This is not life. The partial freedom, out, and back. There's no telling, what we are, I am. There are facets; some, I display, some (most), I keep hidden. There is this submerged potentiality, this adolescent-like, drive. This drive, to be not, "on the inside," or "accepted," or any other nonsense. I'm searching for quality, not really in the outside world, but, in my own prison. These flourishes, dry heaves, almost that! With semi-regularity, these humors, this entertainer. The trick, they say, is balance, that off centerdness, can lead to feelings of depersonalization. This, is the mark of a psychological disorder? Oh, well... then, they start talking about medication, I start looking for another job. Some people have seen, well, I've shown some people....mistakes, to do so, I shouldn't say that, but....just parts, facets, whatever; I can do that, too, and have, then, the next day, sitting on the floor, looking half dead, and stupid, drunk, or apparently, "on something". This, my, the inconsistency, again. Into, and out of, the hotel lobbies, train depots, "family restaurants," just searching, searching, searching, for one case. Magnetize yourself. Rapture, not admiration, always, not sometimes. So fresh, innocent, simple, to find no fault, to not look, or think to look. Absolute acceptance, and agreement. "Do nothing night," was the greatest night, of all. I'm becoming them, now, becoming it, now. And, it is the part that's taken away, that we mourn, and we know this, deep down. But, it's also the presence, the true grit, if you dare call it that. We have, and then, have not, like that flower, what was it? Forget me nots? The distinguished scientists, ripped the young woman, apart. It will happen, again. Back then, I didn’t even think I was real, sometimes. "To feel, what (I am me) we're feeling," she crooned. Killed, then, strangled? What's the sniff? Uh oh, do we have any candles? I don't think so. Hmmm....last step? Maybe she was just “exercising”, I'm only saying, it looked funny. Yes, my drunken ramble, was annoying, I told her I was boring, and it's true, but, why did I feel the need, to tell her so? I mean, it's obvious enough. The pretty girls…oh, give it up! Let’s enter reality, let’s learn to ignore, to walk right past. These commands I was given, to sit, stay, come, roll over, I’ve learned them well, they seem like second nature, natural, now. This is almost, human nature, we learn the commands, and follow them. Are you prepared? Yeah! And the meaning of life, is death, baby! Freud and Nonoxynol, lets open up the floodgates, and the blocked up sections, spill them in the streets, and drive around them, like gigantic puddles (but, know full well, that they are there). The highs, the lows, the ups, and downs? Well, it's not going to happen, tonight, that's for sure. Yes, I'm still convinced, that it will never happen; of course, that's a lie, let’s just say... lets just stop writing about it, and, of course, I never said what it was, anyway, so no one knows what it means, how could they? Towels, smell like fabric softener, but don't taste like, anything. Toilet paper, pretty much tastes like any other kind of paper. Perhaps, I should eat a little less, and use a little more, to wipe my ass. This is a thing, that is a thing, those are things, plural. It doesn't matter, what kind of particular things, they are. Just stuff, put, where we put it, either having a use, or not. You are elemental, like shore erosion. Now, I am taking time, and trying to find out exactly what it is, in my head. I’m not gonna’ stop, until this book, is done. Now, we are going to get down to the bottom, of why it is, that we keep getting ripped off. There is less around me, now, less clutter, where I 'm looking. I don’t know what the rules are, or even, if there are any. Nothing is happening, I'm trying not to look around, and I'm still heaving. It’s just not enough, what we have done. The twitching, grunting, and moaning, is getting worse. I’m not yet homeless. Such partial accomplishments. I await my final disaster, the whip cream and cherry.
