Raw Spot On Back Of Tongue

The streets of Los Angeles Are utterly my Entrails. Its juicy registries Countless That Are gutters merge with my intestines. Truly I only know Things When I Feel Them here, you know the way to kiss or smell, my innards tell me so, with whispers of joy and nausea. Los Angeles, my exo-skeleton, my outer spleen. Its Pavements Risen up, shattered here and there, with spot repair, sloping like scars Kello, caterpillars of tar on asphalt and gravel, pushed up from underground by the madcap feet and Elbows of a subterranean life, a Pentecostal light. For strangers, the appeal is cosmetic. To Them, the surface is something like a beauty mask gone dry, cracked and crumbling, the wake of bygone, fabulous years, but I'm too familiarPatrick's, on Central Avenue, dwarfs the new Islamic Center across the street, Not to mention the size of STI fence. There Are Black Activists, wearing white camouflage and Berets on a corner in Crenshaw, with posters of men hanging from trees, and One of These bears the title
Were Mexicans lynched, too!
Former Alpha Beta, Ralphs ex-, ex-Vons, post-1993-riots-Jons Market now lies in ruins, ruins , a dirt lot for traveling Carnivals! Streets filled with upheaval, graffiti, lies, music, murder, all cradled in my inner Qualities MOST self, sprinkled with bones, peels, seeds, wax cups, straw, blown in from the Farmer's Market downtown - my childhood bazaar. How can I Explain? I feel very Strongly That There is Something in Los Angeles That I like.I like it so much that I don't like it when other people like it. It is a love like that, jealous. A large part of me is headquartered here. I understand how ghosts can get stuck to a place, even though it's very dreadful, even if it changes beyond recognition over time. If I leave this place, I will start to eat less and less, the longer I'm away, and perhaps I'll eventually starve. I've never stuck around anywhere long enough to find out. It's not that other cities aren't lovely, and it has nothing to do with the quality of food, nor any leeriness versus unfamiliar dishes. I'll try anything new and odds are I'll like it. I have learned to negate my eyes, my nose, several of my senses, actually, so that unfamiliar and outlandish-looking food won't revile me at all, as long as others are e
falling piano. You tingle with subtle warnings, but disaster never strikes, more so it phases in and out, behind the scenes. There is a changing of the guard, but there is no perceptible harm, only the obvious change that took place. In a sense, the food has the quality of being stale, it
tastes stale while being very fresh, and it's forgettable the moment it's arrived, like you've already half-eaten it and lost interest. The timing of the food is wrong. The Frenchman Marcel Proust once wrote that when we miss a certain place we are really missing the moments we have spent in it and not the place itself. The place merely serves as a receptacle. The people, objects, and events of bygone times, the things that inspire the sensation of longing, ceahat are not even worth the fuss--anywhere but here. I will drum up doubts and dismiss any kind expectations on grounds of naiveté. I will even have the audacity to complain about the weather, such as The heat is unbearable! Scoff at this, think about the severity of other summers, but keep in mind that Los Angeles is spoiled year round with pleasant weather, so we are not apt to suffer sustained climactic annoyances. We have this luxury called a marine layer . Winds off the coast are cool and continuous. Oppressive weather comes and goes in a flash. When it lingers on, there's no justice to it. One hundred degrees in the winter is a joke between the deities. And so we smolder and torture ourselves with the foolish hope that the insolent weather will movNot t I prefer to drive. I Take What Argentines call the collective
, the bus. The soles of my shoes go bald Long Before I ever scuff the tops of Them. I walk the streets, I trample about Them. I am More Than acquaint. The streets wind in and out of me in Ways dog map not ascertain.
Of course, I will only resort to negative remarks Because I Feel That Others Do not have a right to like Los Angeles. Even so, What appeals to visitors is never What appeals to me. The idea of someone staring in wonderment at the Hollywood sign or the attraction Likewise Altogether is depressing. I remember the smattering of buildings Replaced by the Staples Center arena and how the new Stood in skeletal form. Just past it, There's the orchestra murals, with violinist Ralph Morris

Buderus Logomatic 2107

We Can accept the idea of a deficient divinity, a divinity That Would Be Forced to create the world out of poor materials and, thinking in this way, we arrive at Would Eventually Bernard Shaw, WHO said: God is in the making. That is to say, God is Not Something That Belongs to the past and God is Possibly Not Something That pertains to the present in Eternity. God Can Be Something That pertains to the future, and if we ARE JUST, if we forgive Our Enemies, We Are Also if intelligent - if We Are lucid - we Would Be helping to create God. Nazism

