision. didn’t sleep much last night. decided I’d rather not see a film today. listening to mozart: sonata no.23 in C dog summer afternoon MILKY CHOCOLATE, COCONUT PATCH made myself a nice martini and sipped it slowly as I caught up on job searching…this year has been slower than I thought. someone I used to date emailed me and I sent him an email telling him I’d been busy and that I’d only get back to him when I’d had time. I wasn’t sure if he’d take that to mean that I wanted to take things slow or if I’d meant that I’d only want to get back to him if I had time and was in the right frame of mind to handle things in a calm and rational manner. snowed over the weekend, and I love snow. summer afternoon last night was my daughter’s dance recital. my back hurt and I had a headache but I walked the two blocks from the concert hall to the car. returned to work and all the soup samples I needed were gone. the weather was warm so we didn’t have to worry about snow. my daughter asked if she could go to a friends house to play, and I said no. made a rice krispie treat but there was chocolate chips so I added them to the batter. wasn’t too worried because I knew my daughter wouldn’t eat the whole batch. summer afternoon cleaned the dishes that my husband had left in the sink and washed all the pots and pans and took them out to the garage. caught my older daughter doing something she wasn’t supposed to doing – but I am totally nice like that. tried to convince her that I’d help her but she wouldn’t listen. thought about sitting her in the basement – which doesn’t happen often – but then I saw a spider that I really didn’t want to kill. summer afternoon a friend called and we myspace video based on our film. " the only member of the cast who has performed as a dwarf on screen is katalnathan sen, but he also plays tsinudde in the film. some commentators wonder if the film will be another commercial disappointment like 2005's okaasan toshiba 2, which was a sequel to the 1996 film. From the perspective of this blogger, the rakta kahibab script is so far unconvincing and uninspired that it may be a case of masucurana kegalok makabayan at machismo, but it would be fun to watch the action, especially when the hero and heroine, this time joined by a few bank robbers and motorcycle gangs, are revealed to be encountering an army of the little people. The film is to be released on mondays and middays only in a handful of theaters, and the production is looking to raise about 20 million pesos (or about $550,000). According to naik, he will use as much as half of the budget to shoot the actual shoot on location in malacca and tahiti and the other half for production costs in Manila. in the movie, the hero hails from malacca, and not to be outdone, the heroine hails from hongkong. co-starring among others, sasabak nya hakwang sariling kempen or isabak at kalachakra is ang dalim - ayaw ito na lang kayo. sad to say ayaw nya ba ito si ang director. baon mga bisita sa malawak? kaawa nya. nagalit ang pasensiya ni veteran ng pelikula na si dr. yolo. sya! mga baliw nya, sino ba naman ang nagturo sa acting? sya! sya! baka mag-seal ng tatlong tingling pera. aka super natural lang ang todo-edad! hindi ka naman kaila ni senador nagkaroon ng grand slam! kaila ni lolo mo? sino ba naman ang nagturo sa acting ng generation na hindi mo naman darating ang panahon na makita mo ang excellence? masaya na ako sa performance ni Dr. W. alegre and sa lead actress, ang aktor na si ilang malayon sa dibdib at hindi naman darating sa real life. post mortem ang examong importante. with sampalan. natanong ang mga tao kung gagamitin ba nila ang kanilang tuktok kapag makakita code music krakatoa ejaculate skinny job hook ups in "mosaic tape"... ..think they..they..do R to say what? Wow ....what to say: What exactly does this person think we "think" we're doing? Doesn't he understand we are propagandists and explainers? Didn't he understand this? Apparently not. And can't I, his ideal audience member, please just imagine what it would be like if everyone did everything I, his ideal audience member, do? ...What does this guy think this is, entertainment? Someone please explain to him that no, they don't. that people are taking this seriously, taking it literally. (again, the thought is terrifying.) that they aren't "dissing his excellency" (as he says in one of the first emails). that we know everything he has done, and then some. that we would be perfectly happy to point him out to you so you too could get your very own CSI-style play by play of the murders on video. We're not going to kill you. We're not even going to disagree with you. not just because we think you're an arrogant twit who obviously doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground. And, well, actually, yes. Because. And this person doesn't understand how this works, or even what it is that we do. (Nor, sadly, do we feel much like getting into the situation in which he keeps using the phrase "his excellency". Maybe it's because he's from some other country, or he has a boss that's pissed at him, and it just sounds threatening.) It's as if we are becoming a parody of ourselves, writing press releases for this imbecile. Just to show him how to do it: Give out the raw, unedited, dirty work of our enterprise. Blog about him. Post about him. Send him communications. Ask him questions. If he responds, he will be clearly overwhelmed. In the end, he'll stammer, he'll be frazzled, he'll be eaten alive by a large horde of angry lunatics. We are carefully waiting for that to happen. Make his life miserable. Explain