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My mouth is a motherlode

My mouth is a motherlode

Ain't got no

We are robbed of our female being by the masculine plural

My mouth is a motherlode

Es una falta de respeto to talk back to one´s mother or father.

I upgraded a couple of times, but the units I lived in still didn't feel homey.

Falling into step with the boy (...).

If Thisman must leave, he ties the boy to a chair — twining ropes around his thighs and under the seat.

a woman sat against a building

My mouth is a motherlode.

I remember being caught speaking Spanish at recess – that was good for three licks on the knuckles with a sharp ruler.

Turns out she was in the car crash.

They might want to try out discollocations.

My tongue keeps pushing out the wads of cotton, pushing back the drills, the long thin needles.

Ain't got no ticket, ain't got no token

Wild tongues can’t be tamed.

I ain't got no chicken

We speak a patois, a forked tongue, a variation of two languages

What is this sorrow like a lover drawing far away and no reason

People run in and out to get their daily fix of caffeine.

Silver bits plop and tinkle into the basin.

Ain’t got no country, ain’t got no schooling

García Marquez’s first sentence for One Hundred Years of Solitude came to him while he was driving his family on holiday.

Soonthey might forget god entirely

She saw a long train of passenger coaches standing in view

stepped out of the ark

Hallucinating, chasing, changing, racing

The sons' names were

As mockt they storm

Wond’ring aloud, How we feel today

This rain of heart that ripples my pain.

Now you know it’s over rolling off her shoulder

They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things.

He wronged me.

When the day broke

A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine.

It was something you could explain to the kids because of the strike. I mean, none of their parents would let them cross the picket line

I made up my mind to take the life of the old man (…).

We learn time's pleasure, catch our future and its cure

a couple of mops, with stiff, clotted, foul-smelling heads

Come here, my child, and feel it, dear.

The hidden fabric of the heaven

Because it was The middle of the night

O Oysters, come and walk with us!'/ The Walrus did beseech./ A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,/ Along the briny beach:/ We cannot do with more than four,/ To give a hand to each.'

For could thy rage in words be spun / In broken parts the earth should strike the waning sun.

Perhaps you sensed / the veering course or knew the chop and change / of the sea.

Day come white, or night come black, / Home, or rivers and mountains from home / Singing all time, minding no time / While we two keep together.

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne”

The Walrus and the Carpenter/ Were walking close at hand.

Rising before the sun and burying / In the joy of its rising and falling

Day come white, or night come black, / Home, or rivers and mountains from home, / Singing all time, minding no time/ While we two keep together. (Hemingway, Ernest “Out of the Craddle Endlessly rocking”, Leaves of Grass)

There is an insect that people avoid / (Whence is derived the verb 'to flee').

The sea was wet as wet could be / The sands were dry as dry.

Four other Oysters followed them/ And yet another four:/And thick and fast they came at last/ And more, and more, and more --/ All hoping through the frothy waves, / And scrambling to the shore.

Before you to clarify your sight or blind / You to the disconcert of your body as it races / Ahead of itself like the boy you once were

The old joke about / the verb “to lay” as the object / of a proposition

Four other Oysters followed them, / And yet another four; / And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more – /

Was it purposeful and was it just to hook you in

Hee with a crew, whom like Ambition joyns, (…) Marching

The Walrus and the Carpenter / Were walking close at hand.

something lighting your way lifting / Your body out of bed / and casting a pale/ sheen upon the rooms

Like as not some of the patriarchs will turn out.

Numbers and sizes and distances are so great, here, that we have to be made in order to FEEL them - our old ways of counting and measuring and ciphering wouldn't ever give us and idea of them, but would only confuse us and oppress us and make our heads hurt

They each fire eleven hundred and one thunder blasts at a single dash - it is the usual salute for an eleventh-hour guest; a hundred for each hour and an extra one for the guest's sex; if it was a woman we would know it by their leaving off the extra gun

As I approached, they begun to tower and swell and look like mighty furnaces. Says I to myself (...) "San Francisco," says I.

You see, America was occupied a billion years and more, by Injuns and Aztecs, and that sort of folks...

"By George!, I've arrived at last - and at the wrong place, just as I expected.

I am standing in a cemetery in Santa Maria California where they are all buried 8000 kilometers from the peak of Pico.

My originally dirty finger

Possessed the ability / To ring the changes of / Being at will

Every Tom, Dick and Hardy

“Daddy,” I began after I hung up the phone. “I know, I know. You no have to say nahting,” my father said. “We have to go to the hospital, Dad. A family member has to sign papers.” He looked at me with his blue, teary eyes and said “You go, filha. I no can do that. I going cry.”

“Why don’t you understand?” she asked softly, staring at the tiny prickly hairs on his face, the yellowed tips of his teeth. “I’m trying to help you. Este cachorro-” “Forget about the fucking dog! And how many times do I have to say? Speak English! You know where we are now, right?”

First of all, you go to the grocery store and buy a tree. A little pine tree, not too big, and then you buy a few pretty things that glitter, decorations, they call them.

where they sat and said verde, / green like the backs of certain fish.

And I spoke only English, my “barbarian tongue”: yea, Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me.

And I spoke only English, my “barbarian tongue”: yea, Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me.