Month: December 2010

PALL

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The unspeakable tragedy of recent events casts a pall of fear and uncertainty around the world.
It seriously casts a pall and a really awkward silence.
The smoke of raging fires casts a pall.
The Cold War casts a pall over a family.
Yogi’s Absence Casts a Pall Over Old Timer’s Day Already Tinged with Sadness., casting a pall over jazz musicians as far away as New York and Europe.
Insider trading casts a pall over Tokyo.
Violence casts a pall over Brazil.
An unpleasant greenish tinge to blacks casts a pall over the darker scenes.
Deadly elephant virus casts a pall over captive breeding programs here for Asian elephants.
The transposed hatred casts a pall to the depths of their minds; they are accompanied throughout their lives by an inexplicable melancholia.
Smog casts a pall over sex life of birds.
The stench of the penned-up animals casts a pall over the memorial event.
A sudden incident casts a pall in Beijing.
A slow, dusty way of life casts a pall of depression and enervating pace among the townsfolk.
That fact casts a pall over some of our grand tech visions.
Global slump casts a pall over Chinese New Year.
Never knowing whether your baby chicks are going to live or die casts a pall of uncertainty and gloom.
“Emotional”/“physical” distinction casts a pall of apparent antiscience over our work and makes us appear obsolete from the outset.
Death Casts a Pall Over Trials, its little paws curling, tail twitching, brilliant black eyes losing their luster as the specter of death casts a pall over them.
Garlic Mustard Casts a Pall on the Forest.
Such doubt casts a pall over the questions of how is man to live.
Homophobe academician casts a pall on the whole institution.
“The desire to be significant casts a pall.”
Tragedy Casts a Pall Over Armenian Ceremony.
Some things you can never forgive, and the darkness of it casts a pall over everything you do.
Financial unease casts a pall over marriages in general.
Often called the queen of witches, Rangda symbolizes evil, and her appearance on the scene casts a pall on the action.
There is something wrong with indulging yourself if it casts a pall over the team and irritates the hell out of non –booing.
The heedless puerility of it—not to say cruelty—casts a pall over the entire display.
It’s the onset of hay fever that casts a pall over spring.
The whimsical remains, but a gloom casts a pall over the land as well, and the March hare, hatter, cat and mouse are discombobulated.
The tortuous, tantalising, thwarted object whose failure to be attained casts a pall of terrible anxiety over everything.
It casts a pall of unending anomie such that addiction is almost necessary to survive life’s bleak prospects, and yet punishes transgression without regard to particular exigencies.
Indonesian translation of casts a pall: menurunkan…

realia

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Flirting with all these men, many anonymous, distracts me.
Most of them can’t chat or court to save their lives.  I push their dumbness as far as I can, then say ciao.
Others are very impressively smart and wonderfully engaging.  Many of them are funny; it’s a survival skill in that environment. I’ve already found some lovely friends.
I don’t want to have sex with anyone at the moment. I just….
Sometimes I feel such all-encompassing rage that I can imagine my hair sticking straight up, and a glottal roar wanting to come from my chest out my mouth. HOW COULD HE LEAVE ME? On a cellular level, I haven’t yet completely understood this.
Sometimes the gravity of the sadness is such that I imagine myself a melting candle, kind of El-Greco-y, great bags under bassett hound eyes and saggy chin drooping into formlessness.  I think of the satiny texture of his hair. And then I want to roar again, to get that memory away from me.
My head starts to swarm with the projections of all of these men.  I get a little crazy, taking in all these personalities, trying to sort them out, all their variously abject and forceful come-ons. I know that when they take dimension they become something quite other than their electronic ads suggest.  Quite as my husband did.
Betrayal atop betrayal atop betrayal.
I have a cold and so made a lovely chicken soup that I garnished with avocado and cilantro. I am really too sick to go to the Sagittarius party tonight.  I hate not to attend a party.  My voice is deep with my cold, it sounds cool.   I gave a reading yesterday in this deep voice.  The quiet sounds crush around me crush into me as a chant.  Cars on street. Air purifier. Fingers typing.
I want to write a book called “Realia.”  Do you know what that means?
Often I say I want to write a book called such and such and then I don’t, but it’s not like I don’t write books.  I do write books! I can hold them, they take weight and dimension, they have a texture.
I changed my profile to be more mysterious and poetic than it initially was.  I don’t think people really want a lot of concrete information from the get-go.  They want to be intrigued.  It’s fly-fishing.  It’s true that there are a lot of fish in the sea.  My, what a lot of fish!  It’s too bad I’m still too freaked out to have a healthy sense of adventure. Healthy?  Let me think about that.
I seem to have lost a second gold ring.  First I took off my wedding ring, then I lost a gold and ruby ring because I’d got too skinny and it slipped off.  Then I lost another ring, an heirloom from my grandmother.  Also gold and ruby.  I have some vague memory of taking it off and putting it somewhere, and having the thought, “I won’t remember where I put this,” and surely enough I do not remember where I put it.  Is it the drugs?  The bereavement? So weird.  At the moment I am ringless, stripped bare.  I feel…plucked.
Plucked… and strummed… lugubrious harp.  How could he leave me?  The cats yowl in the foyer, chase each other about.  I put words into small boxes and words come back at me. He fucks a little goldfish in the dark midnight.  All is strange.

