practice sentences

These, some of my trivial thoughts while living abroad, used as content for practice sentences composed in my creative writing class...

I was in dire need; I had to attain a source of satisfaction; my mind was nearing a threshold; muzzled by my sober boredom, on the brink of ripping implosion; I had the moderately molding apple, the instrumental poking pen, the two-euro, rip-off-of-a-lighter, the intoxicating Nag Champa Indian incense; I had to get high, high like home, to my soothing, native mentality; on an expansive, idealistic, breathing journey, I wanted to inhale the grass-green, tea leaves; but there was no remedy to be found, no remedy.

Suave, without any shame, not sober, not drunk, with sexed eyes, without a heart, the Frenchman worked his waving hips into mine, below the raunchy illuminations of the dance club, and whispered upon my neck, beneath my ear, words incomprehensible to an American girl.

Skies run like metros and my vision spews. Six million leaves and ways to leave the place behind. Skies run like metros and my vision spews.

Grandmother is old, stone colored, and alive. She tells me to run to Bagatelle, not wanting me to fatten. Marie Antoinette sat on this same dusty, moss-creased bridge and masturbated. Newly implanted prostitutes make pleasure for a price in the forest.

I feel warm on the periphery of Paris, when the leaves succumb to God’s poem, shouting “Ahhhhhhhhh” in robust whispers. Leaves remind me of babies, and when they are curled and brown, they remind me of dead babies. We know Marie Antoinette didn’t have any. I wonder if I will.

The stumps tell the leaves to shut up. And the gray screen, color of pussy cats, beckons the rain. And we tell ourselves to abuse hope, destined to die in palimpsest wrinkles wet still with mud. And we cry when we suffer because we come upon a pathway through the yellow-lime trees, laden with pungent excrement. It is unforgivable.

I am a huntress out to murder the essence— small but just as vivid as the tree that perches at my opposite. I am the huntress. Color is my prey and I will play the mortal game until it is mine to display on hard mantelpieces, digitally now. I am the huntress and I will prod the rock until it bleeds the thickest ruby blood. I— you façade-bearing savages, raped by green paper, deplorably parched for more—am the huntress.

francais scrabble

Salty, fish juice feels saucy/On my ginger-cleared pallet/Men and many elevate/To hissing and kissing ground/Subterranean jetting/Pellets move them, anonymously/Alone/Did the dirt disappear after the silence was robbed from the ants?/Did they dislocate to Luxembourg/Fresh scent, companions to the old dogs?/Take down imprints of scumbags/Homeless with the luxury of dreams/On avenue, fat lady, white smeared/Has her patisserie with the rest/I find her colored rags endearing/Her frequency silly/Satisfying/Even she finds purpose in Paris

some old "inky" from france

In the inky crux of my body, I left the place that was all else but mine and spat choking on type-written words, tricking by stuffing, facing by ignoring, to try to transcend

wanting. Him, feathered after the war, singed burning for hopelessness on the outside of the island, fainting the Man, his clean, aesthetic needs for neat, smart streets and owning the fattest, pink cow in dreamy pastures

wanting me eating cow cheese and milk—enormous—suspended in districts sharp with sharp trashcans, green like the Jaguar that got them to the flat, securely affording foie gras bought by au pairs with blank checks while they are robbed of two euro coins, poor

wanting sly marks in sly circles oozing hate from talking heads making mercy, making sacrifice for unwrapped, dirt-colored other heads who meet in staunch basements to dance and find mediums between identities amid sheets of prophets and blood

wanting me inside the city but outside the news, with ciders and wines of glory, thrusting my head out of metro line six to see an offering of the sunrise on tracks to the abbey submerged in packed sand, on an order to see, because I have the dough to see

wanting mind-inventions and misconceptions and futile wonderings of woman kissed kept nestled against my box cat who were never there or found so I painted smudged scenes with sad satire, synsthesia sexy, stark bald somethings to pass the time instead, because I have the dough to pass the time

wanting to shed and fuck the scheme interpolated in me by the Freudian capitalists that want tits and pussy to mean expansion and imported cigar smoke at heartless, slick conference tables they can see their nose hairs in, while the dough renders sharp and prickly in my back pocket

wanting it not to matter, but I won’t give it away, never will I get it away, to the shivering, lovely Israeli man squatting in the metro stop I blink eyes with, sorry, not sorry enough to take the minute to give the change because I don’t have time and the dough is stuck in my back pocket by me, but I’ll blame the scheme of the Freudian capitalists to have and build and be happy.

But the lovely Israeli man is shit lodged in the sole of the shoe and doesn’t have any, and neither does the Arab woman without a toilet or an oven or a breast, so she sells her mastectomy to the tourists because how else is she to survive, while the rags of a man in the Portuguese pension spew and yack words in his language that I don’t understand, maybe begging, too, or telling me the meaning of life, but I wouldn’t know it because I don’t know his language

wanting art for arts sake for the murdered God in the smog that raped the stars instead of the dough, while Bob Marley moans jams smoked in reggae tones selling tee-shirts everywhere from Hell (hope the moral) or I think heaven, to burn pollution tonight, burn illusion tonight

wanting to go up high with him and melt into the madness and cynicism feigning Beckett’s language tweaked to show the void presupposed by history that is life, weeping for it even though my tears were dried up long ago to be outfitted in armor for the affliction of my mother and my grandmothers and him that fucks me

wanting stars fixed in time tonight to be hope, as Yeats wrote in poems entrenched in battle, cracking necks out at angles to see them, faithfully confessing what one needs and dreams to get through the tea-soaked pages to The End alive, if you are lucky

wanting saxophones and smooth ivory keys to tell stories elucidating human idiosyncrasy, passion, dying for one more blow of clean sounding air and one more key hit, while dipping my heart in the ink, suffocating in pieces of papers of blood-black words until I die beneath a gathering of stones, wanting to give Him a name and call Him God.

wha A o

What's to be said, hello dolly. Can't make sense of comprehension right now because all I want to do is get lost in beats, tones, lipping words from the inner-part of the stomach, instead of lost in the moths. Their invasive wings in my house make so much sense. Why I don't sweep out the cubbards and demolish their nesting ground, I'm not so sure. Laziness is pegged as the reason.