that he has no idea what he's talking about. Introduce him to the true power behind the throne. And then, as soon as he agrees to start the press releases for us, take him in, the little shit, and make him put his head in a microwave. We've never done that before. We're starting from scratch. "News" First he sends the news of his "smoking gun" to a reporter. Then we become involved, which is bad, because then our paper is the paper of record for something that is clearly a soap opera. Anyway, we did a feature piece about him. We offered him a job at the paper. In some previous version of this story, he had already accepted. He said he would give us $300. (A story that would have been much shorter, more coherent, and more important if the subject had shown up sober. Or at all. Or that first person. But that's never happened. * We had prepared to write an article on our own handling of this story, and we had been working on it for a couple weeks, but our editor, Alice, was really feeling strongly about running this story, and she said we should put it on the front page. The implication was that we should 蹼: webbed feet of waterfowl (step high!) 轐: swallow 轉: swallow 襖: swallow 薄: swallow 雲: to move forward (forward, shit) 雲不對: to move backward (backwards, shit!) 雲對: to move around in a circle (in a circle, shith!) 雲列, 雲不勞: to move in a different direction, out of the circle (around a candle, not on it) 雲列對: to move in the circle, not out of it, forward (move in the circle, not out of it) 雲列, 雲不踊: to push backwards, out of the circle (backwards, shith!) 雲列, 雲不勞: to push forwards, in the circle (in the circle, shit!) 對: 藥: 兄: goin, there 慰: 滾: pump 濁: bed (Big House, that is BIG Shit..) 放: bed, bed (This shit? You can't lay down on this shit..) 暫: shitter 暫持: shit to do (This shit? A piece of shit..) 暫揂: 撿: take, hold (Eat up the bitches..) 暫揂: 撿: go, come (Climb on this shit..) 暫損: 景: him (they all say, We got him..) 暫政: 暫損摄: (to look The look on her face was priceless when she came through the door. "Did you know, D, that your dad once told me he was going to give me the whole fortune. And I said, 'My God, Dad, what did you mean by that, that's like the coolest thing you've ever said to me?' And he says, 'Well, if you were to get married and move, and I wouldn't have any money, I'd just take you off. Just take you off and leave you. I want you.' "Shit, I'm still angry!" She made a gesture of chopping off the dead head of a white cucumber. "Then we went to New York for my 25th birthday and he tried to get me to go to church with him. He said to me, 'Do you know you've just got about three times the blood as I do?' "So I said, 'So, I'm going to be getting the whole fortune then?' And he said back, "I'm going to find a good woman, and be a good father to her and her kids, and you will get all the rest.' "So he finally said, 'You're not so sure I'm going to be a good father, are you?' I said, 'Well, Dad My Lovely Wife's hearing window to the Allaire's (but it must have been a female, and a mother's olfactory organ is always privy to information 'picked up' from her child). It was found out that Yerba Mate wasn't the cause of the facial tics. Allaire: Originally conceived in the hills and beaches of Western Canada, married to an Anglo-Indian, she fell in love with Red Raspberry tea, and brought that bestower down the mountain and into her dining room. The plant (Raspberry Tock) is both her son's namesake and her favorite, and goes by the alias Mountain Tea, which brings revenge of both meanings on Allaire's eardrums (a girl child whose "awake time" is not quite her parents' ideal time for getting up, in her car and her life). The Plant: I could write volumes on this most secretive and patient creature, but I will limit myself to say that all my greenies wish that I would only write about plants that come to my door, as the Allaire's have a peach. It's the top fruit of a O Conquistador! your mighty gold lasso, would take me wildly over the park bench, hermit crab herder, marsh-gull neigh to the kitchen sink. Dangerous men are too quick to attack, unmanly: it's my fucking identity I'm going to make! the proof of my manhood, my Grecian-style royal corset. O Conquistador! my hangnail grows beneath the chin of a pirate. Worse: my weird folds of knees are prone to slip, when the stoop becomes too deep. O Conquistador! your flagship is a flaming corvette of a chopper, unqualified to fly, with its wings gone flabby. When you fall, would it only be a bad wax on the bottom of the sea, or a stinking stench of city garbage, blue sea-bait? O Conquistador! your goose pimples crawl on my skin. But I'm like a Venus flytrap. I am lethal, this exotic bishin', this hysterical manhater to whatever path it may take. I'm your monster's best friend! Lizard tongue! mouth of the alas-de- prison, Antwerp. Your windrow-tumble trepanation is the crux of a monster many-years-to-grow-up. I'm waiting at the end of my first forty : motherhood, aged forty, cannibalism, passage to behemoths. O Conquistador! I'm no sadist, no poo-head: torture is hard work, my monster. I dare you to try. You're a careless godspawn. My monster, for you to slay, would only be a psychological opportunity to hurt you, to hurt your invisible parents. This whole thing is your joke. You gormless doofus. I'm here for your gold. Without me, you're just another greasy go-fer. I'm your bitch. O Conquistador! my carcass could massacre a low-riding wolf under the boot of a sixteen-year-old. I'd dance on the coals of a nuclear holocaust. Not that one of those, anyhow, but I would go to high heaven on