Friday, November 28, 2003
"You saved my life. I'll spare yours, for now."
He's trained in her language.
"Are you sure you're a supreme being?"
A jumble with liquor, O mountain-dwelling scholar-poet?
Mandarin profiting from friendships?
Bean-head hung back from the trend?
A simple turn of the ignition, what's the big deal?
This is a new piece in workshop.
It just keeps getting bigger.
A journey within the fifth element,
scarcely more than a timing device on a wall.
I've discovered the timing device on the wall
so I urged the board to add more.
Everybody loves her, so much crap
in her head, her under-the-tongue spray
shooting pool footage of unauthorized oil
scooping the seawall catastrophizing the wetlands,
placating death spirals to disengage the telesurgeons.
"Don't shoot to sputter the plan!" she
says, "Then management would feel mortified
so exposed it'd feign ignorance, aimlessly
taking off for dioramas of moments
biting negotiators until new urgencies
or life capital to breed you catches on."
Man, she is weird.
posted byJack 10:56 AM
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
While this is a totally accessible love poem, some metadata are available. And though there is nothing in these data that is difficult to value, note the area marked "mountaineering" deploys the words that were originally computed using an interpolated resolution Interrupted Goode Homolosine simplicity and, more, there are no new, shiny, cheerful concepts to get run over by, secondly, no death of art behind the scenes theories that may have been treated as if they were parts of an original datum to confuse you. This dataset, of course, has no intellectual pretensions, yet women continue listening to both sides. Love under these conditions is purely an expression in which the writer (I was going to write wirer) broke his ankle getting to it – if he did break his ankle (and if the writer is male and not footless) – along with the mixed feelings of the author who could be some distinctly other entity than the writer (or wirer) based on a near-permanent icecap. These then are my instrument and set approach – the "my" referring to me, the person showing you how to turn the instrument and set a course to you now. If I take another step (there is a gap in the data here).
Differences associated with biological sex should not be construed as genetic differences. Love is all about communication. Altitude to altitude. A love dataset appreciates and values you as the parcel of the mountain it celebrates the triumph of, the human mist descending amidst the usual pitfalls and calamities – not that there are pitfalls today, our noting the routes we could take, the date, the weather, they can be avoided or otherwise subsumed into these data which have so few lines, and so few words, and fewer syllables than the downfall circuit has forks in its path to count now. Each line, you could say every word, and all syllables perform as in one spin of the 'compass' between the two (of X), both a physical point and a point in time when the two evolve into one, and when you think about it, it was right somehow, and symbolic, you could say. Technically, I'd agree, oh yes! Historically, no! there is no good because I'm with you, my love. And consummation is a no. Below a hundred thousand feet or more from here, readers would each lose their way in a pathless scrubland reading the data in an identical manner and derive the same message (sorry, there's another gap).
This set, like all good waymarks, tells a story but what does that mean? While at times recording bitterness, anger, resentment, xenophobia, and hints of racism, its ultimate report is affirmative. It finds self-mastery even in those spiteful moments – was it something to do with me? No, you see, men focus on only one side and block out the other, even though, apparently, it's instinctive to attempt to listen to both. Do you feel like leading a life that the other shares with you? This question represents the hope for a love that doesn't turn its back on what a paraglider would feel like, that doesn't think it's better than the one who screams back, "no, it was something to do with me!" that is committed in other words to pop culture, like hedge climbing and fly opening. "I have no dogma!" Fair enough but it follows there's no point, and there's absolutely nothing fashionable in not being yourself. So it says I may as well switch back to just what it says. It's love.