WAS invented by Carlyle, HG Wells Said That But Hitler Had taken the theory of a Chosen race from the Jews, Who Also Believed to Be Chosen Themselves to race, and Everything That Could Be Said Hitler found in the Oldt Does not bother me in the Slightest . That, I suppose, is What Would Respond Any woman, right?
Jonathan Swift Was An odd case. He Was Such an original writer. How strange satire Then Against historical science. Because, today, if Anyone Against writes science, it has to do with deeming it a modern evil. Detractors see it as a Powerful Enemy. But I Was a very intelligent man, a genius, and I Thought That Despit WAS futile science. I mean, I Laughed at scientists, Not Because He Considered Them a Threat, But Because I Seem To see Them as Their idiots That Were wasting time ... Do you think that's odd? Despit Being a very intelligent man, I Had Committed this error. I Thought That All Those Who Were simpletons work in laboratories. Robert Lou
agination and creativity, evident in His wondrous works, Combined With His lampoonish girth, Woulda demand no less a tribute. This character is unappealing Not Made by Chesterton's brand of Consistent preachiness, calculate wit or theory. On the Contrary, the reader is Invited to imagine His gallantry, His gentleness, the embodiment of historical Beliefs in practice. But Died In 1936 Chesterton abstract historical cruise goodness Would forth unabated to 1986, splashing in color. Imagine Chesterton revived in the here and now, 300 + lb in full glory, Those Eyes of His perusing Words Once more, on the page WHERE I WAS so at home, and Finding the essence of Virtues in a curious historical, fantasy picture book! Who Could predict this redemption, More Human Than artistic? A ripple of Our Own, a small means for immortality. No essay revives dog remove one's moral character like a fellow artist's simulacrum, done in Good Faith. I have felt great sympathy for this echo of his, this likeness That adds a vivid dimension to the man behind the letters. For when it comes to genius, the reader is living and breathing Spare the writer, the writer Becomes the text, a stream of words Without the flesh in telepathic congress. The reader assumes all kinds of falsities about the person behind it But truth and find a way personality. You inspire joy in Others and thereby leave a seed That Grows Into The best of you. I Was a writer of this sort germ, the portrait of a gentleman - albeit an Enlarged one. I will end this reflection with an anecdote. Once, It Was Said That WAS sitting in Chesterton a train, reading a daily, when a group of passengers entered his car. It's important that you imagine him perfectly ensconced, practically merged with his seat, because without the slightest hesitation, he rose up from it--a formidable task indeed--so that he might offer his place to three ladies. Of course, this is much more than can be expected out of his contemporaries, men like Everett True .

Can Bleach Cause Fainting

I met a girl recently. She is beautiful in That in-your-face way And Also Somewhat empty s, which is opportune for me, Since I am Both ugly and Fulfilling. We Have plenty sex and A Few Things else. She uses me, really. I gaze Into her eyes. Things I say funny from time to time. She says, you think you're so smart. I say, I Try Not to think about it. Look at me! I'm talking about scary black caimans, a short film by Louis Malle, underground tunnels, etc.., Etc., Sit back, do not speak, watch as I attribute my Most Wonderful Thoughts to you! "Surely, You Must Have Noticed ..." But not always, Not restrictively, Some nicely crafted dialogue! Perform this exchange I unconsciously, this elliptical so on to a lengthy T. I generate fittingly remove her remarks. It's never dull with me at the helm! I steer a spinning, flying machine, and it's all helicopter without the propeller. We make the sort of time together that seems filled with joys and years, and so in a few days time we conclude that we have been long enough alone. I am thus lured to where she coexists with others, none that I bargained for, and she leaves me in a room with some people, her people. These are people that I would probably never willingly approach on my own, neither for money nor ... unarmed. Just kidding. I'm liable to approach anyone. Besides, they are just some guys, not scary in a threatening way, but almost to that frightening point of unappealing. They are so immersed in their own habits that, at first sight, it would be foolish to think that they would ever alter their roughly honed selves for the sake of being social, not for the slightest formality; they acknowledge no intrusion. She goes off for a time with a group of girls that I suppose to be the lovers of these guys who, with the offer of a stiff chair, have become my sudden company. Hopefully, I think to myself, she will talk about what a catch I am, how worthy a companion, that is, to counter the now predictable accusations of my being too strange , too confident, thereby full of myself, or unattractive. How did I sneak into their circle? I tend to inspire those sorts of remarks in friends of friends. Women, right? Women! Where would I be without friends of friends ?? Well, I shouldn't really condemn these girls as mere accessories of the guys with whom I've been abandoned, because they might have the good fortune of being single or sisters or casual friends, but --in coarse observation-- I notice that each of these women is as attractive as mine , the one I came with, not more, but in the same way, and I should say, they appear prone to having the same bad taste in men, us sitting there, and for an avalanche of seconds, I feel that I am truly one with the rest of them, no different, and that we are all the same kind of sucker for a similar look. It occurs to me suddenly that beautiful women are brash equalizers and what exactly am I doing in this waiting room , this GAS CHAMBER?? Anyway, I try my best to belong, if only for a half hour, God willing, I pray for brevity and prompt release. I worry about it beingther's tongue, and if I'm not Mistaken, There is enough extra to make this gift contact unsanitary. What's Worse, the tongue grotesquely happy curls, from the tip backward, in a slow curve, to Receive the gum, it hugs Which triumphantly, Before the pair disappear Actively Into the mouth chewing. Of course, it wasn't a slow curve, But There is an abolishment of time in the feeling of surprise or nausea. They debate about Which is harder, the skulls of men or That of a particular dog. They talk about Their fish. Apparently, They own a species of fighting fish - or normal fish Perhaps They train for combat. They talk about staring at the respective tanks for hours, waiting for the business, the thin ribbons of red, shredded the fins. That annoyed One Becomes The Other Wants to

