it's a hard pill to swallow, but i will not be able to leave west palm until my grandparents die. they need me. i hate it. i hate their illness. i hate this town, which i know is a very high school thing to say.

i need:
- mass transit
- non-conservative gold diggers protesting that illegals are taking their jobs
- an interstate that has not been perpetually under construction for as long as i can remember
- not being in one area where you have slow down to not hit the speeding sport's cars and three miles later having to speed to not look as if affiliated with the fellow hood-rat style cars
- less urban sprawl
- fuck it, a place where i don't need a car
- a job that respects my ability to be warbling with pretention and twinky-gayness


there is so much i could add to this list, but i got sad because i felt needy and selfish.

i feel like i am having a heart attack 24/7 because of all of this.

how do you morn a death without feeling selfish? he wasn't my dad.

i'm driving to tallahassee tomorrow for a best friend/ex's father's funeral.

he was such a cool dude.

harrison ford look-a-like, perpetual wine refiller to point where i get so drunk (because i am too self-counscious to refuse hospitality) and bite the wine glass, hagel, architect, goof, loved by all.

i'm gonna cry again, but i'm going to laugh at off color jokes in his honor.

lj needs to let me write without character limits:

http://hubpages.com/hub/Progressive-A-party-thied-Foreword

a necklace i made:

today i woke from an m.s.g. allergy induced dream set in the pueblo-land from 'brave new world,' however instead of them being the not-over-sensitized culture, they are a mix of, well, gammas and various hybrids of pop-culture alien/futuristic robots trying to steal the human race's life-force, a large face of an aztec god, but we won it back when our race stood on each others shoulders and a hand full of power rangers appeared and when the yellow ranger gets on top of all of our sholders, it puts the face in it's mouth, zips its lips, and saves our race.

due to being food poisoned, i decided to make my first blogspot for what i wear each day:

http://halleyhoops.blogspot.com/

can you friend people on it? if you can, you should post your blogs.

In response to The Canterbury Tales, can anyone help me with some further readings in response to:

1. What is the subset of anthropomorphism when it pertains to material thing (sun)? Plants? Abstract things beyond theomorphism (a month)?

2. Is there a term for such personifications within the literary device when they transgress? For example:
a. “And when he rode, one could hear his bridle/Jingle in a whistling wind as clear/And also as loud as does the chapel belle,” wherein the sound of a bridle is of that of a bell (abstract sound to abstract sound)?
b. “But he considered that same text not worth an oyster,” wherein value of text is of that of an oyster (material to zoomorphism)?

3. Is there a term for zoomorphism paralleling itself? “He had greyhounds as swift as fowl in flight,” or would that fall under transgression because of the hierarchy of the food chain?

4. If anthropomorphism is the likeness of the outside to humans, is there a term for expressing likeness of humans to humans, say humaniodorphism or homomorphism, both of which I made up?

5. If the reverse of when anthropomorphism is used, is it just called reverse anthropomorphism?

6. If a characteristic of a person is compared to another, what is that called? Or can we just say it’s metonymy or syecdoche?

7. Is the speaker (the Miller) an anthropocentrist? Or can it be argued that all thoughts are anthropomorphisms because, according to both current science and the Old Testament (however Judaism prohibits anthropomorphisms of God), nature preceded people; thus preceded the thought and image-based language with binaries? Or is this a book topic I am not prepared for?

i updated chapters one, two, and four if anyone is feeling bored:

http://maddieandtheapocryphal.wordpress.com/


other than that, life is bleak when you're busy with nonsense, writing, unemployed, broke, and anti-social. i need a good outing. i haven't gone out at all since i've been down south this whole month. free fun is a seldom occurance in west palm.

Revised:




Watermelon between knees that can’t knock from ham hocks and hush puppies and water in the heart, which fill Paw-Paw’s feet until laces turn Velcro. Soles only leave the pantile spicy yarn to cobble a belly meteored of culpam short teeth, which ewer over the blight beginning below.  With an old scratch and can’t seem to lash the larder as a larking bemuse from no answer.

From the buckle of hot trawl, he was born of jam hands and jumping fences and spared of rod and spile. Not needing a red barn or rulered wrists, swimming in pecan and blueberry rainbow water, emerging with a dry collar sewn black, but a fragment of blood makes the cur howl and hoot the dereliction with no answer.

Warbling a consign to oblivion of his choler, he met his binary of his binary of his binary and was given the chance to learn grubby garments lend canon’s of gold. An apple for pleasure. The ranks for leisure. A lady for measure. But kids have their own rules. Pure of heart in mischief vessel don’t mean sainthood. But, can still threaten to bury bones under a willow and chance to die from a fellow. She, of St. Elmo’s fire hair, would not spoil her gown not to part him. And left her with a minor, a stain, and no answer.

He could only ever been seen by elders over spectacles. His next of kin could not quart and tierce through the blackboard and Paw couldn’t imagine a house without his other. Mother gave consent to be sent off to a land more grizzled than he could count on his fingers and toes. Lightening wallops and thunder answers.