posted byJack 5:21 AM
Monday, November 24, 2003
Democrats
Beagle w/beige hat folding newspaper
Collie searching for frozen yellow bones
Saluki holding pinking sheers in mouth
Corgi spinning in washing machine, a fox
Terrier in FinnAir plane w/box cutter
Irish Setter hitting on her erogenous zones
Dalmatian in bed w/blood around mouth
Collie pushed into Express mailbox
Spaniel hung from gallows w/lights
Basset on phone tongue in dog food
Pug standing in gold fluid w/pink underbelly
Labrador hiding face sucks on ice cube
Pit Bull sits tangled in tree w/leash & kites
Doberman, unglued, drives Jeep off the road
Greyhound licks floppy banana, woolly
Afgahn drowning in pierced innertube
Airedale turns histrionic on motor scooter
Pomeranian baring teeth to faun titmouse
Chihuahua agonizing getting elfin tattoo
Great Dane dithering in vinyl doghouse
Chinnok agog disappears chasing looter
Puli explores xenophobia on rocking horse
Spitz cuddles drapery, naps too
Boxer cleaning teeth changes mood
Poodle topping the Chihuahua w/fresh scar
Pointer sniffing explosives in farmers' market
Dalmatian tied down on futon w/starlet
Shih Tzu knocked out on putting green
Shih Tzu in barrel w/red pork rinds, sick
Pomeranian necklaced w/black cord
Rottweiller fetching orange prosthetic
Weinmaraner sprawled on ice slab, bored
Schnauzer w/bobbing head in fish tank
Corgi smashed into GMC truck boink!
Greyhound hurling on see-saw, feeling fine
Poodle wearing tight jeans in oyster bar.
posted byJack 6:11 AM
Saturday, November 22, 2003
Your god will be my god.
The music has a good beat and couples can dance to it.
This is like my mother's room.
Where you die I will die.
She promised me immortal life
A role that made me a teen idol
A part in the story I have no knowledge of.
I gradually began to buy a few things, and branched out a
Little finding a passion for Universal Monster movies
Blood of the Gods, Zap, Progenitors.
Peers make movies a fast food order
The Jam Truck, The Prowler
I mean it, Gloria!
Bring no food into this room
For the next month..
That's a lifestyle.
I chose a pink Beetle with 4-wheel drive monster tires.
That's not to say there'll be no food.
But there's no tie-in currently.
The worst Xmas I got
Presents like Woody Woodpecker "Bike Gear" - four plastic toys and a pa-
Per sack. This consists of: Water Bottle, Wheel Clacker, Bike Spinner, & License Plate.
Life with Louie was bad – and familiar – cheap shit in a paper sack.
Inside: five skate boarders (yellow, red, blue, orange and pur-
Ple colored boards) and one policeman.
I'm obviously a fan fighting a heavyweight battle.
I'll never forget my Angus with battering ram,
Torc with bonus toy arms, Deirdre with spinning shield.
Mom says, Eek! Strava Ganza - five
PVC figures and a cardboard box.
Plus a Patti Mayonnaise keychain.
I can't tell her I've misplaced my Raven book clip, the
Maleficent ruler & stencil, my Prince Phillip paint brush & palette.
There's no poetry but in California
Still. Very still are these Blimpie silly squirts.
I played the perseverance maze game and won
A coloring and activity book. These too:
You Can Count on Me - A Tale of Loyalty - MIP
You Can Do It - A Tale of Further Perseverance - MIP
Kindness Is the Key - A Tale of Respect - loose SOLD
Let's see, where's that Larry Cucumber? Or Laura Carrot's
Beep tugboat??
The Opal Orange or Larry Lime Brown Bag Jr Marbles are $2.00.
Sugar consumption skyrockets
I'm full now of feast superstitions.
The Yakko is looking for something to do with a degree in English.
I just read teenage boys get ten percent of their daily
Calories from sodas. That's how
They become bilingual superstars. See ya.
(Yakko balances when pushed.
It's just not going to be brought into the house.)
posted byJack 8:12 AM
Thursday, November 20, 2003
Blurbs for the day.
I am less offended than struck dumbfounded by a writer who argues to the point that one must have similar or comparable experience to that of the writer to argue effectively, or for that matter, to speak.
I could be more readily offended by hateful arguments that attempt to censor as they impugn in the defense of anything. Most arguments of this category are hysterically stupid, though. I wipe away the snot from laughing too hard.
posted byJack 6:35 AM
Monday, November 17, 2003
A note from Daniel Abdal-Hayy Moore regarding dear John Wieners.