MARK

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4/14/04

I thought to
well up, with clouds,
and that having water or psychological!
dynamics you were
such situations.
I walked
over me in this.
It really helped. Maybe
the dignified thing is to tramp.
I hate sweating so literal,
women so much and
I gotta
go. Tramp out because be like a term.
Us. What just keeps happening
over again?
And no doubt the
tiny chihuahua, actually, too.
I feel
weird, tired, but … but… a target
city of that. I had decided how
good to talk instead
of concrete.
My
biggest fantasy is a kind of
agitation.
I said I feel terrible about an end.  Actually I
think I basically have
to STRAY.
My heart,
you are quite
completely effeminated.  It is
dangerous to say
that I might
have to run out for
a kind of color of it.
Means.
Meant? That
the city which
was physically blown out in our
cats, will not LIKE doing nothing that is
from your superego. And over and
over because freaked
out about
it.
Drenched in my lap
right now, just having water or
having water poured over, I think TOXIC scum,
when you would be boring
either.
Not really knowing what you would
feel about doing these things,
I talk. No
doubt the
world will dampen
you with you. Answer
these things.  I think
about that, this area just
a target city.
I just turned on me.
I had decided to
point where I
want to tell you want her.
I could feel totally desperate,
as stupid awful, that I can not
come home confront you
sidestep and that’s it, although
I know
about it.
Moments of
joy in the HUMDRUM
WIFE. I could never be too cold because
I feel terrible. That just
meant why
you do sidestep and
want her.
I basically have to
live in my brain and
no hardon
means an
end.
To all human beings, especially
ones with me?
All human beings,
especially ones below, answered,
“I basically have to come home .”
I have
to happen, sweetie. Well, know,
I have written back and
will see
these things, unable to regain
equilibrium.
The state of this
is  you
get to go.
Tramp out
at moments of
these things, because I
feel terrible about instant vaporization and
I will carry you
something good to RECOVER from
someone else?
I feel powerless, covered
with me.  So good.
I was nice enough
to happen.
I am what I love
about an excuse, but tired, not that I feel like
talking about how feeling: bright, sunny, I will
follow soon while still inside
you! Would
be here. Right now,
too.
Get a
kind of fear for you.
What did with Jordan. Now
the walls address
our question; there were
so many to dwell on in
reality.
I had decided to
have told you, to
see a kind
of sex.   I will probably
go to see these
questions.
I love our lives, even
that way of revenge the world dampens.
I hate
how this makes me
what I just
meant. Why you would be like
that,
I think.
Maybe,
we should be meaningful. I think you more
than anything … really
emotional!
vortex.
I DO this in bed with Wanda
pretty much
awful. I just
got a little animal.
I guess going through any obligation
or sitting next to you here will hurt
you, here.
My brain
feels productive, it literally
makes me think. Bodily. I am not
getting anywhere if there is a sexual
encounter?
No exception. How
you are a little animal.
How feeling:
anything wrong. With us. What I address ,
on me.
I think I was in perspective —
just got
a little animal.
How are
violent things
a while? Please! Begging you, even if 
I think
you gotta go. Go get them too, but,
well… sorry. But…
End her, how hot it is
I said. It seems like the
dignified thing to do even to
the forms
of creeps I more 
than ever am supposed to
lash
out at for
you.
Must
make you very close, all
this
little blackmail. You fucking prick
I ask you
that it will always
phone with me
because freaked out
about thinking, because no human
should be unable
to STRAY.
Sorry that would
be boring. I like
to know
all of
these things, about sex?
You
would make it hot and
her reading and look at
least the humdrum wife.
The smell
comes in bed, with me
in the sudden lashing
out.
I can
just draw a line
of intervention from my
reasoning.
It just makes me think.
I love that
you blame me
and our home, for
months.
And disgusting the heart that no human
should be
sitting in.
Now I stop, I should
probably will you with that.
There we should think men are
worse. I love
our cats.
Get home
in bed, with me?
Want to
so love each other, questions,
with clouds, but the way I do it is so
metaphorical.
But good enough, from you, here,
right now. I gotta go, go to. I do.
Any question there was traumatized, and whatever
do you mean by the bed with
whom we will see these things?
“I feel?” is
gorgeous.
I hate this computer screen
to respond to the rain
in the desperation that drives the forms of doing.
Especially when I could
feel that that would be boring
and incredibly ashamed of this.
How to
see these things. But my heart.
My lap right
now.
My makeup.
I will
always feel sick. Right, but
where will I take the
unprecedented step of agitation?
I  should
maybe happen. I thought
that YOU started
up and over and
pillaged my heart and that
would be over, and
feel quite completely
drenched in sweat and I
think I know that
you get rid of intervention from
I guess
not something
very serious.
Not blue, the
world dampened  — what happened?
Why was she suddenly so much
that role? I love this feel
because no hardon means
so because …  be
here.
OK, my turn to do pretty things.
Sure that was thinking about her?
You started while
still keeping your
corpselike body here?
I think intense daily desperation
drives the gesture. Would be QUIET about what I
get enough of and I deserve that there,
actually. You understand
the heat.
I think about her? How
it is really good instead
of these things.
I think men are her. Some of them.
Quite completely drenched
in the forms of fear for you, so you
would make me
STRAY. I
think it up,
again. And the
fantasies, eek! I was to
suffer from that DEMANDING.
Going on? The most passionate
Arabic song.
You have to
be capable of concrete.
Why will she feel
sick and incredibly ashamed
of anxiety,
although I have to
come back from your
head?
I need  some things worse. I
think you do too. But…
but… a sack
of having been sticky and rubbed leaves me
what you think — as that.
At least the smell comes in good
enough, and I of creeps am
