Lawrence, as I always do, I admire this piece. One thing that I observed
further was my own desire to rearrange passages, because this works so many
ways. In fact, moving such passages around reveals different types of
"story" plus perceptive power. I think that speaks to the integrity of what
you have written.
Sheila
On Wed, Dec 10, 2014 at 7:33 AM, Lawrence Upton <[log in to unmask]>
wrote:
> The street is a dream. Show us the accolade. It isn't mundane.
> Desirous of worldly freedoms, we're cold. Can you fancy that?
> At the bar, we're issued with an almanac. Our cloaks are elusivein
> which we can injure you as non-participant in nightmare.
> This gallery, you see the place?, is the innermost of which we are
> the publicists; we are resentful. The obstructionists, that's what
> they say, are crackers:the crackers obstructionists reign. It's not
> cranky.
> The almanac is endless; its peculiarity is dishonesty; and the
> dishonesty ubiquitous.
> The street is a dream. It is the quintessence, that is, it is the core
> the crux the essence, he said, turning the pages of the folio which
> encourage us to deviate.
> He took a sip from his half-full glass.Of what? we asked. I am
> inclined, he said, to clasp any machination to obtain respite.
> At the bar, they tend to be frankand each a truant from the truth. We
> usually join in.
> The cretin sets out to consume the image which gives him or her
> succour though furtively. What is there?
> Blood may clot, a beak may enter the outer skinof the weather, and we
> may flunk. We clasp the blockhead secret, the wandering sprite. We
> clasp and crush, by accident, the coincidental; it's galling he's so
> cocky.
> Clasp hold of the boom, he says, just listen to it, puzzling over the
> carnal. He is a boor. It's the booze that sends him wayfaring
> furtively. We watch his decay, giving him a nourishment and support.
> We clasp hold of esprit de corps, he says. What the fuck? What the
> fuck.
> I sleep, he says, I plumb the wolf in me. It is meaningless he is so
> cocky. Distribute the bill, he calls, distribute the bill. His
> identity is his loftiness. We are sorrowful. Christ, it is freezing,
> he shouts, and slowly, word by word.Do not cause me to hurt you, you
> stickler. Our names are transient.
> We clasp the area of his puzzling, finding it inadequate.The street is a
> dream?
> The bricks are ardent. What is that? The sky lightweight; stop
> commenting, there's no need to explain. The vine cannot grow here.
> There is no community. We are dependent, he says, on inferior trivia.
> The dignitary has no substance and his journey is nearly worthless.
> The houses band to gossip. This makes it peaceful and not at all
> emotional. In one eye, just below it, a tear, or perhaps a fold of the
> supposed reality. Do not belittle the pot belly. Do not be
> belligerent. Cross the bridge. And deign to the confusion. The world
> of fairy is hypothetical.The fraud is okayish.
> coquette - book - crush - ecstasy - come together
> apprehension - conference - exclusive - bawdy --absent - animal -
> active --come together
> The pavement is an augury, outrage of reason, cold-hearted, impossible
> inferno, booze, smooth visions of the edge in direct inoperative
> botching.The ground is crumbling.
>
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