I got wind of [your Faux] site by reading a wonderful reminiscence of John Wieners ... John and the Four Dunn(e)s, so sweetly characterizing his ethereal character. I met John in Boston in 1965, when he was working at the magazine subscription counter at Filene's Basement... natty in a tailored suit, his brownish-blondish hair swept back, and when I introduced myself via Dave Haselwood of Auerhahn Press in San Francisco where I was hailing from, he became shy and said it was embarrassing to be found "worshipping at the altar of Mammon..." We met after his shift and as he walked down the street I saw him visibly become more satyr-like, his Capricorn features and wilder nature blooming. I lived in the North End of Boston for about a year, went to Tuesday evenings at Steve Jonas's with David Rattray, and John would come over to my apartment from time to time, unannounced, and come in, sit almost silently, write a perfect poem in tiny script, and leave. He once arrived at the door in overalls. And when I saw Denise Levertov in Santa Barbara many years later she remembered that she and I went with John to the train station where he was going home to his family, and actually commitment to a mental institution. When I suggested his family has something to do with it (David Rattray's theory I think) she became somewhat huffy and said, "No, John was mad." Which, of course, he was... but [your] piece very perfectly captures the grit and delicate balance of the man, and his offhand genius.
Thanks.
-- Daniel Abdal-Hayy Moore
www.danielmoorepoetry.com
posted byJack 1:47 PM
Sunday, November 16, 2003
It intervened only once. All our troubles disappeared.
posted byJack 6:55 PM
It doesn't love you. It loves what you do.
posted byJack 6:15 PM
It's not a toy. It's an example of us.
posted byJack 6:13 PM
We are demolishing only artificiality.
posted byJack 5:55 PM
I kiss the air.
This.
posted byJack 4:15 PM
Architecturally this is a table and you're mine.
posted byJack 4:00 PM
You're my business.
posted byJack 3:56 PM
You're almost naked.
posted byJack 3:55 PM
If I had it in my power I'd take your fucking career and money making off the table.
posted byJack 3:46 PM
My spinal column heats up when I think of you.
posted byJack 3:44 PM
Remember when you tried to get me to stand straight?
posted byJack 3:41 PM
It's great I contain your entire enterprise.
posted byJack 3:38 PM
Another design for you: I am your blue pen: the ink runs out in your direction: you are well.
posted byJack 3:35 PM
You know, just because your Dad was rich doesn't mean you need to concentrate on wealth and protective societies.
posted byJack 3:32 PM
My blog is a pitching machine. Your masterpiece? Use me again and again. Here's the pitch.
posted byJack 3:28 PM
Your other boy friends? I really don't want to get rude. I know them. Isn't that cool?
posted byJack 3:23 PM
I'd straighten you out: here's how: I'm your pen and also I've got a pencil and pad: talk to me: talk to me now: dictation is one way to show you love me.
And it's not too late, love: every day I think of you: here.
The ink and lead are still warm.
posted byJack 3:21 PM
If I had it in my power I'd take your fucking career and money making off the table.
posted byJack 2:11 PM
Saturday, November 15, 2003
I also fall over reading this local. He's officially pseudonymous, just another Karl: "...so Bob brains a rooster with that salad shooter that he bought at a discount, or products split me into woodcuts I admire and am reproduced by."
posted byJack 2:52 PM
I might be looking for trouble without really wanting to. Looks to me, tho, Carl Annarummo could be the new David Hess, minus the anxiety of influenza. This guy's fun like Hess and light on his paws.
posted byJack 2:08 PM
Friday, November 14, 2003
They guess while they're acting.
posted byJack 7:59 AM
Sex is a sardonic comfort with a sober edge.
posted byJack 7:45 AM
They leaked this against my wishes.
posted byJack 7:15 AM
I fear their sarcasm.
posted byJack 7:05 AM
Oh, they'll give you that – we had a few laughs.