Wearing Gartered Stockings memory is Hell (a museum)

Someone asked me if I joined in the Hispanic-American Immigration walk-outs/marches of the past few weeks, being that I'm Mexican and darkly so. Did I feel any obligation to attend? Nope, not at all, I'm no copper ingot. I was there at the very first rally downtown, not totally, I was merely there. I woke up that morning in a mood to go swimming, it was very hot, but I wound up doing quite the opposite or perhaps the same, that is, milling around. For days, there was a peculiar message being circulated among my countrymen , an eager plot to suffocate a street with bodies--a street I'm rather fond of seeing--and although some of the sweatier bodies I can do without, I dressed mine up in white and answered the call. As a whole, it reminded me of recess in tand that's Mostly free of her own egotistical intrusion, she originate-A Beginning and an end, And Then it's easy for her to exserted to middle. The middle is Mostly Composed of Ample pairings, subtle contrasts That mimic right / wrong, fun / boring, pain / pleasure, man / woman, etc. in object and action. A Writer Who Is Constantly thinking about writing you with memories and commerce Better Hopes, she will hook Into sally forward and futures variable as Many as possible, in effect her present state is the nexus of a web taut, never static, always vibrant, yet Adhering to timeless themes. Working with the present is oppressive, bothersome. Or maybe I'm just Incapable of setting forth opinions on Subjects Which Need to Be Informed via up-to-the-minute news and reports. For example, I've never felt the sliarrive to take center stage. Each faux window greeny Opened Into a quadrangle, a space Which Seemed uniform in appearance, going from window to window, pero a troubling difference Could Be spotted in the minute glyphs etched on the enclosing walls. Were These symbols as random and unintelligible As Any circular or linear design on an exotic animal hide. There WAS no sense in Trying to Read Them, Even If They Were left as warnings or instructions'. The windows all Seemed to point to (Perhaps fawn over) to shimmering gem in the center in September, What Was Surely - I Knew in dreams! - A minor

aleph in the Borgesia sense, a piece of glass That Contained the sun , the stars, Basically an exact model of the universe, Perceived as an assemblage of views or a small haystack of Splintered memories, but I was no longer peering through (at?) a window at all ... I was standing over a small, nondescript table, atop which was placed a flat fish bowl with rounded edges. Two submerged eyes swam about inside, lively as leashed fish or insidious balls-and-chains. Remarkably, these sentient orbs were unusually independent, they lacked the presence of a master brain fixed behind them. Instead, the thin membranes were loosely connected to a flat leech-like disc pressed to the rear of the glass, what might have looked like a scummy wall outlet. This mass was disturbingly oval and textured like ground meat, not grayish as would be expected, but verdigris. I realized very suddenly that, in order to employ the staggering visual effects of the
aleph
, I would have to devour tback to me as stark elderly abuse, But all the high fives I got from my fellow hecklers made me feel like I WAS doing the right thing (although I WAS MOST Certainly not). Thanks guys! With your reassurance, I can terrorize a Thousand grandmas!

