Just wait ’til August. How is everyone today. We’ve gone from Have a nice day to Have a great day and these baristas call you “Miss.”
Tag Archives: speech
woman next to me a fleshy mountain dressed in purple
next woman slim in orange, brown skin
asking questions
tentative—
Policeman handing him a napkin. Her tone of confidential awfulness.
Express, maybe anorexia is more interesting. More interesting than hair styles.
My teeth will talk to me. Audaliciously.
Speech is ill-considered and dangerous.
Let me ask – how much do you know, is there compassion? What is knowledge-based compassion? What is argumentation? What is keeping quiet? To never lead you to believe that there was too much talking.
may 29, 2007
Hot page cool breeze. Birds and juice. Death in the air, creeping. Suicidal Ideation. Nothing but pleasantries, a need to scan the lines. Rustle woods, the deer step, squirrel shuffle. Peculiar disconnectedness of individuals, editors, the edited smile, the censored speech. Pileup of phrases. The litter of prepositions, the punctuation of punctuation. Texture of voices and air conditioning noises. The bands and patterns of tension. Often I ask: what are you talking about? What does it mean, the transfer function?
I am expecting. She is expecting in a voice so juicy with disgust or secrets I hated the way the syllable “pect” came out of the mouth oozing with gossipy fruit juice The word is ruined forever as is duds as is a lot of words like revery. Need the poets to reteach me.
Nothing simple here. No lily.
The frog lily, the toad flax.
Animals have not been aroused.
I can’t write untruths.
And speech becoming cleansed to silence.
Dishes—plates. Cups, forks, spoons. Bowls.
Too much news, too much nonsense approaching the big topics, too much story leis around our necks.
Particles, particulate. I sound funny at work. Disturbing. At all disturbing.
And yesterday or last week I heard about a service, body washing. Washing the body. I want my body tenderly washed by my faith community. Nothing more beautiful than that. And here I chatted about inconsequences with co-workers and Margaret’s family, while her mother lay in state. I thought—at least there should be silence. We are so bereft. And Poland—what happens when you lose 3 million Jews?
Fast talkers. At work, an impulse, so intense, to slow down all conversations. Slow slow slow slow down. Make you repeat each word in line so the thoughts can be absorbed. So what is this phenomenon, this riffing disrespect? Does it hide ignorance or escalate frustration? Where is the mountain, where are the waters?
Egg looking for the riverbank. Eggplant seeking streamside.
Curse of chatting. A plague of chat. A plague of handwriting. Where is the generosity? Where is opening found? Where are those who claim wisdom and where is their wisdom? There is something that is Dukkha.
What I have to say. This weekend I said that I had nothing to say. Now my throat hurts.