posted byJack 6:58 AM
Thursday, November 13, 2003
The blog market is heading south. Minimum investor curiosity. More caution among traders, capital on a much shorter leash. Some players headed for the sidelines. Classic formulae for growth *opportunity*…jump in!
posted byJack 11:20 AM
They've been zeta-jonesing on pneumatic garbage.
posted byJack 7:12 AM
They ran out of tokens.
posted byJack 7:08 AM
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
They mentioned Keston fingers algae.
posted byJack 8:05 AM
If you'd stop talking they might begin to get well.
posted byJack 7:47 AM
A truth serum makes them say hurtful things.
posted byJack 7:45 AM
You're welcome to stay over, they say.
posted byJack 7:43 AM
Their intelligence shows everybody loves them.
posted byJack 7:41 AM
They make it look like an accident. "I'm not asking for your hand in marriage."
posted byJack 7:39 AM
Have they considered substance abuse?
posted byJack 7:38 AM
They believe a younger man can jump higher, and it'd be fun too if you had their money.
posted byJack 7:34 AM
You're crushed inside a limo waiting for their driver.
posted byJack 7:31 AM
They say the sketch is in peril.
posted byJack 7:15 AM
They yell, they cry, they draw their knees up to their chest.
posted byJack 7:03 AM
According to the Times they remain useful for their possession of a uterus.
posted byJack 6:56 AM
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Oh, the piece below is for Billy Collins.
posted byJack 7:57 AM
Are males necessary?
It takes persistence, scandal strategy
Progressive scans, affordable theater
At the drop of an earring Paulo is 42
A speck in the ocean that is to say
He's steamed by the light of the moon.
Male chimps seek many partners --
Take that, Sir Nurse, Sir New Ager, You
Masterpiece, Preacher of Hate
A dead fish and one rose in aluminum
Taped to the windshield a piece of a card
With a single word, Stop.
Dirty sex is an ellipsis, people are living
Longer, improve your memory
Wash the scum off.
What goes around comes gasping
The more irregular the breathing
Looks like the kid's breathing!
Male spoon worms live inside the female
A male redback dies inside the female
Reproductive tract! Somersaulting
Into his mates' fangs just to get eaten
While copulating! Why separate? Male sea hares
To female male to female beneath the waves.
posted byJack 7:42 AM
Monday, November 10, 2003
The piece below is for Dennis Cooper (Ralph Waldo Immersion).
posted byJack 12:57 PM
If the next event didn't happen, I'd soon be unable to afford my apartment or a boyfriend. I'm speaking plagiarizingly plain.
Also this simple: I'm used to being around torpid dead bodies.
So I could recover from Taro before very long. But I'd never recover from not being able to afford him, or the apartment.
That evening I was alone. Dear dead Taro was 'out of town, attending some computer convention.' That's what I was signaling to everyone before I even began. Looking around I thought some guys in the club seemed unusually hushed and grateful to be there, but not me.
I started out as a beat spammer in the Southern. Drinking Evian now and availing myself of Dawson, a gorgeous hanger-on, my new meal mate, I started spilling biodata: "My first big project was I deleted your xcym email, which did 16 or 18." The hanger-on looked engaged, "Domestically?" He was trying to spook me with big hanging wolf eyes. "Maybe more like—15," I said. "And worldwide?" "Didn't go worldwide. But it had legs, taking it way beyond the first 48." Clad to the hilt in gray-to-black cashmere, we weren't discussing our real business at table. Taciturnity in such morbid surroundings was statutory. "Mm," he said. He was staring at my clogs, wondering how much they cost.
***
I'm focused on Dawson drooling into his gag. As Denis put it earlier, "he's so zoned, he's through sulking."
(I accused him of cockiness. Maybe I was imagining things.)
"Teenage skin is so damn close," Denis chirps. Fifteen minutes earlier we three lay side by side, light tunnels, all that.
"Hey, do whathever you want," Dawson mumbles, working the gag loose.
Denis pleads, "I just don't want to .. hurt you, you know?" I pipe in, "Yeah, yeah, yup."
"Ok, I won't."
"Awethome."
"Yeah."
Click.
