Having my way with Ulysses

Thanking her stars she was passed over

In the ignorance that implies impression that knits knowledge that finds the nameform that whets the wits that convey contacts that sweeten sensation that drives desire that adheres to attachment that dogs death that bitches birth that entails the ensuance of existentiality.11:00 am

We should all thank our stars, death is a horrible thing.  Dying, there are good ways to go.  But death?  No connection, no contact with those who are now.  In it, you see.  Make room, I’ll ride with you.  Here.  I’ll get that door.  Again.  Got it that time.  Now what was I saying?  What were we talking about?  Oh yeah, the woman watching us out her window, grateful to the stars for the mark on her door.  So death.  No bridging from what will be to what is.  Will be always turns to is, and I’ll tell you what the meaning of is is.  Look around you.  Feel it quickly.  Motion, stillness. Stillness, motion.  It’s a protean thing. Smell, breathe in.  Is that smell you?  Yes, and catch that?  Listen.  You heard a click.  Finger on plastic.  Tap.  Click.  All that is part of is.  And that’s all there is for the likes of you and me.  And that woman there watching us out.  Glad to see us go we give them such trouble coming.  And once we leave the is?  We’re dead, we won’t even know who will undress us and how.  Wash us.  What do they wash?  Cut a new omphalos and pour the fluids in and out.  Too much?  Fine.  Cut our fingernails and hair?  Okay I’ll stop.  Sheesh.  Keeps growing after we die, I wonder how much?  Waiting.  Sitting on something.  That soap in my pocket.  Will wait.  Move it later.  Blinds down.  Keep the house dark, hushed.  Whispering.  There’s a young guy in black.  Have seen that hat before.  Hey Dedalus, there’s somebody you know.  It’s your kid.  By himself.  Nosy.  Full of his son.  Crissie is how old?  Richie Goulding that Sunday morning.  Had two hats on his head dancing around in the street.  Shitfaced drunk.  Bad back.  No insurance, lots of pain meds.  If Rudy had lived.  He’d have me in his eyes, hold our hands.  Somebody to pass things on to.  Teach him something from me.  Was an accident, really.  Happened by chance.  Molly at the window watching two dogs going at it.  She was dying for it.  How life begins.  Got big.  I could have helped him.  Sent him to college.  Milly, same thing as Molly watered down.  Fifteen now.  D Papli, Thrs a yg Im crushin on.  Grown up now too.  There we go.  Nice they rented limos, crushed in here though.  What is that on the seat, crumbs?  Unless I’m mistaken, that’s not food crumbs.   Well, that’s natural.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Thy will be done

Dogs' vespers are anending.11:03 am

We passed the pet shelter on the way to the funeral.  Poor Athos!  Didn’t have much will to live after Papa went.  Be good to Athos.  And we were.  Obey them in their graves.  Quiet brute.  Old men’s dogs usually are.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Fast fading on the frayed breaking

Soft politeness11:06 am

Dignam’s funeral just when.  Caught off guard on the way.  At just that moment, I was thinking.  I was thinking and then right there, the worst man.  A type like that.  What do she they see?  I just looked at my hands, thinking alone.  Soft politeness.  Didn’t want to show.  I thought Molly her skirt stuck between her cheeks.  Yes.  That helps even now.  Power asked about her concert tour.  I’m not going.  I would like to and I wouldn’t like to.  Would miss poor Papa’s deathday; a year now he’s been oot.  Many happy returns.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

As decent a little man as ever wore a hat

Mr. Dodd thinks his son is worth half-a-crown. We wouldn't give that amount for a whole family of Dodds. 11:10 am

I’ll tell you why I jumped in.  It wasn’t because of a girl, and it wasn’t suicide either.  Please.  If I wanted to kill myself I’d think of something a little more certain than that.  No.  My hat fell in and I went after it. Simple as that.  I swam around for a while and got tired and that’s when the boatman showed up and dragged me out. My father wanted to give him something to thank him but the guy said no, kindness of his heart, anybody would have done, that sort of thing.  But my dad was all relief so he took out his wallet and gave his cash to the boatman just to do something.  You know, gratitude. And yeah ok, it wasn’t much, but who carries cash these days? Come on.  It was what it was.  Anyway, we thought that was the end of it.  Thank you so much have a nice.  So we should know that the boatman ended up sick in the hospital, and the lost wages, with the mouths to feed?  Next thing it’s in the press and they are making a big deal about how Reuben J Dodd moneylender paid next to nothing for his son’s life.  Oy.  Want to know why all the negative press?  My dad works for the bank that held the mortgage on Jim’s family’s property.  They stopped paying so the bank foreclosed.  Is that our fault?  Thank us when we bail your ass out and then blame us when you can’t pay the bill.  Anyway, Jim circulated his version of the story and the one who speaks first wins, even if it is a lie.  What a schmuck.  The devil break the hasp of his back.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