Don't punch (pinch) your best friend, in the (ass) solar plexus. I just ripped this page out, by accident. It’s as if your indifference, has been magnetized. It's good, to be left alone, safe, it's good to stay away. I have certain faces, stuck in my minds eye, and I must poke, said eye, in order to get those faces, out of there. I don't want to think back, and come up with something, amusing. All I'm doing, is reinstating, and restating, the obvious; now, the obvious, can be disturbing, but everybody knows that. This is funny, this is almost comedic. Like I figured, all this amounts to, is a change of perspective, a shaking of the tree, and trying to get all of the bile, out of my system. I could just as easily, masturbate, but that wouldn't really be what I want it to be; that is… unless I did it in the street. I'm drying my laundry in the open, or whatever that old saying, is. And a nose, is a nose, there are no ugly, or pretty, noses. I'm not rubbing his ass, I have feelings, right now, that impart/impair thoughts, to me, that, to drive, right now, would be extremely dangerous. I do not know how long, or short, my dick is, I think I have measured it, a couple of times before, but, I forgot the length. There is so much I want to write about, but of course, there isn't time. I don't regret this, but it seems that inspiration, always strikes, at the most inappropriate times. C’est La Vie, and that's fine. As I begin to "feel the dissonance," it is really imperative, that I pick up a pen, and scribble. Too many people, spend too much time, sitting. Prove it’s gone, now. At this point, I don't even know what my intentions were, what was so, all fire, important... and that's, what bothers me. Be critical, cynical, pessimistic, etc. Well, I'm off, again (New Delhi seems docile, compared to this). Keep your expectations, unpredictable. We're full of enzymes, pushing shopping carts, worthless degrees. Things get in my head, I go through rather dramatic, and short lived, phases. Completions, connections and connectors (trying to fill in the cracks, and holes, with murders), some beauty, flashbacks, memories, crying jags. The whole thing, is worth it? Chase us, wonder, catch on, crash, make it a happy ending, make it a happening. Some question marks, but exclamations, too....We missed it, and it's better than fine, that we did. The moments, quick, or you'll miss them, wrapped up in camouflage. You got to, got to, got to! That's a seashell, and if you hold it in your fingers, fine, but try listening to it. Morning, mourning, moaning (maybe I should shut up, and try to remember better times, for awhile). Maybe, I should brush my teeth. I should try to sleep, again, or keep writing, thinking, exploring the uncharted; at least, pick my teeth (I mean, I'm giving off offensive odors, girls don't like that). This is a study of becoming, and introspection, this is a study, of one kind, or the other. I used to dilly, dilly, dance, my way, crazy, I'd kick, and jump, and shake, and move, and groove, and it was great exercise, and let out all kinds of bottled up, whatnot. It was "over the top", a little exhibitional, but I didn't want that to be the case, at all, it was a need. I haven't danced, except briefly, in the living room, for a long time. I could go, tonight, but doubt very much, that I will. I'm scared of the people, and some of them are friends of mine, some, are enemies, I just can't handle social situations, very well. I get weird, I mean, delusionary… weirder than normal/usual. My heater does stink, and it's coming out of the vent, in my thoughts, it's part of the bad, neutral dream. Someday, this will be nice, clean, and complete, but I can’t imagine it. Fuck god out of her, do not pause. From now on... You die; clean underwear, or not. Life, and writing, are two, very different, things, which is why I don't carry this around with me. Life is nearly impossible, writing, is comparatively, easy. I shouldn't, and ultimately, can't (what?). There's still an idea, a spark, a maybe.. but, it's all in the past, and I cannot go back. Why did I ever decide to write this book? Did I already blah, blah, blah? Who are we, to say? There is no way of knowing, that I know of.
