Everything is on the bottom for a reason. And the smell of his cologne? It doesn't, but he brings himself back to her in a bottle like he should.
All the world's ills in Shakespeare, the fall guy. It's really fall now, too. There's no fakin' it any more. Is it really the fool's moon or the hunter's moon1 tonight? The clouds are so thick here in Portland, there is no moon.
What's one to do when it always goes back to frenzy? Go to the bottom of it all. Go down to mire. Save the censure. Forget that which one trusts.
"All is for the everything in always," she said today. I couldn't say a thing, because we both believed it, even though we've never seen the whole thing happen and we've never talked about it before.
prepositions2
1Full Hunter's Moon - October With the leaves falling and the deer fattened, it is time to hunt. Since the fields have been reaped, hunters can easily see fox and the animals which have come out to glean.
2It was John Dryden who first promulgated the doctrine that a preposition may not be used at the end of a sentence, probably on the basis of a specious analogy to Latin. Grammarians in the 18th century refined the doctrine, and the rule has since become one of the most venerated maxims of schoolroom grammar. But sentences ending with prepositions can be found in the works of most of the great writers since the Renaissance. English syntax does allow for final placement of the preposition, as in We have much to be thankful for or I asked her which course she had signed up for. Efforts to rewrite such sentences to place the preposition elsewhere can have stilted and even comical results, as Winston Churchill demonstrated when he objected to the doctrine by saying “This is the sort of English up with which I cannot put.” ·Sometimes sentences that end with adverbs, such as I don't know where she will end up or It's the most curious book I've ever run across, are mistakenly thought to end in prepositions. One can tell that up and across are adverbs here, not prepositions, by the ungrammaticality of I don't know up where she will end and It's the most curious book across which I have ever run. It has never been suggested that it is incorrect to end a sentence with an adverb.
This will always be an end to target
On horse, they will come for you
No one turns the night away from you; we are of the night inside ourselves
It dies at dawn, a part of you and me in the day at night
Wheeled gears with cogs on shafts, their levers leave us less, the will of the machine is obvious except to the machine itself
We are of the machine now for our livelyhood
It has no will, it machines. What else could a machine do?
No matter of the will inside us, machines a fount for the self to settle our need for time to savor the aristocracy of the American Dream
I lost my virginity to a bourgeoise
She was a dancer and the only daughter of the family who fed me
She danced on my heart until I found out what a real heart meant
everything in our lives happened to bring us here
Published Monday, October 24, 2005 by Frank Sauce.
I've been watching female ejaculation videos all afternoon. The thing I love so much about them are the women having a body-shaking, tremor-inducing orgasm. Thankfully, it was a small collection, so I didn't have to read all the copy, just watch the same videos all afternoon. The copy's all web-optimized, which gives it this touchy-feely subtext, getting trite and irrelevant in the first few minutes, but it was a good read for awhile. You wanna learn more? Be careful though, it might be too much.
Hell, this might be too much. There's another Frank Sauce1 in the world. He lives somewhere around Saratoga. Glad I'm not him though. He has a kid. That's a lot of responsibility for someone like me. You know, having a kid and being me?
I mean, I like to take viagra and ride mass-transit at rush hour on my way to work. Rub up against people and smile. It doesn't matter if they are attractive, straight, bi, gay or whatever. My viagra induced hard-on never leaves my pants. It's for show only. Plus, I like to sit at my desk at work all hard and talk to people on the phone.
If you have a kid, you shouldn't like to do things like that.
1 "Frank Sauce, owner of a motel in the area, took off immediately down to the water to help.
He said, 'I was just trying to comfort people that were there, and my daughter, Andrea, was escorting them off the docks after we got them out of the boat.'
Strangers were helping strangers, without a second thought.
Sauce said, 'It was great how the community came together. There was so many people that were running into their homes and getting blankets to cover people up, the emergency squads were coming from all over.'
But days later, the images of the seniors and the stories of their loved ones are still with him and his daughter.
Sauce said, 'After a while when it's quiet and things have calmed down I think that's when it will hit me more. I'm more concerned about my daughter, she's a lot younger, and how she's responding to it all. Right away she didn't want to talk about it. We gotta keep an eye on her, but I think she'll be alright.'
"Nothing was found," Naomi said sadly.
"But he wasn't looking for it, Naomi," Eric piped in from across the room.
Could he really hear from that far away? He does have big ears, like funnels made of cartiledge and skin. His ears are sexy in a way that no other ear could be, because they are just like beer bongs and his ear cannal is the surgical-tube stretched out to someone's lips, the lips of high-school drop-outs or college students, but instead they go into his brain. And his brain makes up phrases out of all the shit in the air. Eric is wise, even if the inferno in his guts catches his clothes on fire and he has to go upstairs to change, another vintage suit ruined; he leaves the rest of the living room to dream without him.
Harm cannot come to those who dwell to0 long in the living room. Yes, the room lives even while no one is there to be in it.
It even stole his second glove, the first one in his hand, black like the couch that is always there, a leather mouth for backs and asses. The couch's bottons lick at their crotches to make them squirm. It likes to feel people's asses rub on it's lips. The couch is lecherous, but no one has figured it out, yet.
It's never easy. It's never hard. It just is.
Earlier:
I'm in a bar. I'm having a decent conversation with another regular. I'm drinkin' bourbon. She's drinking a vodka and soda. I order her a white russian. She turned 70 almost a year ago. I'm in a bar.
Later:
Should I get some water? Should I bathe? I don't want to walk all the way down the stairs.
A standard of skipping to the next word or the next time. The next idea is what I don't know.
However, I do know that I had an unusual coversation tonight. A conversation that you won't find in a bar very often, an intellectual conversation, almost. It was a spiritual conversation, without the drama of spirituality.
there was a woman who showed up half-way in betweeen her meth high and her next one
I almost tried to pick her up. She mentioned a boyfriend and I thought she was trying to protect herself.
Then I left and came home.
Earlier:
I'm in a bar. I'm having a decent conversation with another regular. I'm drinkin' bourbon. She's drinking a vodka and soda. I order her a white russian. She turned 70 almost a year ago. I'm in a bar.
Later:
Should I get some water? Should I bathe? I don't want to walk all the way down the stairs.
A standard of skipping to the next word or the next time. The next idea is what I don't know.
However, I do know that I had an unusual coversation tonight. A conversation that you won't find in a bar very often, an intellectual conversation, almost. It was a spiritual conversation, without the drama of spirituality.
there was a woman who showed up half-way in betweeen her meth high and her next one
I almost tried to pick her up. She mentioned a boyfriend and I thought she was trying to protect herself.
Then I left and came home.
Frank Sauce
- By Jeffrey Bershaw
- from Portland, OR
- I'll try to write as little as possible. I'm a little man with high hopes, pipe dreams and little machines inside that keep me writing.
- More About Frank Sauce
- Painting by Anna Todaro
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