Just Watch the Fireworks

a long long time

2010-02-18T13:23:00.000-08:00

i realize that it's been awhile.

but any desire i once had to create rhymed couplets, or build pretty metaphors has been temporarily tapped out by more pressing matters.

being the self-obsessed person that i'm afraid all writers must be (in at least some small degree) i still find that i have the need to attempt to say clever things, i'm just doing it in a more family-oriented, less poetic atmosphere.

so until the time comes where i'm scratching the itch left behind by that nasty little poetry bug, you can find me here. please come say hello.

Driving Home in May

2009-05-13T11:32:00.000-07:00

in summer
i drive
exposed through car doors
music loud enough
to make the mirrors tremble
drum beats so thick
that i could wrap my shoulders
in a cloak of vibration
a coat of heartbeats
windows wide and wondering
if my road mates feel rhythm in their blood
if they tap their steering wheels
or simply nod
in the uncontainable expression
of the steady or the syncopated
I scan adjacent lanes for open windows
hoping they will hear
that they might feel the bass climbing up
past rubber soles and coiled shocks
and perhaps
amidst the rippling heat
of summer and exhaust
your pulse will find mine
and we will connect.

well...

2009-04-24T09:33:00.000-07:00

turns out my husband hates poetry. Huh.

well, 'spose that's why i have a blog.

is there is someone out there actually reading all this tripe i'm writing? Hello?

i guess i'd like to think, in the most narcissistic corner of my little heart that someone reads, and possibly doesn't even think it's all complete crap.

i'll probably keep up with this, at least until the blogger gods decide to destroy my little space here. even if the only person who gets anything out of it is myself.. and of course you, Katie.

Us

2009-04-22T13:48:00.000-07:00

we hear
we buy tickets
we punch faces in faceless crowds
we feel the ink on our skin or the taste of metal and dust in our mouths
we are the yellow in the sunlight
we soak in smoke and sweat and sounds
we are the heat in waves
we race and stumble and fall
we sing
we dance
we link our arms and scream across steel barriers
we ravage and regale
we are loud
we are one
we bleed
we see our reflections in sunglasses
we touch and press
we breathe
we twist and jump and explode
we
we walk in the dusk
through the sweat and the mud
we sit in a dirty car
and we are completely in love

summer, stop teasing me

2009-04-22T13:47:00.001-07:00

no one walks in straight lines
when the restless flutters of May
scratch soundtracks on their windows.

Amber

2009-04-09T16:38:00.000-07:00

wearing shorts on the front porch
the tangerine glow of
this melancholy summer
lays in layers over
the unshadowed inches of our legs
the ghosts that live in photographs
have taken their red eyes and drunken smiles
out from under the bed
and into our hands

it is too early for acorns

we snatch the light as it falls
extracting the best lines
filling our notebooks with honey and cursive
her pages like peaches
heavy and sweet and bruisable
mine like plums in a saucer of milk

even the smallest leaf is someone's blanket

our hair creates curtains
as we curve over glue sticks and twine
attaching and trapping and tying bits down
the tree shadows descend from overhead
they wrestle and collide
in butterscotch and coffee patterns on our skin

the bees sing her favorite song

and so
we climb into the sticky tree sap puddles
smearing our cheeks and elbows
and and anticipate our petrification
for someone to uncover us
legs and necks and little toes
as priceless and pristine as we feel
in the golddustsed pages of our former selves

Why I Don't Own a Dog

2009-01-19T11:01:00.001-08:00

You look like a frightened puppy
hunched shoulders and shifting eyes.
Whispering as though i weren't watching you
circling, sniffing, marking your territory
all over my carefully cultivated garden.
A quivering yelp that sounds strangely like my name
is loosely buried under bulbs and earth
so painstakingly nurtured,
now turned over and reeking of your scent.
Watching me
as if i had a rolled up newspaper
behind my back,
or if with a swift kick, i'd call you "little bitch"
tell you to stop chewing my shoes, and wearing out the heel.
I'm sick of picking bits of your coat
out of my casseroles, and off my clothes.
As if leaving yourself all scattered over the couch
would be a pleasant reminder that you are here
to stay.

Not Anymore

2009-01-02T10:18:00.000-08:00

I want to keep her.
That girl who is not me.
With her teeth still whole and uncracked
The skin of her thighs unstretched.
I get caught stealing backward glances in her direction
and look down ashamed while the heat of her yellow hair
cascading in the the xanthous light
still tingles
like a phantom limb against my cheek.

