concretekiss: (Default)
she is wild country brains...braaaains elise age7 

eta: I am a dabbling amateur. Any suggestions on improvement, aesthetics, additions, subtractions, alterations would be greatly appreciated. Even if u aren't into art yrself.

Feeling achy n weak I stayed safely in my underoos Fri. n Sat. drinking peach black tea painting n sketching & messin' with stuff, reading about tectonic plates. Oh Frank, you know nothing of bleeding. Elise sat still enough to let me finish her shoulders. I could see her little heartbeat in the valley of her collar bone. I sculpted a bowl or plant My first try at a face, 3rd sculpture altogether. I forgot that it takes both hands, so a symmetrical face was a challenge for my right hand. Sometimes when I'm painting it darts out, tries to blend things like a pesky mother n law. I realize too late I should've let my left hand handle the job. Then I bought this t-shirt into which I cannot wait to stuff my boobs.

The tattoo of text spiraling my left arm gets questioned about once a week. I tell random inquirers that it's a 'poem about the moon.' When they ask how it goes I tell them it takes a while to recite n isn't immediately understood (right here, in the post office waiting line) & they are then rightly insulted that I dare underestimate their propensity to understand verse & insist I tell them anyway, though doing so often leaves their heads tilted, brows furrowed & Ooh, ok well have a nice day. Maybe one day a hot boy will ask me what my tattoo says & I will tell him & he will ask if I know that when they cremated Shelley his heart did not burn n they sent it to his wife, Mary. & I will do that guy right there in the breakfast aisle.

Acceptable Makeshift Microphones;
remote control
beer bottle
toothpaste tube
paint tube
paint brush
ceramic dolphin
vacuum cleaner attachment
deodorant (per tuckova)
baby leg
pool cue (ala planet_amy)
curling iron (unplugged)
highlighters, sharpies
concretekiss: (Default)
Why don't you just pull yr SMILING fuckass right on out, TURBO. I was only TRYING to drive around here!

the outlandishness of my dreams suggests to me that i reign my imagination tightly in waking life. yet, my imagination in waking life is prodigal, invasive as ivy. it shakes hands with simple facts, spins them around like a lady's man, waits at the door with a polished apple. imagination is sometimes the bane of my existence. i can't watch the news.

during my "vacation" i found myself sitting lost in coffee shops, dawdling about bookstores thinking "so, this is it," having idealized the whole situation beforehand in turn strapping myself for disappointment. i do this often with parties, relationships, jobs, arriving jaded. & nothing is ever as horrible or spectacular as i’d previously envisioned. there is me before the party getting siked, choosing a dress, painting my eyes, "idealizing." there is me ho-hum at the party asking is this the right party? are we partying? where are the lap-dancers, chocolate unicorns & jake gyllenhaal? why is no one fucking on a pile of skulls? there is me after the party asking, did we "party down?"
but when i stay at home humping the dishwasher i know deep in my heart that everyone is having a better time somewhere else riding zebras over the tundra, jacked-up on opium, & when i show up they hide the good music, pull out the dradle & sit around looking like a bunch of dickasses.

tuesday a boy named Zack walked up to me, pressed his belly against my arm, pulled the scarf off of my hair & proceeded to clumsily lick my face. at 18months, he'd obviously mistaken me for a banana, but i knew too well this party tactic.
1 of my many failed new year resolutions was to officially ask a boy out as opposed to drunkenly grabbing one & much like Zack, aiming my face at his face. i guess it’s fortunate that i’ve never been clobbered with a dump truck as a result. next thing you know i'll have my head stuck in a lawn-chair yelling hep me, hellllp.

fuck you:
central processing unit
high road
guy who wouldn't sell me beer
grateful dead
photos of mars
no turning lane on southfirst
whistling hobo
new leaf
concretekiss: (Default)
I am tryin to read Dostoevsky but he is harshing my buzz mannnn. )

Fyodor is all fundamental nastiness of the dirty stinky nasty sad mouse hole of ass death spit. & then Simon Lebon is all "You wanted to dance, so I asked you to dance but fear is in your soul!" & I'm like Simon chill, dude, chill everyone needs to chill!

