Character Sketch #7

He has a soft smile. He has a tough way about him. I suppose he’s realxed. He’s suprisingly metaphorical in his speech, like a walrus waiting for the sun to come out and presenting his skin when it does, never moving from his rock and biting the air with his tusks, wholly true to himself, wholly accepting of his blubber. He surfs. 

Crankus the walrus sits and spins tales in silence, compliance aimed at the water where his tail becomes fully meaningful like a sail. To feel is to take a full glass of water and shine light in order to see the hidden colors, though through the confusion and pleochroism one feels the confusion but knows that one must always come back to the clarity of water. He spins tales without ale or ailment, always about the probabilities of the world, this space, waiting for the comfortable being to come through. He avoids opprobrium with neat dexterity. Crankus fills his gut with fish. Crankus fills his mind with stories and perhaps his maw is always involved.

He has red hair. He wanders with his broad shoulders. I suppose he appreciates repetition and the nuance of changes in time, though it is not mysterious nor does it abound in mysterious ways. Taking from the environment and giving certainty back, it is like a screech rising heavily from the earth. He is both of these things. 

Character Sketch #6

He says-

Seven and something inches of pleasure. What is male sexuality. They have big dicks but don’t really have that impetus to please women. There is a very delicate balance and it captivates me, but what I should be doing is something I just don’t know. Personally, I feel as though I’m captivated by, like, pushing sexual boundries. The sex monster persists in all of us though we can find different compartments if we try hard enough but really if you just stick a dick in something warm and wet that does the trick. Have you heard the song “Pussy Monster” by Lil Wayne? It isn’t out of character. Come to think of it I should rehearse my realtionship with this man you’re in love with because he has some fraternal perversities. Maybe we should see how far this lamplumphump can go. BbBBBBEBEEEEEEEzzzzzzzzzepbumbusifunumumumumumumumumudeumumudeeeeumumummmmmmdidididldlllllleedidldldld refusal of certain pejorative proclivities. You are boring, as an afterthought and once I went to this strip club. I got a lot of attention but it seemed as though they were all just cougars waiting to circumscribe our cocks into a striptease. It makes me feel as though I’m reading Bataille and peeing all over her cunt, not hard enough? I could go for the ears, nose, and mouth? Yeah, that won’t do it for me at all, you’d have to be sleeping with white make-up on all over your face and tender thighs like a little chicken pie, eat it, eat that chicken potpie. They’re all crows and just waiting to be my brothers? Are you writing in code? Will I need a cipher? Perhaps your body would curve under my triangle, if you know what I mean. -Winks- Wait so tell me about these threesomes you’ve been in, I had no idea you were a bohemian kind of girl. He just would stare at me with these eyes that oozed cum, just admiring me. I think he might have been trying to impregnate me or penatrate me or something with his personality.   

Character Sketch #5

Kubla Khan once wanted to conquer his garden. The bean plant grew steadily from the strength of the sun and the consistency of water. Maybe too much water but the plant didn't mind and decided to emerge from the soil. The epigeal plant struggled with the thought of longer stems and multiple leaves; however, Kubla would not hear of such imprecations dashing down the disposition to meet the sun. And anyway there was going to be a bug party. Very soon. Kubla couldn't stop singing at this point because the bean plant had knit him a comforter out of crow's feathers. No, actually, Kubla couldn't stop singing because his knee had begun whistling a tune for the bug party. This was contradictory because Kubla's plants and Kubla's bugs would obviously not get along very well due to their differences at birth. Also because the bugs were aphids and probably wanted to eat the leaves off the bean plant. I guess that's what happens at parties.

"I shall have to get a glass of water then make my new bed," said Kubla Kahn, king of the badlands. He did this and immediately felt better (he had been feeling bad because the bugs, in a state of agitated jubilance, had all rushed from the garden into his rose beds (instead of hopping the fence they had torn it down with miniature pick-axes) though they hadn't eaten anything they certainly did manage to fluster Kubla and leave immature notes reading "the buggy has flown the coop" and "SCRAM" and "shut up, four eyes" and "get lost, two-legs").  

Character Sketch #4

"You see, there are many boxes"
An emphatic hand gesture sweeping out the air in front of him.
"We might have to buy more boxes"
Perhaps he knows that boxes mean much more to me than their brown physicality can impart.