She still carries the kiss
On the upper-right hand corner of her lip
And her mind with its puzzling gilt boxes, each encapsulating the next
Still holds the innermost box, safe
unopened

I listen to the soft whisper of her footsteps
when i am enclosed in headphones.

She often stands silent at my shoulder
dropping strands of saffron into my tea
and wearing holes into the elbows of my sleeves
She makes the dust in the afternoon sun
glitter

But as months fall away
her golden luminance dulls
and the strands of yellow hair begin to thin.
She feels transparent, and out of place
like a lonely telephone pole
against a landscape of desert sky and joshua trees.
The more i grasp and clutch her towards me,
The more she fades into memory
This girl who is not me.
No, not anymore.

Just a warning

2008-12-03T16:05:00.000-08:00

I've been very much into lists lately. I'm feeling list-y

So, expect more of those. Besides, they are fun to edit. I can write them in Excel, and then move them all around. it's like a puzzle, or a choose your own adventure. i'm not sure which.

Portrait of Anna at 17

2008-12-02T18:24:00.000-08:00

She would rather stare out the passenger side window of a car, than drive.
She likes the way you sound in headphones,
But she will steal sounds from the air, before they fall complacent on your ears.
She will complain while she picks you up, and dusts the rubble from your tan suede jacket
She will always save your life
But she is not composing poetry to the sound your voice makes, or choreographing the dances your bodies will make as you walk towards each other on busy sidewalks.
She tears the labels off water bottles when they are half empty.
She thinks about you
She keeps her secrets behind gaudy red and orange patches, sewn to her blue jeans.
She walks down suburban streets after midnight,
The street lights extinguish as she walks below
She is wearing the shoes that she wrote your name on in red Sharpie. Letters now scuffed away in a pink smudge.
And she thinks about running in a monsoon, and your hair, soaked with rainwater curling around her fingers, as you wait under the overpass.
She goes outside and tilts her chin into the mist and walks into the day with your name on her toungue.

Weak

2008-11-18T09:44:00.000-08:00

Last second,
I reach forward to catch my head as it succumbs to gravity.
the weight of it in my hands makes my muscles quiver with the strain.
Slouching in my chair, spine curled, pain in red lines creeping
Navigating between the tendons and the muscles and the sinews of my shoulders.
Each step I'm walking in mud

Each attempt to shake off this iron coat
does little but crack joints and glaze eyes
The weight of my empty insides
causing my walls to cave and ceiling to crash.
I am walking in quicksand

The skin beneath my gray outer layers
is detaching itself from the rest of me, in search of someplace warmer

I am walking the bottom of the sea, dragging a medicine ball from each limb

Secret Keeper (revision 1)

2008-11-14T15:02:00.000-08:00

My muscles are coiled
As fingertips grip the steel bar against the stage
The delicious tension warming the skin

We radiate as we reach for you, a shadow against the yellow lights
Chests pressed and aching to touch
Feels like making love
To a space heater

Targets are acquired and locked
With anticipation for ammunition
A thousand voices scattered and obliterated
With every ragged scream
The springs beneath the skin tremble in preparation
Soundtracks of restless breaths travel through my lungs
Between the silences
The dry burn of our thirst
Pushes us closer

Lights dim and we erupt in the heat
Music from a red room bleeds and pools in our outstretched hands
Melting from fingertips, licking through my hair like flames
I twist greedily in the sound
Pulsing and contracting
My chest rises and falls with every beat
Filled with your notes
Black floors soak sweat like a mattress
Like Vampires, we crowd in the yellow lights
We drink deeply and die

The Same Dream

2008-11-07T08:39:00.000-08:00

He gives me a funny look.
I don't know there are holes in my smile
lifting my hand to my mouth, i spit 4 teeth
like stale halloween candy.
"excuse me please" i say, and rummage through my gym bag on the floor
in a vain attempt to find some glue.
I feel the wiggle and the weight with my tongue.
one more has fallen
I take the palmful of teeth and shove them in my pocket,
and continue with my tap dance audition
In an empty store
on the second floor of the South Towne Mall