They all came to jeer and tarry. Stooging the ship to be a steamboat didn’t his hatch life any fluent when dallying for the delaying dock to vanish until the ribbon unreeled. Simple-hearted and honest as the day was long, his lady-child held and she held to her end of the trimming. From the coronal railing into the corpo santo water, but no answer sounded back to her.

His onion-chapped eyes scoped rickety roads out to the blameless sea, waves curled down snappingly; mewling mutiny. Hungry with nothing to chew on to rest on his knee. Of some uncertain kneading, greasy black engines and skulking rattlesnake sea foam makes a man carnal for his binary or its binary. His heart minced in their hands. His heart minced in their cheeks. Heedless calvary can’t yield to be particular. Love lent is only of likeness.

His old world in his belly could no longer live in isolation. Among the reeds and the rush, he scoured, hurried in a hush. When he saw his brother of a brother in cremation of crimson and gilings. Tattooing the wrinkles and lines of the cups of his hands, cut by the probing and hiding of parting palms. The cutting of which made a coil of woodwings.
In a juvenal manner, he was furious his father and mother did not indoctrinate unto them hitting and not being hit. Choleric as the whole pack of devils. For reciprocating and damnable reasons, he forged the flagpole to fly and old boot with all its unlucky smells. Passion of which spawns a man a savage beast and steals the answers.

The lady-child waited. Learned, prayed to appreciate what she acquired and swelled like a pigeon who ate rice at a wedding. But he was only told that his father was just doing business at the edge of the town, but never clarified what town or what edge. Sent a pigeon expected no answer.

Where the bee stung, there stung he.

How now, the debarkers! Oh, the debarkers!  All of prizefighters, ballad-mongers, and mountebanks. Thieves, vagabonds, pugues, and imposters. It is almost impossible not to look at your self when in front of a mirror, but Paw hadn’t seen his likeness refracted. In the flecked water he met his eyes, the eyes of which were his when he first the lady (not a) child (anymore). My grandfather made no clock so heartbeats were the things they counted.

Digressions redeemed by unchaining her from the tree and plucked an apple for him to gnaw, swallowing the seeds to grow when he dropped them in the outhouse over the chicken coup he had made from wood stacked in his barrow.  Slings and arrows. Fermented berry road kill. She cut his hair forevermore.

Some stories don’t end the way they begin, for end and begin are precedented as simultaneous, and I first re-wrote this story through the eyes of a girl and later his son would herald my endeavors. But, seeing Paw using aliment as an adduce to abide; I know that some tales are of my binary of yellow moon and effete.

i am almost certain i am done with this short inspired by my grandma




At first there was the first, then came the middle, last the runt. In the highlands of the mountains, which took you low in a one-lane road over the river. The first was a three-dollar bill made for truck dashing, the runt was conjectured to croak at conception, and the middle was the midship in limbo.

A string bean mezzo, cutest mere cat in town. Lanyard hair, bright to signal sailors of the storm seen though the nearest port was in a land locked state. A phenomenon of thunderstorms and grounded subjects. Buzzing volcanically on anything from masts, spires, and chimney to grass, leaves, and cattle horns. She knew who she was when she got up that morning.

The town only offered a square with a five and dime vending store-spun soda. A pastry emporium where she procured the ort at two in the daylight when they padlocked. Bestraddled brick ledges around the courthouse. Sugar lips, mouth agape with cream cobwebs, plasma crumbs in molars. Lolled at an abated boutique from thrashes of a less diminutive repository. Clothes high heavened of a peculiar dryer sheet native to a primrose and a trillium. Combs hawked in the jar. Hunting clothes invisible save for neon orange juice sashes.

In the grisaille of dimmet, she roosted herself in a tree, singing a song of a salamander on a topmast, a yard, and a bowsprit. Through the sulphurous air, she meet a weeping willow without a pillow to cry on and she didn’t dare bode him about her shoulder pads. He budged her back in a tree. Poured tears on her salt bound buttons. Gave her some gum made with glue and a glove and some pliers. Despite connotations, an apple will fall on your head without opportunity for free will. There’s fleeting want then there is desire. Absence means something, but something was sprouting. Night air doesn’t suit the canaries voice to herald an answer.

With her eyes mascara’ed shut, she cast about for her home via wind chimes and the humming of her flight risk flying children. The kind of house with a porch so in need of tending to hellos at the mailman and the grocer and the neighbors, that she slips of recalling she had a backyard. When this town gets put in a map, she could not curse the gods for creating hummingbirds, whose only reason to live is to eat every minute or else they’d parish. Until then, she hung boxes of food from the patio, watching their amputated bodies float. She could hardly stay afloat. Sleep it off. Sleep it off, my grandma.