Let me tell you about this person, let me give you his history. He is proficient at fulfilling the role of arch-nemesis. For a year he played this role; everyday his existence would spit in my face, taunt, and begrudge me the little private pride I had come to subsist upon. Like a knife and just as precise, he cuts through my abstractions if only to replace them with his own and lays out the relation between the sickness of our speech and the sickness that he has brought about him. When did we finally confront each other? I'll set the stage: a giggly consortium of girls and a single math major jettisoning flicks of light in order to ignite us into remembering that we were chandeliers tearing down the firmament of logic and order. He walks into my room, agloom. He wears all black, compact. He drinks my whiskey, petulantly. He leaves, leaves an impudent madonna; however, all I see are his implied insults, keeping them secret because he's far too pristine to enmesh himself with our excited farrago.

For a year this went on, replayed back to me by my own senses and this is how he came to jar my senses. To break into the recent, we moved without fault, outlining territory and confusing desire with anger. This is what speech does. Of course, Shakespeare is the master of dissociated language where desire moves through the aggression of syllables. Spring came and went and we were left to diffuse these shallow mysteries, now becoming deeper because who is able to speak and not fall into the void with creative intentions where this need to love can only find bounds in what is said and what is left unsaid? Although we never agreed. He spoke with the certainty and elan of a clam ready to present its pearl.

"Are we ready? We need more tape"
And here I am, opposed to history, helping him to pack in mournful slowness. I'm considering hiding his books.

Character Sketch #3

he walks from the kitchen and promptly sits on the blue and white and almost wintery couch. daftly, he scoops beans into a coffee grinder for me as i sit here writing this. he has no idea, although some ideas may come from the raisin box. i would believe it, this sound he's making from the kitchen. maybe this will help. it will cure you. the plague will be gone. he opens the window. i wonder what exactly i'm planning on doing with this, and a syncopation manifests itself! the stripes on his shirt and the stripes from the window. i look up and he looks down. this creature doesn't seem to have a wish in the world but explores the oneiric with a decisive precision, like the scientist looking over his glasses and categorizing frogs for the sake of stillness of mind. somehow it doesn't bother me that he's addicted to the internet but i worry about his brain. back to it. the coffee is almost ready. the coffee is ready. he takes a manly sip. is this about white bread? is this about me? he asks me about rye bread. i tell him about the glycemic index and warn of the noxious nature of potatoes. texting is a thing to make us feel alone again and i watch from the corner of my eye. if you were wondering, he isn't gay for raisins.
what do i know about this man? what can i say? what is it to say? other than the right to throw bread out of the window i am given nothing, no room, no division of selves and know that everything has fallen silent. we sit in silence. what is there to tell?

Character Sketch #2

You are streamline.
You are ambiguous.
I am writing from a place that seems like an escape but really we run into rubicund walls made from smashed whiskey bottles of varying size and shape, oh the glass does take a while to let us escape. How shall I love you? It is a matter of walking into a house and measuring the rooms with your soul, but who am I to keep souls for the purpose of scientific experimentation? You are streamline. You are the frigate on my tongue's horizon. You are ambiguous. You used words as though they were swords, taking out the heart and leaving the offal to rot. But, then, you aren't ambiguous at all. She says, "I just want to feel at home in myself" and it pleases me. It pleases me to see you in the world with your memories of Greek Isles. More than that I've been caught at sea with you more than once. She says, "nature and the city" and I say, "I think I'm broken up". She watches me unfold myself in imbricated leaves, those things that don't belong in the sea but wash up on shore anyway, being flotsam, yet of an unknown origin, happy to be the idiopathic. As it happens she doesn't need me to speak, for she has cat's eyes that tear me apart and open the center. "The friend comes into me, looking for the center... unable to find it... draws a sword, strikes anywhere".
We will walk alone in a graveyard in the folds of night and feel no cliche.

Character Sketch #1

Is it possible to feel too much?
I feel a velleity coming on
and the way that prose moves:
champagne straining from its bottle.
Friend, foe, or those strange things
that we find walking down streets,
it's all fair game and strong meat
for I feed on your intimacies,
your silence that is so jarringly  
oppressing. Here is where I am
making all of this -ready- possible.