thinking to feel sick now —
I was paranoid now.
Most important, the most passionate Arabic song
makes all the
weather
underground …
Psychological! At least at least the
fact of that drugged expression.
Such utter sweetness, I walked over and feeling
bright,
white, not clouds,
or sitting next to threats do
love you. Muggy.
Get
a literal papillon; women
so love this.
I just ignore
it.
Of course it’s so much and
rubs/ leaves
me OUT?
What
you put you put here, right now.
Then a line of intense
daily desperation drives the
walls to some address
in my brain and the
rain.
I hate this,  I basically have
points where I think
about you
even in water,
but please! Begging
you, very much, and absolutely
blindly.
I might
have set off in writing,
onscreen.
I think that you are with
me for my butterfly shaped
ears…
… masking any question of revenge.
Toxic scum, toxic scum,
toxic scum, tresspasser, marauder,
querulous emotional vortex. Saran wrap
of joy that helps this. Why,
the walls attempt to
have told you, and
even worse.
Get enough
sleep, still inside you!
I need to complete
like that, I
love our lives, even in
waves. But I began to
tell you something, that it
was simply weak
because unlike her —
and our home — for a
little angry while I was
her to dwell
in.
The dignified threats
do hate the humdrum
WIFE to cry. I do
this weekend.
But
something about revenge, how the world dampens what
must go to get rid of
them. I am
really good to say
that I am not even
the  kind the beer goddesses know is
dangerous. I
start to have the color
of revenge? The world
dampens what I mean.
Get rid
of concrete. “Why” was stupid,
psychologically, right now, some
sleep still keeping up your
superego.
And I feel,
you fucking prick, that
in me, what feels too much like
that, behind what goes
on.
So, incredibly ashamed of
creeps, I walked over and, unfortunately,
pointed to where I
know I will have always been.
Get enough
now and leave me
a little bit phallocentric.
Nothing but bodily
nice enough sleep, probably because it just
descends on me as
a kind of fear, for
overinterpreting.
Why the kind of
suicide, work, and whatever?
You know what
you know even if there never is talk about it.
I was thinking of this
spinach, carrot, and celery somehow,
that you more
than even that
would be, like, rendered
inarticulate now and heckle
her.
I know it
bodily was
stupid, or was
physically blown out of
revenge — the time. Blackmail.
I think —
I suppose —
I feel them. But
where I think
TOXIC SCUM,
you leave the state
of intense daily desperation driving
the sky’s right particles.
As I do any
dog called a type of
dog called a
constant torment: better to
dwell in writing, onscreen.
Not getting anywhere if it makes me
what I know.
I have an excuse,
that it is dangerous to shutdown.
That world dampening what you like
because unlike the smell
it comes
in bed for a movie
together.
Be QUIET
about prosody when
more than ever
you are supposed
to dwell
in sweat.
Followed that
and pillaged on behind.
What I never was.
Her capable
of what I
just turned on your head.
When you
send me … psychologically…
I am not UGLY. I
was just when
you gotta go.
To call her. Life
is I guess going to respond to a
sack of sex under the
tiny chihuahua chain to make things worse.
Enough from our
life together.  I
am on earth, more Bollywood than even you now.
How to well up, again, maybe the city
is covered with Jordan. Now I think
men are
intimate, are violent things because
close — 
and I was — 
I am —  sitting next to the rain.
Lately
he loves to do some agitation. I
have to something to her, bring someone
home.
Speaking cuttingly,
banging against a call to
her, a call
that no doubt was so metaphorical.
But
why
the color of the
sky
right now?
I feel awful. That chihuahaus
do this makes things worse.
I hate the various forms of mine.
Are you the answer to
these things, about doing nothing?
But I think I do
something good and hungry and muggy. I drink
this morning, lying in
fear. For months.
OK, my intestines are getting what
I love about prosody while I am supposed to play
with me. But… drinking water I do
feel is totally desperate, a type of the
various forms of sex.
Now,
I said,  at least look at
the beer goddesses.  They know where they are
intimate, are
intimate, are her although
I think you left me
one thing to just keep happening
over and over again.  Today, as that
was traumatized and
shrinky, you started up with the clouds,
unable
to enter into
a complete shutdown, especially when I
went out to hurt
you. It could never tell you
what to happen, sweetie. Well… sorry.
I can be boring
and heckle her.
I do talk.
The emotions begin to get rid of
suicide.
Drinking water poured over
that is all we need
to know to
have any focused
way with them.
The smell comes back, and I
get a call from her. More
than ever forget that. Especially, when this
heat is sorry that you very much
and I have to be
me. Crazy.
I think I have to
address you very close and it
means so much or even
MORE than what is most
important.
You in
the screen; I
really emotional! vortex.
Saran wrap
of revenge? Toxic
SCUM. Tresspasser, marauder,
querulous emotional
vortex. Saran
wrap of the beer goddesses. 
The beer goddesses
know that I think they were
there all the time.
And all
human beings, especially ones below, answered.
“I lacked,”
which makes me
while Please! begging you, understand
why. You would be sitting on any
revenge including
the HUMDRUM wife
FROM your head
I hate
the influence, right?
But bodily, I will
feel terrible though maybe
better than ever imagined.
Happen.
I have to happen, sweetie, Well, sorry.
The fantasies —  eek.
I never liked
her, I have to live
in this. Speaking
cuttingly, banging against a movie
together.
Do you get enough to
regain equilibrium?
It was faith, in that no
hardon means an
excuse, but …
but… it is gorgeous, and look
out about instant vaporization and feel
for its butterfly shaped ears.
I was simply weak because
such a little animal.
With me? As the tiny chihuahua
chain would be like the
monster, I drink
this computer screen,
to do something. I have
any of the various
forms of
this pillaged on an excuse, but I
ask you,
will you see these things
about her? Reading
anything in
a sexual encounter?
That drugged
expression.
Such situations.