He tapped his chest sadly

He had flickered up and flinnered down into a drug and drunkery addict, growing megalomane of a loose past.11:13 am

Yeah well, forgive me for saying.  Not to speak ill of, you know.  You understand I’m sure.  But come on.  It was no heart attack and why tiptoe around it.  Ok, yes.  Funeral and all.  Must not upset.  Still.  It was an o.d. and we all know it.  Where do you think his money went?  Check his arm.  Accidental, possibly.  And you may be shocked but at least he didn’t suffer.  A moment and it is done.  Like dying in his sleep.  The best death.  But enough talk of bad hearts and don’t look at me like that.  Let’s call a plumb a plumb.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

As if it wasn’t broken already

There was no one in him; behind his face (which even through the bad paintings of those times resembles no other) and his words, which were copious, fantastic and stormy, there was only a bit of coldness, a dream dreamt by no one. At first he thought that all people were like him, but the astonishment of a friend to whom he had begun to speak of this emptiness showed him his error and made him feel always that an individual should not differ in outward appearance. 11:16 am

He looks a bit like Shakespeare, or so they say.  I see it.  He’s an intelligent man, doesn’t deserve his cyclical life.  Drunk wife, dancing around in a kimono with an umbrella that time, pawns furniture, he buys it back.  She sells it again Friday and he starts again Monday.  Sisyphus without the rock.  Would wear the heart out of a stone.  It was just after we saw the tiny coffin, white, Martin tried to turn the talk away from.  Poor little thing in that coffin.  Well out of it as Dedalus said.  In the midst of life we are in death.  And we all understand what that means perfectly well.  Don’t we?  I mean, I always believe.  At least for me.  Take Rudy for example.  Sweet little dwarf body weak as putty.  They say a mistake of nature.  Meant nothing, better luck next time.  He doesn’t have to.  Or at least he will never.  Hell with this, what was I saying?  Death in the midst of life.  Yes.  Nabokov said the cradle rocks above an abyss.  You see?  Life is a pinpoint of light surrounded by eternitites of darkness.   Where we came from, where we are going: the same place.  Oh they look on suicide badly enough, greatest disgrace to have in a family, cowardly, temporary insanity was Cunningham’s charitable view.  But I don’t know.  It is a route at least.  It’s one way to get there.  Poor Papa.  He was in a room with hunting pictures on the walls.  At his hotel.  The bottle was there and they said they thought he was asleep at first.  But then saw the yellow streaks on his face.  I didn’t want to look and see him differ from.  And the letter.  For my son Leopold.  No more pain.  Rattle his bones.  Over the stones.  He’s only a pauper whom nobody owns.  Nobody owns.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Looks horrid open

I was where all the shades were fully covered but visible as wisps of straw in glass.11:20 am

That drive to the funeral, Paddy Dignam emigrating.  Think of him in there, in that box.  What if he fell out?  Paddy rolling all over the place.  Would he bleed if pierced by a nail?  Better bury him in dark red.  Suppose wouldn’t have blood anymore.  What would leak out?  Bury him in puce.  Mouth sewn closed.  Eyes too.  Sphincter.  Seal it all up.  Take him from Harborview, where old Mrs. Riordan died They take the incurables there.  Encourages them.  Bee stings too, went there then.  Morgue on site, convenient.  Need to put the cemetery next door and it would be one stop shopping.  Would speed things up.  Make a mall of it.  Take care of paperwork, wills, last rites, pick out the coffin or maybe urn.  Efficient.  And not just for the emigrants.  The living would have their conveniences too.  Mourning clothes, bar for after they relieve the hearse.  Have a little elixir of life, extend your stay.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Cycle down, hire some old crock

Then they forgathered, huddled in one throng, weping aloud along that wretched shore which waits for all who have no fear of God. 11:23 am