Numbers

2008-11-03T08:48:00.001-08:00

Slowly becoming obsessed between the space between .4 and .8
I calculate ounces, but i was never very good at math.
Exit the gates with speed and determination
Examine ripples and the soft dent of iron building behind the thick thick thick
But,
3 weeks stagnant, and resolve begins to waiver
Staring and obsessing over the space between my feet
Wishing i could weigh each bead of sweat
Green tea, peanut putter, banana
8 cups, 64 oz.
Ankles supported
Knees bent backwards like a broken coat hanger
.4
breathe, breathe breathe
.6 drink water,
More water, get rid of it, try again
Pressing palms into my sides
60 minutes, 600 salt drops
.4 .8
shit
oatmeal, beans, whey protein
trying to calculate the space between chocolate bars
but i was never very good at math
zippers laugh
don't panic, don't panic
sick on my knees
.2

God.

naked and staring at the space between my feet
12 more reps, increase the 8's to 10's
kick under desks, extend the knees
64 oz, portions portions
it's half past midnight.... don't panic, dont.
it's dark and beckons
no restraint
shit! not again...

on my knees
.0

.0

.0

Secret Keeper

2008-10-23T15:46:00.000-07:00

My muscles are coiled
The delicious tension warming the skin
You never knew you could make love to a space heater
Music from a red room bleeds and pools in green sheets
I twist greedily in the sound
Stretching and contracting
Targets are acquired and locked
With anticipation for ammunition
Bones scattered and obliterated
With every ragged scream
Melting from fingertips, licking through my hair like flames
The springs beneath the skin tremble in preparation
Soundtracks of restless breaths travel through my lungs
Between the silences
My chest rises and falls with every beat
Filled with your notes
Black floors soak sweat like a mattress
Vampires crowd in the yellow lights
We drink deeply and die

emptying the box

2008-10-04T11:20:00.000-07:00

this is a postcard
this is dusk from a fire escape
this is a tracing of the lines on your palm and a promise that won't be kept
these are the naked epistles you wrote to her
this is the shadow of a hand dipped in flour, smudged across the front of my black apron
these are the pennies dropped from canyon cliffs
this is the magazine where you inscribed my blue name in the margins
this is the morning as it tilts over the hills
these are words you wrote to me, "blue eyed and distant" at the coffee shop table in the corner of your bookstore
these eyes are "sky or sea, bound or free..."
these are my eyes. they are green.

One Paragraph

2008-09-16T10:53:00.000-07:00

She deliberately did not look in the mirror as she walked into the bathroom. Lately she had been getting a little too wrapped up in identifying herself with a particular character she was reading. She had enough sense to know that she would be severely disappointed to look in the mirror and see something other than a beautiful brunette with chocolate eyes of immeasurable depth. So she kept her eyes fixed on the the thick film of soap bubbles as they swirled with the water down the drain. She couldn't handle frizzy hair and freckles today.

I really, REALLY love my Crockpot

2008-08-07T10:55:00.000-07:00

I need a place to put these. Here seems like good enough spot. I am going to try these all in the next couple weeks

Cabbage soup
http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/Hearty-Cabbage-Soup/Detail.aspx

Sweet Potato Curry
http://workitmom.com/bloggers/orderingdisorder/2008/02/21/in-the-crockpot-chicken-curry-with-sweet-potatoes-and-coconut-rice/

Beef Stroganoff
http://www.recipezaar.com/4342

Daphne

2008-07-29T10:27:00.000-07:00

"It'll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in."
-Kim Addonizio

She sat at a bus stop. Knees together, feet turned inward, dark hair dripping with the Baltimore rain. Her green dress clung to her skin like black moss on slender tree limbs. It was probably ruined. Several taxis stopped, their sticky black interiors beckoning. Tired of waiting, they each drove off in search of a better fare. She glanced up as each car baptized her with dirty street water. Waiting for the gray Chrysler she knew would eventually come. She clutched the hem of her dress twisting the edges into knots above her knees. She shouldn’t have left the house, she shouldn’t have worn that dress, and she certainly should have known never to go anywhere uninvited. Even if it is just a stupid party. Even if it is New Years Eve. The dress clung and strangled and sunk into her skin. Anyone who passed would not see a girl, wet and shivering, but a tree. Willowy and fragile and bent with the cold and the rain, covered in black moss.

paris in the rain

2008-07-29T08:48:00.000-07:00

she has
fingers like piano keys
they grasp the black handle of an umbrella
with white bone china
pink and gold rimmed.
her bare feet
trace circles in the ground

Feeling Everything

2008-07-22T16:39:00.000-07:00

This time I warned the doctor.