A weird, gnarly harmony feeds back from its black roots. Resonance. The bass is so ferocious it can't all be pinned down in cool triads. All the chords forthcoming are also miming an avalanche of death metal blasts.
Bzzzz. The doorbell.
Denis is quick, dressing. "Your shirt's on inside out."
A throat-clearing shadow crosses the room. It's Taro back from the convention. He forgot his keys. Sure.
"So, how's Dawson. Slept with him yet?"
"I don't know," I say. "Good question."
Dawson looks up from the rug, fake sobbing.
"It's an amusing idea," Taro offers.
The phone rings. It's Johnny Kingsley, a.k.a. Kana.
Taro answers. "No, I didn't touch him."
Taro and Johnny are friends from the old country. "Dawson's not a bad kid, just got a bad take on business thanks to those lyrics of that ratty band he's supposed to be into" -- Johnny on speakerphone sounds as if he had his tongue waxed. Hitting all the consonants that Japanese find difficult.
"Maybe later," Taro rushes off the phone.
Denis wedges himself between Dawson and me. Waving a hand, Taro shrieks, "You know, this is my TV room."
He means studio.
"I understand Dawson volunteered to make this a love video," Denis modulates, "addressed to you as his boyfriend."
Nearly hurling, I race for the bathroom and shut the door creaking behind me.
"Thirteen years old. My TV room," Taro says, tearing up.
On TV, Dawson in yellow powder state, 'freeze-frame'...
"Yow.." Taro cries.
Dawson is still a little wiped. So is Denis. Dawson is frowning. Denis is blabbing. Taro is a little fucked up too. "Just starting one." "Cool." They're doing some lines. The thing now is not to get fucked up too often.
When I step out of the shower, I find Taro and the others split. There's a text message on the phone, from Johnny:
Cute, yeah. Right, I decide. It'll be ready next weekend.
posted byJack 4:31 AM
Saturday, November 08, 2003
I waited a little for him to turn over and flash his green eyes. "Well, then, I'm going to tell everything."
I can't go on even now without writing I'm sorry. I had a terrible scare.
I'm using my Blackberry.
Would you like to ask me questions or can I diagram the problem?
I came home yesterday dying for sex like the first time, and it's entirely because of my horniness I couldn't hold back. He had his languid hands up in the air and made eyeglasses with his fingers, meaning he was ready. I don't know why I expected to take the lead but I couldn't bear being contradicted.
And that wasn't all. He said, "What were you saying just now?" (I had shut the shit up.) I know he's like that. He interrupted Primal Scream to ask me. I was upset without understanding anything.
All those big diamond X's surrounding the Y.
Two minutes after the fireworks were going off everywhere at the same time. Instead of going up, one missle turned and went through his body like a knife. He fell face down, and I threw myself on top of him, entering and exiting him repeatedly like mad.
So that's it. I don't know, but I didn't enjoy anything the rest of the night.
Except it all seemed like a fluke and it was. After a while he looked at his watch and said, "It's time."
posted byJack 7:12 AM
Friday, November 07, 2003
I reached for the bedside phone. "Oh, yeah. Just felt like talking." A look of tedium crossed the other's face. "No, it's fine. Is your mom awake?"
* * *
"Does she have a boyfriend or anything?" He didn't react. "I know." I acknowledged his indignation with a nod. "Oh, well, that's good to know," I added. "Your own gender, hell." "I told you that before." Okay, I thought, but what about the strippers on your refrigerator?
I could have fucked myself unclutching the phone. "That would be nice," the other said. "Based on what?" He blinked at me. Color had risen to his cheeks. "I want us to be in charge."
"I'm gonna need my computer."
A quiet patch followed that grew into a void. "I know, I just thought…" (I saved the writer in him for last. I smiled at his participle, as it were.) "Oh yeah. Absolutely."
His new digs across the garden were a study in straight camp. And he was such a sunny guy.
He's counting on me, I thought. "God, babe, sure…of course." Giving me the once over, he was like an executive at curtain call. "It would work, wouldn't it?" He too nodded, though his face was unreadable.