I’ll tell you all about it but first I have to sit down, empty the dirt and stones out of my boots.  Woof my dogs are barking!  Jesus fucking christ that was a long ass trip.  And what have you been doing while I’ve been gone?  Lazy ass.  Look at this dump.  Shuttered.  Tenantless.  Unweeded garden.  Whole place gone to hell.  Wow I’m jet lagged.  So I’m thinking of writing the whole thing up as a travel guide for tourists.  They’ll love reading about it.  And I can make a little money too and won’t have to spend my life subsisting on the bitter taste of other’s bread, how salt it is.  Do you know how hard a path it is for one who goes descending and ascending others’ stairs?  Here, listen to this:  My journey to the afterlife took me off the beaten track where wildlife abounded.  I met up with Beatrice, an old flame who hooked me up with her tour guide friend Virgil.  Discerning travelers would do well to enlist his guidance when exploring this picturesque land of contrasts.  We began with that hidden gem, Hell’s capital city of Dis, where we took a charming boat ride ferried by a quaint local who charged us a fraction of the price you’d pay at home.  His dock was bustling with friendly locals crowded on the spit of land and as we waited silent shapes appeared, colorful characters holding out calm hands and pointing.  The vibrant culture we found in Hell and its sleepy backwaters are an unspoiled holiday destination well on its way to becoming the next Tuscany.  For adrenalin junkies don’t miss the crawl up and then down Lucifer’s body.  Only then can you experience Hell’s best kept secret — the rustic road to Mount Purgatory.  At its end the reward for your adventures will be breathtaking vistas, and the golden beaches at your feet will wash away your cares.   Stay a while; you will feel quite refreshed.  Once you are rejuvenated by the tranquility of the pounding surf you will be more than ready to explore the bustling markets and lively nightlife that color the charming hamlets nestled along the slopes of Mount Purgatory.  At the top of your soul-cleansing climb up the mountain your reward is Edenic gardens and an exotic parade of folk life.  Next prepare yourself to be whisked onward and upward!  There’s something in this divine place for everyone, and for those of you who enjoy the comforts of air travel your next stop is a paradise rich in history and filled with friendly locals.  Enjoy the music of the spheres along the way! Your journey culminates with a must see destination, the experience of which will leave you saying to yourself how incomplete is speech, how weak, when set against my thought!  What.  I saw that look.  Tell me.  No good?  What’s wrong with it?  I suppose I should recommend a hotel or two, maybe some restaurants.  No?  Shit.  You sure?  Well, maybe it will make a good poem. 

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

I made of my own house my gallows place.

From every side I heard the sound of cries, but I could not see any source for them, so that, in my bewilderment, I stopped. I think that he was thinking that I thought so many voices moaned among those trunks from people who had been concealed from us. 11:26 am

Why do you tear at me?   So painful.  It is a pain that releases pain.  You don’t look like a harpy, what are you?  What do you want?  I can’t tell you anything but what I see from my rooted prison.  When I tore my spirit from my body I landed here, sprouted and now I am what you see.  Poetic, no?  I gave up my body and now I am unable to move.  There’s a word for that but I’m running out of time.  Oh! There’s some blood on you.  Is it my fault you chose a branch right above your head?  I’m clotting already.  So I should wait all day here for you to bleed out a question.  Spit out I mean.  Arlgrlarraa.  Ouch!  Are you without all sentiment of pity?  That’s your question, what do I see?  What do you see you ask me?  Open your eyes!  Graves and graves.  What do I see.  Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day.  Funerals going on all the time all over the world.  Everywhere every minute.  Thousands every hour.  Shoveling them under by the cartload; too many in the world.  Argblle.  Why do you break me off?!  I hadn’t fully clotted that time.  That day?  I saw a leanjawed harpy and her hatchling, dirty face, stained with tears, crocodile.  Mutes shouldering a coffin.  First the stiff, then the friends of the stiff.  That’s it, the pomp of death.  Arglulgrr.  Fine.  And my son moving soap from one pocket to another.  There.  You happy?  Now go.

One Response to I made of my own house my gallows place.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Which end is his head?

