Sunday, March 27, 2011

yelling timber

Child: Would the streets of a paper city be paved with cardboard?

Benito Mussolini: I don’t respond well to questions.

Child: As if the day of the week, all dandy-fancy, were capable of being told.

Leonard Susskind: Extrapolating has its kind side. There. I said it.

Child: If I am movie-mad?

Slavoj Žižek: Movies are mad and therefore we target them…individually.

Child: I want my journey to consist of three-point plays and untested excuses.

Lawyer: Please remain silent, or neutral at least.

Loved One: Pshaw.

Child: Pamper me, please.

Loved One: No.

Benito Mussolini: Somebody put me on a train. For Jesus, the sake of.

Child: Blocks. Offensive Rebounds. Trailing the break. Holding for the last shot. Dribble drives. Giving a smooch to each bicep for the crowd. These things? Yeah. These things.

Dom DiMaggio: Chances that you give, if they don’t get taken, come back, in the mix of it all, to haunt your streakiness.

Child: Agreed.

Mother Of Loved One: Sweep west, young man. Sweep west.

Loved One: She knows some of what of where she speaks of.

Rosie The Riveter: There’s a whole world out there filled with people doing things to make your life easier…for very little money.

Leonard Susskind: Don’t refill your cup too soon, buck-o.

Patti Smith: Darn crooked. Somebody toss one of them veggie patties on the grill for me.

The Count: Lord help me. Yes sir, I will.

Child: Getting better, soon.

Loved One: Still?

Morrissey: How soon is it?

Child: Not quite now.

Slavoj Žižek: Putting off the inevitable, are we not? Basic manipulation of mise-en-scène, drawbacks of iris-like styles, holes in the bucket, and we get the heart of the matter to bleed through to us in the bright CinemaScope of celluloid. Lavishly darning the unstitched ends of consciousness; that is more like us.

Johann Sebastian Bach: I think I left my heart in the gutter. Anybody seen a sewer drain around here?

Jonathan Livingston Seagull: Get bent.

Child: My tolerance for nitwits is plunging.

Paul Verlaine: I’d paint your fence for just about nothing.

Tom Verlaine: I’d do it just for fun.

Samuel Langhorne Clemens: Well, that’s good of you both. But is that a flag I smell burning?

Roger Clemens: No. It’s my loins.

Samuel Langhorne Clemens: Oh. When’s recess?

Child: That’s what we’re all wondering.

Lawyer: Play fair or go home.

Child: Is that right?

Lawyer: Well, according to my records everybody’s got a right to fight…or was that…? Let’s see….was that to…to…to party?

Dee Snider: I want a rock.

John Donne: I want an island. And a bell.

Joyce Carol Oates: You would.

Child: Within the first 5 minutes of talking to somebody I can usually tell if I ever want to talk to them again.

Sigmund Freud: You should use that mouth to kiss your mother.

Child: Only if my loneliness increases exponentially. Just existing, now, here, is enough.

Ringo Starr: Okay everybody. Now, I don’t want any of you to lend me your ear. Okay?

Mother Of Loved One: I would say, “Play it again Sam,” but you haven’t played it yet.

The Count: In among the trees again, are we?

Methuselah: Somebody leave me out of this.

Child: As if that were ever fine by me. At least we’ve found out what you’re no good for, at last.

Mark Fidrych: If we don’t know you by now…

Thales of Miletus: I give you all the digitus impudicus.

Child: I guess hate conquers some.

Benito Mussolini: Quiet down. I can’t hear the TV.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt: Ouch! My back.

Snoopy: Sorry. I was marching on a dime. Sorry.

Child: If I were only empty inside there’d be a reason for all this, but I’ve tasted what’s sweetest around the block and back again, so there must be an exception to make as far as my sanity is concerned.

Father: Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you.

Loved One: That’s more like it.

David Foster Wallace: Escaping towards a better way of life; the difference between what I want and what I need--the confusion too, between the two. Knuckle-biting about not writing, essentially stuttering….erase, erase, add, erase. Just footnotes to my dreams.

Arlo Guthrie: All the dogs to me are killed until they’re dead.

Warren Gamaliel Harding: Weird.

Joan Crawford: Hounding seems thunderous at times, to me, and as long as we’re fantailing o’re the kiddies, well, let’s holster our civility and just be.

Child: Like, so, how? How so?

Voltairine de Cleyre: He’s a brat. Give ‘em to me. I’ll make a mouse of him.

Child: Give? Who says?

Billie Holiday: I died with seventy cents in the bank, and was arrested as I lay dying. Who needs to say? Who?

William Faulkner: Shit.

Child: I might be who, but who is that who? And to whom is my sense of self given? And who is giving it? Shall it be I? Who am I? Who is who?

Ruth Joan Bader Ginsburg: Recess.

Carol Burnett: Ghosting around has left us dull in the middle. Let’s do this shit up right, or why do it at all?

Steve Ignorant: After this I’m going to owe all of you a living.

Child: Naivety is sort of blissful, you know?

Margaret Thatcher: Isn’t it though?

The Count: Huh?

Child: There’s room for my love in a battered old suitcase, in a crossword puzzle’s starred clues, in an unlocked safe labeled For Jane’s Use Only, in a moonrise, in a few glasses of beer, in sign-language lessons, in the pleasant way cars shine their headlights through mist in the early morning, in well-timed smiles, in the bashful tuck of a kitten’s paw, in the rocks’ spit at a semi’s mudflaps, in the scrublands of crowberry and vervain and leycesteria and cotoneaster and silverbell and firethorn, in the president’s spittle, in the whore’s made bed, in songs to sing while drinking, in useless hours spent waiting out the rain, in love, in protest banners, in 12-hour shifts in a windowless factory, in the companionship of a bottle of cheap rye whisky, in untended lawns, in bones that break and heads that hang, in a calendar’s x’d out squares, in a cricket’s dreams, in throat lumps, in card games and baseballs and Morningbirds and lazy bartenders, and in you too, in you, and me, and all of us, at last, yes, all of us, at long last, in us all.

Lazarus: Yeah. But who’s counting?