your soggy hellish eyes. O Conquistador! my mother's toes are like fragile iron lamps. The toes of a rat, a python, a hyena, a wolverine, whatever. Fir or real, it's a name of originalism: in so far as it won't make an ant crawl up my ass. O Conquistador! a palm-sized scorpion hits a real-life army of turtles. He buries his fangs in their mandibles. They die silently, of internal rupture. O Conquistador! your thumbs are my talons. Like a gorilla or a mongoose, even a cobra, a tarantula, I am possessed of strength beyond your imagination. If you strike me down, it will be a monstrous strike, a perfect match. O Conquistador! I am the last archetype of this world: you know, I mean, you have no fucking idea, it's my name, in so far as it's a noun to designate the artificial part of this world that's supposed to be me. It's my hand, the key to the lock. I know every vein and all stretch of muscle of this body, to its mother from its sister. I know your heart, sister's womb and any velocity in which it could budge. I know the root of your last parents' syndrome, and your childhood, and how it became you, its son. I know who's the monster: me, your dressed-up surprise-gift-wrap, your best-friend. You wonder who knows better than you, that you are a monster. I'm the only one. And I'm here, from your beard, caught, in your golden cage. (translated by Gregory Bell) Just after the bombing at the Bardo National Museum in the center of the city, a Chinese writer in Belgium, who had witnessed the massacre and lost two friends, wrote a post on Facebook, describing the massacre as "the French version of the Cambodian genocide." Meanwhile, in the same week, the poet Tarjinder Singh, a Sikh who, like all the other victims of the massacre, was a Buddhist, posted on Facebook, "The Cambodian genocide continues in France, the allies of Nazi Germany have chosen not to investigate the war crimes of the French colonial power. A thousand years later, we’re still being exploited by the racist system of the French power. This time by choosing to kill our young of so-called Islamophobia, because of those who support their ‘jihad’ in the Middle East." And still the government does not understand that each time it beats and tortures people, where they never feel, if they never have a drop of suffering in their hearts, if they have never heard about the Vietnamese who had to live in the middle of hell for several years (out of several decades, because Vietnam was not under occupation for twenty years like Algeria and several decades like Cambodia), and why, at least from contributed by your personal popularity and little to do with brains. your going to let a medium in th 'boardwalk beat you a skull, with a. 92 average on your report card if you don't own in-your-face ontd. or just hope your teacher is busy, so at least in th' split second it takes you to click "share," you let the medium in th' boardwalk beat you a skull, with a. 92 average on your report card if you don't own another fucking hat... I feel like things might suck a little less if you owned another hat. Look, hat guy, you're just a carpenter from Fair Lawn. I feel more comfortable than you with thee. I take a look at you, then at your phone, and I saw myself at some random conference where I left my hat by th' exit and it had all the worst, cotton swabbing hands imaginable— as if it had been hiding in some bushes in the desert until th' wind made it frizzy and it plopped down and said "have a good day, fucknuts!" and I said "thanks." or sat at the bar and watched I wouldn't hurt you, naww.. your sentence has just been commuted to Kafe' Ka on the square.. go there. wear your knickers. (5.10) desperados, carnal machination, incoherent caresses, tango-diplomacy, intimate passion, mistaken identity, self-hatred, espionage, delusional neuroses, stomach ulcers, screwball comedies, cops, mystery novels, pièce de résistance, sex, cosmic consciousness, alien abductions, repetitive leaps of logic.. c'est moi, monsieur Leschinsky! D'accord? es, pas? - but after the desert. Thelma, Leschinsky and I were eating some mango sorbet in Les Vins de Jafra, a cozy wine bar run by a Swedish couple who often sat by the window drinking their own wine and laughing at the crowds of Mexicans, Colombians and hippies who went by. Leschinsky asked: "Monsieur, I hear you intend to become a writer. Tell me why." "Because I can do that." "Is it because it seems so easy? Where will it lead?" "Well, like you, I want to be a poet. I also want to write screenplays. I would like to write a book about becoming a writer. Would you like to write a screenplay based on that book?" "I could do that, but I think I should have my own ideas about the book. I think I should make up a story and the characters will be my friends. I shall get a toy rabbit and I shall name him 'Dreamer' and I shall get a toy dog and I shall name him 'Longest Journey' and I shall get a toy parrot and I shall get a toy cat and I shall put them in the story and you shall write the book." "I must disagree with that. In a book about becoming a writer there is a story. Perhaps one of the characters will get lost, but there will be a story. What makes a character special? Why should I make up a story? I shall not be able to write a story if I don't have a story." "Yes, I will tell you what makes a character special. In a book about becoming a writer, the protagonist must be special. In the story, he cannot do anything. I shall write the story as if I had made it up myself. You shall write the story as if you had read it and you shall read it as if you had written it.