"We were lovers in the beginning but it didn't take." "But he doesn't believe me." "You don't know that for sure." "I do." "Well?" And with that he twisted around to gaze up at me. I had not expected this. On the other hand, what choice did I have? There's a term in telephony called 'room tone' that came to mind, an ordinary silence. My heart stopped altogether as I held my breath and the other picked up the phone. Does he think I'd put him through this again?
"Yeah, I'm here."
"Oh, you."
"No. It's not."
"Does he ever…"
"Forget it…"
"Because?"
"Look, he…"
"You don't?"
"I would."
"Well…"
"You know what I think."
"You have to promise…"
"Yeah, but…"
What I heard while I waited for him was the room tone. The next five or six seconds would be the ones that mattered. At dusk I could walk him up to the edge of the Black Forest to clear our heads. I'd check my appointment book for clues. I remember reading as much in his galleys. He waited a moment more, then said, "No."
We had stumbled upon a larger issue. "Think about it." I laughed. "Some of those guys were hot." I learned enough to give capsule updates. And there was something else: I wanted to share him with you.
posted byJack 5:59 AM
Thursday, November 06, 2003
It must have been seven or so. "No," he said, "that's fine." The old men, the regulars, glanced up. Everybody was watching now. "Just the eggs." I nodded self-consciously at the six or seven regulars. It had been a long day. The weather had absolutely nothing to do with it. I wasn't stupid.
I had never given it much thought. For a long moment I stared at the door. Sixty seconds later I was reconnected. "Eggs," he said. "You live around here?" In those days the game of cat and horse was popular. "Nice to meet you." The irony wasn't lost on me. I saw coiled limbs, claws, yellow thighs. He turned to me. "I can't – I'm working."
He reached out a hand. "Yeah, something like that." There was a noise at the door.
So I had it. "It's going to be all right." I'd never really given it much thought. "We can put it in the back."
I was standing in the doorway. Then it was up the stairs. "The poor thing." Ten minutes later I was directing it back to my building. It was looking tired. The upshot of all this was I found myself in the cool subterranean glow. "What about the blood?" His eyes were shining. "No," he said, "no way. Too big."
We didn't say much on the way. A moment drifted by, neither of us speaking. "You look terrific," I said. It had begun to rain again. I felt a stab of disappointment. Eventually I fished a leather jacket out of a pile of laundry. He cut me off. "No, it's not the money, it's just –"
I was up before him in the morning, careful not to wake him as I eased myself from the mattress where we'd wound up. I was watching him out of the corner of my eye. He was looking tired at the end of his shift. The carpeting – every last strip of it – had been torn out of the floor. "You don't think it can get inside, do you?" "I've really got to get home," he said. He was still holding my arm, "I know." "Metal. We'll have to get a metal one."
posted byJack 9:13 AM
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
Thanks for the Pumpkins, Li.
posted byJack 2:42 PM
Tuesday, November 04, 2003
Weather is unfair.
posted byJack 6:52 PM
Vincent Warren fucked a god.
posted byJack 12:40 PM
There's a description he kept inside.
posted byJack 12:32 PM
Between description and silence there's one's periphery. It's a skin thing.
posted byJack 12:30 PM
Let's rewrite Biotherm, he says.
(So he's not Adrienne.)
posted byJack 11:47 AM
There's no description I can give but the lion took the eagle's wings yet kept his own name.
Then he had an idea.
posted byJack 11:44 AM
There's no way to rhyme loose.
posted byJack 11:42 AM
Description wonders how high the apartment can get.
posted byJack 11:39 AM
I've just noticed I haven't said anything.
posted byJack 11:38 AM
The rain gives everybody a second or third chance. But not him.
Then it starts to smoke.
posted byJack 11:34 AM
The smoke asks you for some fluid poems.
posted byJack 11:32 AM
The smoke says clarification, I miss you.
posted byJack 11:30 AM
Smoke circles your face.
Admit it, you miss smoking.
You miss the first drag.