And they poured em behoiled on the fire. Scaald!11:30 am

I asked if Paddy was insured and he was, but his policy was heavily mortgaged.  Martin Cunningham is getting up a collection for the boy, Ned Lambert trying to do something too.  Great blow to his wife.  She has the laugh now. No more of his bullshit, his parenting, his secrets, his drugs, his crack whores, his attacks on her peace, her mind, her normalcy, her justice, her safety, her money, her forward, her backward.  She got burned.  She got so burned.  It was a damn bad hand she got dealt and what’s worse, in her universe time cleaves here.  Everything will be about before it happened and after it all went down.  And her boy.  God only knows what.  There’s no.  I just.  Oh god that sweet boy.  Not yet.  I can’t say it yet.  But she might marry again.  Me?  No.  Him?  And Molly marry again?  No.  Him?  Yet who knows.  And then.  And then.  Somebody has to go first, underground.  Lie no more in her warm bed.  Here’s a cold one for you.  I hope you’ll soon follow.  Well, he is more dead for her than for me.  Condole with her.  Your terrible loss.  Nobody to haggle with over the boy.  My day, your day, you are late, he needs this, drop him off when.  And then ineffably worse, what will this do?  Oh that sweet boy.  What does he understand?  How much of this is he taking on?  When we look at this kid down the road, what will be naked for all to see and then incomprehensible, what will he show only when he trusts, when he is most naked?  He was there with his father dead.  Three days alone.  Both unconscious.  Then wake up Daddy.  Wake up.  Nothing.  Nothing for three days.  But not nothing.  I can’t.  For three days bodies don’t do nothing, they do plenty.  And the boy too little to know what to do.  Please wake up Daddy.  Here, I’ll open your eyes for you.  Daddy?  Did Paddy know?  Did he lighten at the last moment?  Did he recognize all he might have done?  Could he see?  And all for a shadow of nothing.  Stop.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.


In search of whom they sought: him there they found squat like a toad, close at the ear of Eve; Assaying by his devilish art to reach the organs of her Fancy, and with them forge illusions as he list, phantasms and dreams, or if, inspiring venom, he might taint th' animal spirits that from pure blood arise like gentle breaths from rivers pure, thence raise at least distempered, discontented thoughts, vain hopes, vain aims, inordinate desires blown up with high conceits engend'ring pride. 11:32 am

I thought I heard a toad whispering into my ear.  That is how the dream began.  It was a strange dream or nightmare, I do not understand which, of a place I have never seen and people looking unlike anybody within the walls of our dear abbey.  I sensed that the toad was most troubled.  I have spoken with many creatures but never with a toad, so I am not certain of his words or meanings, but he had a fluent croak.  Werburgh.  Werburgh.  My name came forth from his bulbous throat most naturally.  I am uncertain, but I believe he may have shifted his appearance, for at times I thought he resembled a bulldog.  Or a sheep.  Even a rook.  Oh the things he showed me disturbed me greatly.  I saw a coffin and mourners, but they were strangely dressed and the poor deceased had not a full mass, merely the absolution and that was all for to send the dear pitiable creature to our eternal Father.  Oh how I shall pray for that sweet soul!  The toad then whispered into my ear a most grievous vision; a man of dour countanence, not of our faith, improperly kneeling and unable to pray.  Within his thoughts he held such little understanding of the sacred rites we hold so dear, and he occupied his mind most shockingly with the flesh of his wife puffed with air.  I can hardly bring myself to see it.  Then most dreadfully he imagined the light which might come from igniting air released by the desecration of tombs long sealed!  I grieve greatly for the everlasting soul of this wretched man who damages himself with his thoughts.  How I tremble for the future of our existence as I believe this was the purpose of the wise dear toad.  He showed me such disturbing revelations of what is surely to be the second fall of man so that perhaps with piety and prayer we can change the miserable lot of our wretched future bretheren.  I see now my friends the wild geese in their pond.  We shall cook the fat one in a pie this evening and tomorrow I shall gather its feathers and bones and resurrect the dear creature.  That is, if the rest of them give me their solemn promise to stay out of the cornfield.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Come forth, Lazarus! And he came fifth and lost the job.

Soft and safe be the earthly bed of our brother; bright and glorious be his rising from it. Fragrant be the acacia sprig which shall flourish there. May the earliest buds of spring unfold their beauties over his resting place, and in the bright morning of the world's resurrection, may his soul spring into newness of life and expand into immortal beauty in realms beyond the skys.11:36 am

After the funeral Tom Kernan hovered near me.  Both converts.  In the same boat in other ways too.  Treacherous to be the only ones.  Our ill-kept secret.  Is he a mason?  They have better funerals.  I wanted him to speak to me and he said: I ah uh weoowection ah uh wife — youcheg a man imok heaw.  Well damn that to hell.  Once you are dead you are dead.  The resurrection and the life; the last day idea.  There’s a rabbit hole for you, hard to come forth from that one.  Get up!  Last day!  Rise and shine.  Then all of the dearly returned digging around for livers and kidneys and inmost hearts.  Find damn all of yourself in the morning.  Left my heart behind.  No hearts in there these days.  Removed first.  Broken out, then sewn up.  How many broken hearts buried with Paddy Dignam?  None.  Inmost heart.  Kernan’s maybe, but Paddy’s?  No touching that.  Touched Simon’s, he broke down when we were near Mary’s grave.  Simon said she’s in heaven if there is a heaven.  But she’s better where she is.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Puzzling two long keys at his back