“Don’t, under any circumstances, ask my husband to cut the umbilical cord.”

When he was in High School he’d passed out watching a conjoined twin separation on TV. I didn’t really feel like sharing my shiny medical spotlight with anyone else.

I was prepared. I took yoga. I read about relaxation techniques. I was not going to get a sissy epidural. Epidurals are for wussies and bad mothers.

I wasn’t, however, prepared for 26 hours.

At 11:00 PM, July 7^th my husband Blair and I arrived at the hospital. I’d been having the contractions since about 10:30 that morning. They were starting to get a little more intense. Nothing I couldn’t handle of course. Just bad enough that I wanted to grab on to Blair’s t-shirt and shake him every time one began. They hooked me up to all the fancy monitors. This was it I thought. We sat in that little room, nurses coming in to check on me every once in awhile for the rest of the night. The rest of the night. 8 AM the next morning I was still very pregnant.

My sweet, sweet doctor thought it would be a good idea to get things going a bit. In the agonizingly long night I’d only progressed a few centimeters. “Let’s break your water and see if that makes things move along.”

Things moved along.

Every couple minutes Blair would grab my hand and let me squeeze as hard as I could while he read happy memories out of my journal, just like we’d practiced. I imagined ocean waves and swinging on a swing set at night. Back and forth, and back and forth Just like I’d practiced.

Blair kept bugging me about getting some drugs. I know he hated seeing me this way. The pain in his eyes reflected my own. But I would not give up that easily.

20 hours in, I barfed. It missed the bag Blair held in front of my face. It mostly landed on Blair. That’s what he gets for holding the bag so far away.

“Are you ok? I mean are you sure you don’t want it? I can ask the nurse when she gets back.”

I couldn’t breathe. “Yeah.”

“Did you say yeah?”

“Yeah, ok.” I was a bad mom already.

Blair was on top of things. He flagged down a nurse, and told her about my decision.

The nurse scrambled to make the necessary preparations, and came back in a few minutes later wearing a concerned expression.

“The anesthesiologist is about 45 minutes away, and the doctor doesn’t think you’ll last that long.”

Shit. Now what.

I walked, or rather tried to walk.

I didn’t think it would end, but it did. Blair got a little woozy, but kept his composure long enough to help hold my knees against my shoulders as I pushed.

One scream and it was over.

I felt everything.

Elliot was whole and perfect with sticky dark hair and red skin.