I am a degree. One, perhaps seven, of obsessive compulsive. Can't everything be in line. Damn New Found Glory on the radio. Eww indeed. What encourages tastes to change? Revolution in decision and/or circumstance. I'm no longer satisfied with Zeilsteen Radio, switch it up to classical. Not even then--can't I escape back to Ms. Ruby with the Clap as she sings Tracy Chapman. We were talkin' bout a revolution in my most delicious of rides. She makes it nearly enjoyable to be a commuter. However at the end of this week, I'll be vivisected by wheel forms. Drive to the university land, where knowledge and intellect are commodified, park the car in the grid-lock, and bump the beach cruiser to the hall of Cheadle. Cheat-lll. Avoid $420 some dues to park my car within walking proximity of the office.

The office. Is there any way to avoid that concept in my future? In the office we effort to bandage the non-consensually sexed. Bureacratically why of course. It's not necessary to share details, because no one really has patience for those. They say it's due to lack of time, but really, their ears are corked with cement in the mornings before coffee and the poor-man's shower. Corked, NO, not corked, LIFE stupid lady. Did you know we have moths in our cubbards and they even have tried to share my pillow, not subtly, they zip right down on to my Beech, dark red pillow case and act as if they can stay their because they are... they are... they are, mothy!

Today I feel like seeing someone cry. Just wrecked with distress and passion. Unable to see past the tsunami of tears shredding their barely unpeelable eyes-lids. Even if it be me in reflection of some streaked mirror, because when are things impeccably clean unless your neurosis force you to be a house-wife and engage in an intense affair with dust. Dust, dear sir, is my nemesis.

Work it, man. Let your freak-flag fly.

sexier

sitting still on this woven gray chair
work does not beckon
student's ending summer days
sexual harassment slow
non-reported, ubber-existant
says the swaying girl
with aluminum in fist
says the office bitch
vindicated, dismissed

sitting still on this woven gray chair
kcsb beats help pass the time
speckled case files of no design
when did i take an affinity for rhyme?
give me chuckles and chores
sneaking elucidation of two nights before
when tinkling quarters induced the drink
i the wino averting the winks

Funkentelchy now spews on the radio
did that fellow boxcat really prove with a boob show
that my late-night endeavor was a sure good time
transubstantiated darwin, she letting me know he's mine
silly rules of the ally pussy competition
making for waves of undeniable submission
publish to no one, this poetic verse
ache, shot up, moaned, stoned
gotta love the wet Wednesday curse.

the rule of our existence

sol·ip·sism (slp-szm, slp-) Pronunciation Key
n. Philosoph.

1. The theory that the self is the only thing that can be known and verified.
2. The theory or view that the self is the only reality.

em·pir·i·cism (m-p�r-szm) Pronunciation Key
n.

1. The view that experience, especially of the senses, is the only source of knowledge.
2. 1. Employment of empirical methods, as in science.
   2. An empirical conclusion.
3. The practice of medicine that disregards scientific theory and relies solely on practical experience.

Talking in Bed

"Talking in Bed" by Philip Larkin

Talking in bed ought to be easiest
Lying together there goes back so far
An emblem of two people being honest.

Yet more and more time passes silently.
Outside the wind's incomplete unrest
builds and disperses clouds about the sky.

And dark towns heap up on the horizon.
None of this cares for us. Nothing shows why
At this unique distance from isolation

It becomes still more difficult to find
Words at once true and kind
Or not untrue and not unkind.

A post by a fellow rampant intellectualist catalyzed my remembrance of this poem that I had to memorize during Duffy's class on British modernist literature last year. I'm sure initially I selected it because of the curt length. But in rediscovering it, I think it may just be quite appropriate to say that it's one of my favorite poems. It's disquieting in the hushest of manners. It gently explains the conundrum of disconnection we face as human beings, even as we lye there together, in what should be the most fusing of moments.

The fellow rampant intellectualist says that lying together naked with a random male prospect is most conducive to her being honest. But are we really being honest with one another when weekends bring naked lying. Finding ourselves in sheets or halls with people that we hope might draw us out of the isolation. We crave to dive into nakedness because it's what seems to draw the sought after bottom line. Here we are, lying together, naked, an emblem of two people being honest.

For me, in this life-long state I sink into of being disappointed by most people, I don't even feign the illusion of honesty. I suit up in essential, innovative plastic, and surrender myself to safe dreams and the most teasing of text messages. Not to say beds haven’t been lied in. But as of late, I find myself most reluctant to step outside of the isolation, because it has developed into something I prefer. Something of comfort. And no one has presented themselves as genuine anyways.

Even the word lye boroughs deep into the damned intracies of the English language. Who really uses lie, lye, lay properly anyways. I doubt I do. Where is the golden ticket to a golden laced land of honest people? Non-deceptive. Altruistic. Taking me into their beds with all the proper stares and intensions. Okay, such is an impossible fantasy. It becomes still more difficult to find/ Words at once true and kind/ Or not untrue and not unkind. Isn't that the surest thing I learned in college. The flip side always fucking lingers. We're here to be soothed, ripped-up, and soothed again.