11:40 am

John Henry Menton was at the funeral.  Still hates me over that fight at Mat Dillon’s.  Never forgets a rival.  Aion there too with his keys crossed behind his back.  I mean Zurvan.  No wait, that’s Pluto.  Hades.  That is, Janus I mean.  Somebody’s job it is to lock the living from the dead and the successive from the eternal.  And look good holding keys.   Can’t have one of us slipping through, as much as we might want to force our way in.

Peter:  You forgot that I have the keys, Leopold, or Bloom, or Nowthen, or Sly, or whatever else it is you call yourself.

Sly:  Simon.  Honey.  Or do you just go by Rock?  Maybe it’s The Rock.  Child, you are late to this party.  Check your pockets sugarstick.  Now would you look at that.  Where’s those keys baby?  Two words.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

You might pick up a young widow here

11:45 am

Molly caught me writing to Martha.  Almost killed the whole thing.  I wrote the wrong address on the envelope I used to cover the letter.  I hope it’s not in a dead letter office somewhere.  In the midst of life we are in death.  Like John O’Connell.  Life among the tombs.  Keeps it well, trimmed edges, nice grass.  Corpse manure best for plants.  Mastiansky said Chinese cemetery poppies make the best opium.  Could be a decent trade.  Carcasses for gardens.  Dig them under when they are green and pink still, decomposing.  Then they become a kind of a tallowy kind of a cheesy.  Then black treacle oozing.  This must be what the plants like.  Then dried up deathmoths.  How did O’Connell get a woman to marry him, come live at the graveyard?  Try dangling that in front of somebody.  Courting death.  Is thrilling I expect.  Love among the tombs.  Tantalizing for the poor dead, though, like smell of grilling meat for the starving.  Fields of them out there, ground honeycombed with them.  More room if buried standing up.  Except wouldn’t want a mudslide, head might come up with pointing hands.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Every Friday buries a Thursday

And would again could whispring grassies wake him and may again when the fiery bird disembers. And will again if so be sooth by elder to his youngers shall be said. Have you whines for my wedding, did you bring bride and bedding, will you whoop for my deading is a? Wake? Usqueadbaugham!

11:45 am

Shhhh. Whisper. Keep your voice down.  Don’t let them hear us.  Here, lend an ear.  See them?  The living?  They are dying but they don’t seem to know it themselves.  Shhhh.  Not long now.  Look at them burying each other, like ants but with coffins.  What a waste of wood.  Ought to just build one and give it a sliding panel.  Thank you come again.  Next.  Shhhh.  Whisper when you laugh or they’ll hear you.  How many are they?  12, no, 13. Nice round number.  Now who is that lankylooking galoot over there in the macintosh?  No need to wonder.  We’ll know soon enough.  Keep an ear to the ground. We’ll remember him when he gets here.  We will, anyway.  None of the living remember each other for long.  Hope you are well, see you in hell.  Out of sight out of mind.  Shhhh.  One of them heard us whispering around them.  Pretend to be air blowing in a whisper.  Shhhhhh.  Whisper.  They just don’t look natural, do they?  Sure they are alive?  Maybe we can smash pillows into their faces, see if they breathe.  Pierce a heart or something.  Just to be sure.  Shhhh.  Who wears purple to a funeral?  Shhhh. Illdyed.  Quiet.  Wind.  Shhhhh.  Be the wind.  Wonder when the new guy will show up.  It’s nearly closing time.  

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Well of all the

Yes, the viability of vicinals if invisible is invincible.11:50 am

McIntosh in the Macintosh.  I saw him.  But I didn’t hear him leave.  Where did he disappear to?  Not a sign.  I don’t know who he is.  Is that his name?  Has anybody seen?  Good lord, what became of him?  Suppose he was invisible?   If we were all suddenly somebody else.  I could be the invisible man, could go anywhere.  I could walk the earth until I find a rent in its flesh.  And then.  Then.  What if we are an imitation of an invisible universe?  Is time reversible in that then?  What if the unseen can be seen?  Are they here with me now?  Now all the time?  Suppose I were to reach and touch there, just there.  Can I feel them?  Can I hear them?  If I were invisible would I be inaudible too?  Would I be able to hear inaudible sound?  Wait.  What was that?  And is there already an invisible me in the invisible world?  Can I hear them speak to me now?  Shhh.  Listen.  Music I think.  Wait.  Breathing.  Is that you?  I think that is you.  Is that you?  Hlo?