Jesse's Girl

2008-04-21T21:30:00.000-07:00

A collection of guitar picks snuggled safely in a little box set with bone and jade. It was probably someone's cheap souvenir from a vacation to India. Who really goes to India and brings back little trinkets like this? Most people just bring back little orphaned babies... or venereal diseases. Erika couldn't remember where she'd found the box. But she liked it, and the soft purple interior became a bed for all her most treasured guitar picks. She fingered the little gold clasp, knowing the contents without having to take them out. Each one had a story. A band, a concert, an encounter. Her collection. Her prized possession.
Her guitar sat half sticking out of a closet, an embarrassing amount of dust had collected on the fret board. Erika yanked it out unceremoniously. She glanced at the fingernails on her left hand. Too long. She wouldn't have time to cut them before her friends came by, but her nails would hit the fret board if she left them long, making it impossible to show off.
She grabbed each nail with her teeth, and tore them off in ragged strips spit into the sink.
Jesse never knocked, and caught her mid-tear.
"That's gross."
"So's your face." She shoved him lightly into the other guys that trailed him into the apartment, Johnny-O, and Bender. Bender wasn't his real name, and Erika was sure he had one, but she was also sure she didn't know what it was. Bender didn't say much. Ever. He looked like Jesus, if Jesus had worn thick black rimmed glasses and lots of flannel. Bender walked straight to the fridge where Erika kept a massive stash of Dr. Pepper and Mountain Dew. He grabbed a few, and handed one to Johnny-O.
Jesse caught her in a playful headlock, and she attempted to smack him in the balls. He released her head. Jesse looked kind of like a baby lion. His mane was shaggy and tan, and his small deep-set eyes were not brown, but gold.
Johnny-O had the India pick box and was tossing it hand to hand.
"Do you still have the Decoder Ring pick in here?"
The Decoder Ring was Johnny-O's old band. He was in it with Bender and John Caliperi, a kid from their high school. But the band broke up when John C. decided to move to Corvallis for college. Lame. Erika was not much for college sports, but was raised by University of Oregon alumni. Going to Corvallis to be a beaver was basically sacrilege.
"No I burned it. It melted into a little ball of red plastic goo."
Unamused by her sarcasm, Johnny-O opened the box. The red Decoder Ring pick was there nestled between The Starting Line and a pale blue one that Erika caught at the Rx Bandits show. Erika shot a menacing glance at Johnny-O. She usually lied and said that she was drunk the night they hooked up, but everyone knew she didn't drink. It was the first time she'd ever made out with a guy who had a lip ring, and she liked messing up his long dyed black hair. It swooped in front of his left eye, a tiny patch of bleach blond peeking through. Jesse was there that night too. He'd known Erika since middle school and usually felt a kind of obligation to protect her. But that night he had his gold lion's eyes locked in on someone else, and missed Erika and Johnny-O slipping behind the enormous speakers near the stage and out of sight. The events of that night ended up a little less awkward for Jesse. Things were going well with his now current girlfriend Jane. Who names their kid Jane these days anyway? Erika snatched the pick box, setting it down on the end table. Johnny-O stared at her with his dark intense eyes. His eyes were too big to belong to a boy.
Jesse gracefully broke the tension with a swipe at Erika's guitar.
"I invited Jane over" he said as he fiddled with the tuning knobs.
Erika had seen Jane once or twice. Enough to know that her bangs were short, her waist was tiny and she couldn't be much taller than 5'. "Okay. is anyone else coming?"
"I don't know." Jesse cracked the top of a Dr. Pepper. "It's not like we're doing anything tonight are we?"
"Bender. Dude. We should show Erika that video of the time you swallowed a live goldfish." Johnny-O said as he plugged his mp3 player into Erika's sound system with his usual over exuberant violent energy. Bender shrugged with a half grin on his heavily bearded mug. Within seconds the walls of Erika's tiny one bedroom apartment vibrated with the heavy bass of Johnny-O's current fave band of the week.
"Come on Johnny-O, really?" Erika rolled her eyes at the toneless screaming that blasted through her speakers.
Johnny-O jumped on the couch, shouting defenses for his music of choice.
"What? They opened for Coheed on their last tour you know."
"Yeah I know, and that should tell you something right there. Coheed always plays with shitty bands."
Jesse flipped open his cell phone, answering a call that Erika had not heard over the racket of Johnny-O's noise.
"...last one on the left... yeah, yeah... no she's cool, you can just walk in."
She walked in.
She held a guitar case and a Crate amp and wore red shoes with white polka dots.
She said hello, and was instantly swept into a kiss by Jesse, he still clutched Erika's guitar in one arm.
It wasn't just a guitar in the case, it was a bass guitar.
Johnny-O said he thought girl bass players were hot. Erika scuffed her Chuck Taylors against the carpet and stifled a sarcastic snort. He would.
Erika grabbed her own guitar back from Jesse and sat on the floor.
"Johnny turn that off! Please?"
They played some songs. It was no big deal. Jesse was amazing. Jane was pretty good too. She picked out the bass line for Gigantic by the Pixies with a thick dark blue guitar pick. Erika sang along.
"Lovely legs they are... what a big black mess, what a hunk of love"
Her high sweet voice glided over Jane's rumbling bass. The bass vibrated Erika's ribcage, and made her toes feel slightly numb.
After a few more songs Jane got up and walked to the counter separating the kitchen from the main room of the apartment. Jesse's Dr. Pepper sat half empty on the counter. Jane grabbed it. She still had the dark blue pick in her hand. She flipped it around her fingers.
"There's a women's health rally at the capitol tomorrow." Jane said as Erika joined her, sitting on a high bar stool. "I 'm not a feminist or anything. It's for a class. But i don't know any girls really. and i don't want to go alone."
"Sure i'll go with you. What time is it at?"
Jane chewed on her lip for a second. "Early i think? like 8? I don't know. it's supposed to be about getting legislature to make insurance companies cover birth control pills or something."
"Oh cool."
Jane leaned past her to drop her empty can in the trash. The skin on her arm did not brush against Erika's cheek, but was close enough that she could feel the warmth. Close enough that the could smell the soft mintiness of her breath, and hear the muted swish of her blue-black hair.
"Here," she said as she put the pick down on the counter to grab her cell out of her back pocket. "What's your number? I'll call it, so you'll have mine in your phone too."
Erika's phone rang. Thriller by Michael Jackson.
Jane laughed. "Sweet ringtone."

