January 06, 2004

Italics 2

Drinking the wine: marrying the incredible. | Pausing before words, inhaling: anticipating commotion. | Taking the wrench to technology: curbing the linear. | Bathing, paring, shaving: detoxifying. | Exploring the real estate of the block: inveigling the dogs. | Loving by brush of the cheek: evading the secular. | Futzing with the stocks, rolling with the hunches: the quizzical mine. | Pissing: watching. | Making controversy on the blog: stemming literary conversion. | The laughs get better, the writing: worse. | Running away to Canada, running away to Patagonia: syllables. | Chuckling in Cathedrals: instantiating echoes. | With an eye on the ball: with a hand on the clutch. | Feeling fancy when ordering in German: debasing the European. | Knee shakes, rhythmically: manic. | Korean soup-eater sips loudly: her comforting music. | Glass backboard after youth smashing basketball against flaccid metal one: failure. | I cough: sub-comic material. | The job was filled: the statistic was digitized. | Argument settled, friendship adhered: check paid. | Touching with two hands, when one was never enough: discovery of sympathy. | As able, as husband: and wife. | We know the news when we refuse the headlines: disciplined scanning. | On a fecund plateau against the short shrift of Senators: writing. | Of the dope: after the anxiety. | Naughty movie business: middle-aged voyeurism. | No longer: fingering the watch-chain. | No longer: sinking behind make-up. | No longer: such tender knees. | I mean: it must be. | Retiring every ten years to the country: levelling out. | Chaucer got it: James didn’t. | Wanting the throat to be Chinese: getting Sicilian. | Lorca got it: Dali didn’t. | Wanting a show: wallowing in trauma. | In the ribbons of morning, feeling the touch of a hand: existential measure. | Speaking softly: hardly speaking. | Garbling the vowels: burping. | New airport screening rules: new sentience in the database. | Revisiting photographs: deep-freezing the enigmas. | The clatter of seashells, the walking stick: a turquoise memory.

Posted by Brian Stefans at January 6, 2004 07:21 PM | TrackBack
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