She auscultated he was absconding and clutched an end of yarn, coiled white wet rabbit fur (clinging close, dripping cross and uncomfortable) unspooling and fooling her to think he’d notice. But they were just kids. A time when a mouse could look like a walrus or a hippo. Frowning impolitely is prevailing. Can sit down for tea without inviting. When a raven is interchangeable with a writing desk. There’s no pleasing a serpent or a pigeon, neither if which could sleep in the highest tree. Axis and axes and no answers.

She retired home, a rack her mother forked to her, where her grandmother fizzled to a finish. On the rocks in a hollow house, yet feeling like one arm dangling out the window and her whole foot in the chimney. To wend the time, she tickled scant dragon flies out the door, airfoils foolhardy-eyed and trouncing on a cucumber frame; and winnowed moths from out the drain and resting their riven wings on the windowsill; and showered the yard with a barrowful of little pebbles craving they’d turn into cakes.

While she was on wintertime time and Paw was on tally mark tempo of the whiles, she beat time while learning its music. Between the lumber mill and the storage shed, she made him an elder and his pop the third. Scratching and scrambling down the chimney; coming at her like a jack-in-the-box and going like a skyrocket. Uncorked to the ground in a clatter, only the newspaper trees asked her what’s the matter. Reared him hard and heard an answer. The little chewed up piece of bubblegum popped out into a beehive of purple rain and caul, ruptured out of convenience and habit, which she pressed on a log as a net for bugs to climb.

Then, one morning, you could just see the man of consequence slipping out from the hedges. An upright porcupine quill. Steel pincher crab arms. Full mouth of bone to abrade the bark off trees, which made her look up in a hurry. She shelled him sawdust-sprinkled eyes and drew him a bellybutton with a ballpoint pen.
Packed crabbed words into his ears. Taught him about engines and Sloppy Joes.

He grew porcupine-curled hair that tied into knots and nooses. Playing in the coupe, he jammed his finger in the a/c, crooked fingernails cracked claws. Walking to school with stubby toes in bitter, but good enough, boots from her father. He drew windows on a wall and looked out at the swaddling chipped paint, cinder stained from the threshing of the thicket of a fickle forever. Buried army men to gnaw on later regardless of what grew over he could always find them later with goneness anew. Sucked his thumb right off to never be able to follow father’s feet or garden most properly (so I can’t slur him when he fashioned me of a frog and a worm and a duck and an eaglet for I was his thimble prize, which he engraved n a bright brass plate). He was water from the snow. A thawing tumbleweed bird-dogging bumblebees organically.

Bereft of a farther, she only lived until the eventide ended. Always made his bed, lifting the sheets over him like a canopy before falling on his cowry body. In spite of all her coaxing, vulture vines waxed over her stilts, blue roads to the roots digging for apples. But, flowers can’t fracture after fresh rain but can’t refrain from being pushed down into their footing. Bones broke under pounds of breast, turning them to ash, picked up by capillary action, which her body rejected.

She woke with salt burnt tongue and the chapel of her mouth white from cloves. Unsure of his arrival because sometimes strobing light makes water look like it’s going up when it’s falling down to it’s center. Stood with one finger pressed against her forehead; waiting with unreciprocation forevermore. On one side of the circle, she heard his voice, muffled my moss of age and tyranny, over the tadpoles and the briny bones. Barking hoarselessly. His neck rose like the stalk out of a sea of leaves that cry far below. They paused as if someone ought to speak. Bent her head down to hide a smile and the other bird tittered audibly. Even though they only half separated, her gibbering heart ribboned his eyes of bricked masts.

Pinching the seems of his pockets, she undressed him to ready his for sleep dancing beneath the clover of the ceiling light. With a fishing pole and a swimming hole they did it right, though there is never it’s binary. His hair wanted cutting and she snipped.

i will be eternally grateful if anyone has/found for me some awesome sketches/crafty pics of clams or some other mollusk.

i need to write more, but my neck hurts.

so i just doodle all day, try to deconstruct joanna newsom lyrics, and read books under the guise that i am preparing for my writing.






here is part of something i am attempting to write for my grandpa:

Watermelon between knees
that can’t knock from ham hocks
and hush puppies and water in the heart,
which fill his feet until laces turn Velcro.
Soles only leave the pantile spicy yarn
to cobble a belly plenteous of culpam
short teeth, which ewer over the blight
beginning below.  With an old scratch
and can’t seem to lash the larder
as a larking bemuse from no answer.

From the buckle of hot trawl, he was born
of jam hands and jumping fences and
spared of rod and spile. Not needing
a red barn or rulered wrists, swimming
in pecan and blueberry water, emerging
with a dry collar sewn black, but half blood
makes the cur howl and hoot
the dereliction with no answer.

Warbling a consign to oblivion of his choler,
he met his binary of his binary of his binary
and was given the chance to learn
grubby garments lend canon’s of gold.
An apple for pleasure. The ranks for
leisure. A lady for measure. But kids
have their own rules. Pure of heart in
mischief vessel doesn’t mean sainthood.
But, can still threaten to bury bones
under a willow and chance to die
from a fellow. And left her with no answer.