The evening ended around 2 a.m. Bender was asleep on the couch, and Johnny-O farted in his face to wake him up. Erika glared at him. Gross.
Erika stood at her doorway to wave goodbye. Jesse got into Jane's white VW Jetta and Erika was forced to turn back into the house. She picked up soda cans and grabbed a towel to drag it quickly across the counter before she went to bed.
On the counter sat a thick dark blue guitar pick. A bass guitar pick. Erika picked it up and held it in her palm for a moment.
She went to the couch, opening up her small bone pick box and set it carefully at the bottom, nestled close against the purple velvet. She placed the other picks on top of it like a hundred plastic blankets, closed the box, kissed the jade circle on the lid, and went up to bed.

blogs are good because...

2008-04-17T11:35:00.000-07:00

last night Elliot dropped my flash drive into a water bottle. a water bottle containing water.

this flash drive contained not only everything i've written for cnf this semester, but also some assorted poems, and most importantly... my ENTIRE NOVELLA.

thankfully, i found a back up of it that i emailed to myself a while back.

but blogs can't be damaged by water

Hidden Things

2008-04-15T15:35:00.000-07:00

Perhaps i am cheating, but the only way i can get the ones i
Love to try any thing anything new is by hiding it.
Even my two year old eats butternut squash, when it swims in
A bowl of
Spongebob squarepants macaroni.
Every thursday my husband freeze frames bookshelves, searching for
Concealed numbers, and copies of
Our mutual friend, and the dark tower. and so, i slip
My affection between layers of white-chocolate
Fudge brownies, and lace pretty words between
Opinions of the phoenix suns. but what i want, what i really
Really want. is for you
To just once find
Me
Even if it takes a drop of extra effort

Why i don't write long poetry.

2008-04-14T16:47:00.000-07:00

because no one reads it. thats why.

wish

2008-04-11T22:14:00.000-07:00

i wish i'd written Extrordinary Machine
in, like, 1955.
i've had dreams where i traveled back in time, and just happened to have my mp3 player with me.
i would revolutionize music.
(but i'd also be a liar.)

it's like a notebook... only it lives in a computer.

2008-04-09T16:32:00.000-07:00

Names to remember. Sailor, Boston, Ulysses.

*i bought a bag of skittles.
emptied the bag onto the table
put the colors in the right order

purple red orange yellow green

too bad there was no blue.
i ate them in even numbers
till there were exactly two of each
and gave elliot the rest.

An Apology in Haibun (with cliche)

2008-04-08T11:50:00.000-07:00

i realize it's mostly my fault that you break eggshells with each step, and i realize i've been asking you to blame the over burdened camel instead of me. but it's ok.
i'm sorry i don't listen.
Jimmy would cry. you've been cheating on them again, (i can tell, you just called me shorty) i will tease you about it, as long as you promise to take it and make fun of Coolio in the same breath.
i'm sorry i haven't told you that you are the best thing that i've ever had for real...

soft green surfacing
in twisted mat of dead grass
when you call me boo

i didn't say how much i appreciate your patience with Elliot, with Story, (with me)... i assumed you knew that i love playing Scrabble, and hiding in Romania.
i'm sorry... i forgot.

water droplets trace
patterns of red and shadow
in stars on your skin

this is a poem

2008-04-07T15:29:00.000-07:00

I am the best at writing poems.

Pretty much the best that I know of.

Oh wait

just a minute, just a minute

You see I can start a sentence here

and finish it here.

Love is letting go of yellow balloons in an underwater

minefield.

Death is the crayon marked “Macaroni and Cheese”

Love is bad

Love is really really bad,

Especially when the night is dark and the rain is wet.

yes, well i guess... if you're in to that sort of thing

I use words like teeth and tiresome and terse

Oh, let me rephrase that

Teeth set tersely against words words words undulating tiresome- ly

I can make ten million out of you

You see? Don’t you?