The smoke takes you in its stride.
posted byJack 11:27 AM
His eyes are all red. Yay.
posted byJack 11:24 AM
He says you're not fluid after all.
posted byJack 9:43 AM
Let's not get personal. It's not your way.
posted byJack 7:51 AM
Jim says he's you.
You have Chickee by the what?
posted byJack 7:44 AM
He's calling for faux.
Oh, faux's head.
posted byJack 7:42 AM
Thus, Chickee is a guy.
posted byJack 7:41 AM
Sooner or later he gets discomforted in knowing the gender thing has this peculiar tripwire that in one tumble of its silt and salt waves it is burdened by questions which, as prescribed by the watery nature of ocean itself, it is not able to ignore, but which, as wetting and wetted in all its brine, it is also ill-equipped to answer.
posted byJack 7:38 AM
Let's give Jim an ink brush, he says.
(So he's not Jim.)
posted byJack 7:05 AM
You say faux funny.
posted byJack 7:01 AM
Johnson and Yeats?
posted byJack 6:56 AM
Bunting and Burroughs. Davenport and Davidson. Winch and Wink.
He likes Li Bloom beside Harold, and Deer Head between The Book of Job and Not Me. But why not Toscano (Platinum) and Thurber (Fables of Our Time)?
He's not done with either.
posted byJack 6:32 AM
Since he's fetishless, he appreciates posting in West Coast time.
posted byJack 6:27 AM
Stop waving that grape juice.
Language is tired.
posted byJack 6:23 AM
Homonyms cleave.
posted byJack 6:16 AM
Monday, November 03, 2003
Left or leaving?
posted byJack 6:53 PM
To wear to sport a question. Run it by the effusion meter.
posted byJack 3:08 PM
He imagines you wearing his credentials.
posted byJack 2:17 PM
Your eyes filled with manpower.
posted byJack 2:14 PM
Your hair's on the brink.
posted byJack 2:13 PM
He calls Die, Mommie, Die a timely film. Like what 'settled' over the sky that fell into crap.
posted byJack 1:46 PM
Calamity and the boxer, have they money?
posted byJack 1:41 PM
To him poetry is gossip.
posted byJack 1:33 PM
Have or are, what's the diff?
posted byJack 1:30 PM
It's the same with or without.
You're looking a little snappish.
posted byJack 1:28 PM
He can't write but he's the editor?
posted byJack 1:27 PM
The rumor is he's left you.
posted byJack 1:24 PM
You look fine, really.
posted byJack 1:20 PM
You are an average background.
posted byJack 1:15 PM
He can't make distinctions between you and a fluid structure whose surface disturbances and incomprehension and covers sound without obvious grotesqueries and words.
posted byJack 1:14 PM
He's getting ready for the turnaround.
posted byJack 9:51 AM
Fear of eletrocution shaving nose hair.
posted byJack 7:44 AM
He allows himself to dream nice girls don't explode.
posted byJack 6:47 AM
Margins are low. He's preaching discipline.
posted byJack 6:46 AM
Any new territories is back burner for him.
posted byJack 6:42 AM
Inner slackitude shows on his face.
posted byJack 6:36 AM
Male pattern burn out.
posted byJack 6:30 AM
Sunday, November 02, 2003
He writes for the body.
posted byJack 2:05 PM
Seething, mangy Turkish pizza.
posted byJack 9:35 AM
Free of complexity.
posted byJack 9:34 AM
He licks trash.
posted byJack 9:28 AM
Defeating you.
posted byJack 9:17 AM
He is creating a catalogue raisonne of his partisan desires.
posted byJack 8:52 AM
He toils in obscurity channeling an instant party site.
posted byJack 7:43 AM
He takes design more seriously.
posted byJack 7:08 AM
Any body.
posted byJack 7:06 AM
Saturday, November 01, 2003
Language photographs for you.
posted byJack 7:27 PM
Everybody's ass is red and pinky. He wonders about the hive.
posted byJack 7:12 PM
It's so easy to talk up Tan Lin if you wanna. John Latta again.
posted byJack 7:34 AM
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