2 Responses to Well of all the

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Stone hopes

Yet it is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top. 11:53 am

Oh sweet God I’m bored.  Bored bored bored.  Thank you, come again.  Nice of them to leave a few flowers.  I like daisies.   Nice smell.  Well, they could smell like shit for all I’d know.  Or care.  Jesus I’m bored.  Nice to feel warm beings near you though.  All that warm fullblooded life.  That creepy one will be back and with a shovel.  Scrape up the earth to get at the fresh buried female.  Never mind the corpse rot.  Pustules.  Bored bored bored bored bored bored bored doo daa doo daa.  Wish I could drape myself over some casket like what’s her name over there.  What is her christian name?  I’m not sure.  Next to Emily Sinico, crushed by a slow moving train.  Lying there with a bird on her head.  Rooks in here a bit ago.  And an owl.  Looked stuffed.  Wish we had one of those what are they called silent towers.  Dakhma.  Want to see a tower of silence, just stop by here any time you like.  Won’t hear us say a damn thing.  Wouldn’t mind seeing a Dakhma in action.  The buzzards tearing the flesh off.  Rotting carcasses touching neither fire nor earth but vulture lunch, no problem.   Bon Appetite.  Good food good meat good God let’s eat.  Bet you I’d smell that.  Woof!  Well, that’s one way to handle it.  Cremation would be interesting too but nobody gets to watch that.  Priests against it too.  Nothing to raise up at the second coming.  Nothing to raise up regardless. Rats. There’s one right under me right now.  See it?  There.  Tail gone now.  Corpse is ordinary meat to them.  Meat gone bad.  Like cheese is milk gone bad.  Cheese is the corpse of milk.  Wouldn’t mind smelling a nice stinky cheese.  Or anything.  Rats get that crumbling mush of corpse smell.  Would be something.  Bored.  Flowers.  Better to spend the money on the living.  More sensible.  Are those flowers fake?  They are starting to look fake.  Great.  Never wilting.  Expresses nothing.  Immortelles.  Won’t get to watch them die.  Wouldn’t mind seeing a drowned corpse.  I hear that is a nice gentle decomposition.  Would enjoy watching.  Not like here.  Plant him and have done with him.  Those plague years with open pits and quicklime melting everything away.  Now there’s something to see.  I would have liked that.  Wasn’t a bad sermon just then.  We’re here to celebrate the life of.  Didn’t look much like a party to me.  Let us pray for the repose of the soul of but does anybody really?  People looking at their hands.  Check the nails.  Just looking at them: well pared.  He who departed this life, as if he did it on his own.  Then leave us with another rock that says beloved father, son and no longer beloved ex-husband of.   Well, they always leave that part out.   An acre of lies.  Here lies an enormous bastard we all hated.  Good riddance to the crank who finally kicked the bucket.  Irritating bitch beloved by nobody special.  And people don’t visit anymore.  Dump them in and take off.  Well, as you are now so once were we.  Ever think of that?   Watch out or your dead will come back to the world.  I will appear to you after death.  You will see my ghost after death.  My ghost will haunt you after death.  There is another world after death.  And thank God for it.  Do I want to be brought back to life?  Hell no.  I do not like that other world.  I’ll stay here haunting my statue, thank you, I love it here.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Pure fluke of mine

Let us swop hats and excheck a few strong verbs weak oach eather yapyazzard abast the blooty creeks.11:56 am

John Henry Menton, how grand we are this morning.  He might have said thank you instead of nothing.  As if I turned him into stone.  Hates me.  Hate at first sight.  A guy doesn’t like to be beaten spectacularly at anything.  But in front of women, well.  And Molly and Floey Dillon laughing under the lilac tree didn’t help.  The root of his dislike.  Mortified him.  He did nothing but stare with those oyster eyes until Martin, helpful, also told him your hat is a little crushed.  He thanked Martin.  Never mind.  He’ll be sorry when it dawns on him.  Get the pull over him that way.  Leave him under an obligation: costs little.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.