theskimyoucrew : One of the Last Remaining sites on the web, Along With

les_voyages and

the_reviewers , to still bear mention to the

enprise / Brian Sullivan creature on the front page splash of Theire. Now, I do not read enprise 's last threads Surviving, But They persist in wanton of a writing community, and it Discomforts me to know of Their final resting place, Their ghastly stays, on These desert sands of Livejournal. It's like the weathered bust of Ozymandias. Anyway, It Does not seem right, after all, Having a place WHERE Are writers supposed to congregate. Instinctually, writers Are Not supposed to act in ANY WAY supposed Already by Others Before Them. They'll find comfort in a dark crevice Before they'll relax under a common LINK, a strict symbol. Needless to say, my application Here was dimly received, But what's this? It's like a Homels person Offering you a pair of pennies. I Must Admit to Being disgustingly irate back then. Not very graceful at all. It's shocking, actually, reading it over makes me wince. I Would Rather read a much more Collected invective. Maturity is far more relaxed. You'll forgive the agency of the quote in the link, it's really

Thomas Carlyle, pero as echelle Duly Noted, I'm partial to the old bait and hook . mmmrorschach : Note These rave reviews from the aforemention community. The second to last one or third or Fourth, Depending on the future, willing and the art one snacks on. To be honest, I can't deal with as much art as he juggles on a regular basis. Sometimes I'm gripped with a fear that so much exposure to art will drastically age me. The brain will burst forth with shoots of gray. The face will mimic the wrinkles of thought. I can imagine the sustained convolution as I'm forced to consider the manifold networks of influence in each piece. The constant fermentation would be overwhelming. For example: I am riding the bus one day when a Black guy with an IPOD sits next to me. He's listening to my favourite 2Pac album, Me Against The World , very loudly, in fact, we could be splitting his earpieces. Let it be written, I HATE IPODS. I can't help myself. I make a utters a saying, it sounds like a proverb, right? Like clockwork, an implacable gear whirs and turns in his noodle, he repeats it, Yeah! he says, A coward dies a thousand deaths, a soldier dies but once... I think it's an African proverb. I laugh in his face without a hint of remorse and I likely spit on him unvoluntarily. It occurs to me that he, like so many others, is a mere keeper of common knowledge, and even though he is quite adept at retaining abstract information, it is devoid of usefulness and application. No, I regret to inform him--I don't know why people ever say this--rather I take great satisfaction in telling him, that the quote is undoubtedly ... Shakespeare! You know, a lot of things in life are plain derivatives, and if you c kadigan . It's the circle of life and it rules us all. bow: The middle journal Between You, my books, and MOST of my translations. This post will mark the last of my translations to Appear in this journal. Coming up: poetry by Silvina Ocampo, Evaristo Carriego, Enrique Banchs, Almafuerte, José Saramago, etc., Never Before translated opinions of JLB, and stories by Leopoldo Lugones, Horacio Quiroga, and Rubén Darío. Finally, hotlavamonster

: There Was Something about this poem, Which I'm about t, Whose basin Things are dead and live as shadows ideas, and one of the cops next That is death in that whiteness. of how beautiful the world Owned by the age of the full moon. sad and longing to be loved, pain in the heart trembles. There is a city in the air, almost invisible A city suspended, Whose vague profiles on the clear transparent night. As the lines of water in a statement, Its multifaceted crystallization. A city so far, That anguish with his comic presence. Is it a city or a ship The land was abandoned. Quiet and felice s, and with such purity, only our souls live in the white plenilunar? ... And suddenly crosses a vague Shivering by the serene light. lines fade,
The immense changes in white stone,
and only remains on the fateful night The certainty of your absence. Bleached Solitude Beneath the calm of sleep, a lunar glowing calm of silk, the night as if It Were the soft body of silence, beds down in immensity Itself Gently, sweetly ... STI Unleashes Mane And in a phenomenal bloom of boulevards. turn sheer lines across the clear night like rays of water down a sheet of glass, a polyhedral crystallization. A city so distant That audacious Presence ITS arouse misery.
Was it a city or a boat on
Which Might Have we cast off earth speechless and happy Such purity and with That Our Souls Would only thrive in the white of the harvest moon? Suddenly, a vague commotion crosses the halcyon light. The lines evaporate, immensity shifts to white stone, and the only debris in the ominous night: the clarity of your Absence.