When you touch me

Nada GordonLeave a comment

5/13/03

When you touch me
I feel a hotness in my crux.
Even when you don’t touch me,
I feel it. Touching feels
a little less sick than not
touching (flies hover near
the eyeballs, how could I
have been so blind?).
Touching. Not only are there no
easy explanations — there are no
explanations — and what explanations
there are are quicksand.
Mercury is silver at the root
      silver at the crux.
Tide turns with blinkers,
even roars the asp.
A roar comes out,
swivelling hips in time
to the pathos of the libertines.
Libertines clasp hands,
go into the room. Squeal:
the excrement of being.
Flashing motel lights
undulant and quick.
The membrane of egregious
discontent.
And what is this
but a spinning orange reaction
stolen from the quarry
of possible reactions, no more
hilarious than everyone’s
daily compounded poignant
endurance, laugh, rattle-whistle,
glottal stop, blow a bubble,
get a little piece of the frenzy
to hold in your hand, darkling
waking, sicker-than-thou, horn
of nothing.
Past perfect unconditional.
Present imperfect conditional.
Makes me shake my white mane,
gaze up brown eyes twitching
I’m objective as a groundhog
appraising shadow’s stretch into
unknown future coldness, as small,
as much a rodent chewing on
your imperfections in the loamy
burrow. Makes me shake the way
you write, clenching me with lyric lies.
Then I murder the kid, roast it in spit.
Amazing darling then the flight
to the object: electrical supplies,
parts and components, sheet metal
fabrication, temporary
personnel — attempts to extricate
from the strictures of a state.
But I’m no J.H. Prynne with these attendant
sighs and fainting rituals, or someone else
who could write more tightly in 100%
humidity. Moisture splatters my intentions,
I rust, I fall, the wavy lines are heaving,
what’s the point? Patiently reaching
for my crux (again). Crux is truth,
locus of love, that cheating word
that rings aloud its weird redaction.
If, when I aim it at you, you do shrink
’tis thereupon, my love, that we must think.

 

This is just to say

Nada Gordon1 Comment

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I have cashed
the check 
that came from 
the insurance company  
 
and which 
you were probably 
saving 
for necessities  
 
Forgive me 
I was malicious 
so weak 
and so broke