I finally tagged all my mspaint doodles here. Es funny & each time you laugh you burn 5 calories.
the above edited: to add Becky the Uterus

If words were adequate would we need italics, other than to quote shit?
If the title MD were used as loosely as the title Poet would we be in alot of trouble?
If I were a foot taller would I be in jail for kicking everyone in the building's ass?
If I got rid of my TV would I be endangered?
Do you have a song that nobody likes but you? This is mine. It is by Jonathan Richman, a sentimental surf-rock dork.
Am I the only one left without a cell-phone?
If dolphins don't need pants now, can we advertise them in such a way as to convince them that they do?
concretekiss: (Default)
my scandalous ice-box
My fridge is like The OC.

Going through my journ from 04 I find I was sooo much more verbose (Yeah, you think it’s bad now). I really tried to write about what I thought was important & everything was important. At times to my chagrin some of you humored me, & continue to. I’ve had an LJ for 4 years, & a journal of some sort for 22. I think it’s time I gathered up my greatest hits for archival. Across the span of entries are patterns, lists, things my children’ve said, recollections, photos, railing manifestos. There is a blueprint I’m trying to dust off.

Re: Tomorrow will be the most beautiful day of Raymond K. Hessle's life. His breakfast will taste better than any meal you and I have ever had.
Not likely, Brad. My guess is that he will barely be able to eat or sleep, for fear. He will have to wait in the line at the DMV to get a new driver's license cautiously looking over his shoulder while YOU strut around thinking yr the hot shit demi-god authorized to 'improve someone's day.'

Useless List #352468832 Things I'm Looking For
1. Movie - Next Time We Love, on VHS even, if that’s what I can get. I saw this @ 2am one night on the Old-ass Movie Channel when I was 14 & lovesick & the last scene (on a waking locomotive) is so magic.
2. I saw this video 2 yrs ago where the band sounded kind of Jose Gonzales-y; quiet, intimate. The scene for the video was in a highschool classroom where a young man was sketching in his notebook while gazing at an oblivious & customarily pretty young lady. The drawings in the boy’s book begin to travel off of the page & coil around the classroom. The video may have been in black/white. The song is sung in Spanish I beleive. I just want to know who the band is. It’s been bothering me for a while now.
3. Christianne F. - any related merch that isn’t ridiculously expensive
4. someone to give me piggy-back rides
5. OK for real, what is “purple rain?”

"We believe there is something essential we don't have, that is unobtainable. Sometimes what we long for doesn't exist, not anywhere. The ache is in the belief." - anonymous

This entry is disjointed & rambling. Just relax & let it happen.

After reading a quote from Mark Twain on the Death of the Adjective, I got initially defensive, though adjectives are sometimes like whipped cream: unnecessary but indulgent.

Re: from an article in defense of the adjective - Writers frequently pull out the adjectives when they either haven't, or are afraid they haven't, provided sufficient data -- specific nouns and active verbs -- to get their ideas across. So if you point out that the jaw of every male in the room dropped when a woman walked in, it's neither necessary nor helpful to describe her as "beautiful."
What if every jaw dropped when the woman walked in because she had a bad camel toe? I mean you know what they say happens when you assume.

I have a writin' group, y'all. It’s D&D-nerdy. Twice a month we sit in a recess circle on a blanket over strawberries, wine, literal & figurative cheese to discuss the possible reasons why Wislawa Szymborska’s poetry garnered additional exposure after 9-11, & the importance/unimportance of knowing the lifestyle, background, influences, & affiliations of an author whose work peeks our interest. I am so in love with it, I could just crap myself.

One prompt was to describe a beautiful woman without using adjectives.
Her laughter galloped
on legs still learning
to the nocturne of a colt across piano keys
She kicked
flip-flops onto the grass
rainwater from sidewalks
puddles into symphony

I know, 'symphony' is grody.

Re: "Well I guess it would be nice if I could touch yr body."
You guess? You guess it would be...nice? Well...guess a-fuckin-gain, George.
concretekiss: (Default)
Movies to See Before I Die (Rev4) )


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August 2010



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