There’s got to be a different way, a new way. Imagine your leg, infested with gangrene. We are sick of nice, peaceful, pleasant, things. Keep going, with your badge, and all the rest of it. Ah shit, what am I gonna’ do, here? Record company squabbling, should break up more bands, than it does. Yes, from atop a large building. Enter the disco nightlight. Smell clean? Several items have been discontinued. Don’t let them manipulate the pants off of you. Three month marriages, last three days, no one ever has the slightest idea, of who the person is, they marry, no one. People wonder, "what happened"? Oh, come on, let’s enroll in human nature 101, and cut this shit out. It's doomed to failure, impossible, you'll catch them, there will be a bitter divorce, custody battles, and dividing up of the fortune (or money, anyway). You'll lose, everybody loses, it's always stupid, and they admit it. Well, why do it? Don't do it, just do yourself a favor, drink your stale beer, and accept the fact, that nothing, outside of yourself, can do anything, for you. Or, fall, if it exists, do the song, and dance, then, see what I mean. Jot down your turning points (big mistakes, eh?). Forgiveness, is a funny, little subject, because you really do, have to forgive, everyone, every injustice. I'm serious, they, won't suffer, for your hate, for them, only you will, and you'll suffer, a lot. There's a small drift, a strange wind, blowing, the seeds of cancer, are already within me, just waiting to be made manifest. Other things are, too, and, it's those things, I want to have, before the cancer hits, spreads, kills, and turns me grey, or whatever color, victims turn. It didn't make me at all uncomfortable, but it did, and does raise certain questions (of, why?). I mean, there's certainly no conspiracy, it's not my line, and I don't know what people expect me to say, or do. We are required to sweat it out. Art is menial, and miniscule, mental masturbation! No one cares for him, anymore, no one remembers the name of the last book, or last album, last signed lithograph, Warren G. Harding autograph. Was that the one they dug up a couple of years ago? Looking for poison, stealing last names. Nice smelling cars, nice smelling hands, inability to stop, recover (or maybe, I'm wrong). I'm coughing, the story is being written. He lost his yo-yo, or the string broke. They have a ferret, he has a ferret, ferrets are a kind of a weasel, but also, half dog, half cat, basically, un-identifiable. Long, is the winter, deep, is the snow, epic in scope, and proportion, drum beats, missed meals, channel 99. Let us do what was done there, let us copy that idea, and let it rhyme, as well (or, nearly as well). Fight it, fight the hip-hop, car chases, names, unknowns, forgottens. Everyone has a collection, or two, dead relatives. This is a raging, yet flowing, series of hey ho, boo-hoo; a long time, that isn't long enough. There is something stuck in my shoe, chicken shit, the last decade, or this one. Many divisions, and almond shaped eyes, on the leftovers, we wish them well. We know what went on, we're powerless to really affect, or effect, much of anything, at all. Very much is easy, but only places we can drive, walk, and all that shit. There was a falseness, that was so real, slick, and underhanded. A manipulative player of "souls", even though, there are no souls. I know what you mean, when you do speak to me, maybe, too well, perhaps, that's why you don't speak to me, very often. Am I trapped in? I truly hope not. I can't remember the name of the restaurant, where I used to go to on visits, strawberry something, I think, it was Strawberry Patch? How do other people, do it? Let me love you, let me open up your book. Quality? Oh, we're strange, and Lucretious, too, was strange, but I don't agree with him, entirely. I think it was Lucretious, but, it could have been Epicurus, who gave the here/there/if/then/there, speech; and I did like it, but still, don't entirely, agree. What am I going to do with my life, and yes, I realize it's a bit to late to be asking? I slapped a new ending on it. Sure, I asked myself earlier, but didn't believe in the question, much less, the answers I got, from my feed bag, metronome head. Hint, at the true horror, yet to be unleashed. I called him, “Face.” I still do, for the most part, what I've always done. My list of great things? Convenience stores, fountain drinks, fountain soft drinks. Edit the fuck out of it, now! It’s dull, awful, horrible, terrible, but, simply put, there is nothing else to do. Sustenance itself, is insubstantial, nowadays. This used to serve a purpose. Could you imagine someone checking all of those dials? Arty bought a half a pound of Red Snapper. How many peas do you feel, freak? Espresso... and shit, I forgot about cigarettes, which are probably, number one. I will act Phillipinio. Straddle the emptiness, rise from the table, put some salve on the wound. I drove by, twice. She was like the temperature. All the tuna talk, and other garbage, is just water under the bridge, and I knew it was, when I was stating, and re-stating it, over, and over. It was a common ground, first, then, kind of a metaphor. And this goes out, to no one, nowhere. She didn't live there, she'd fuck there. I was both, amused, and not amused, by her sorry attempts, to manipulate me. I did tear the head off of the antelope, that was handmade, out of firewood. This is modern day, we're still not eating astronaut food. To be honest, things are boring here, there are no UFO's, no vampires (vengrus), no fun (tun), no Anton Mesmer (Anton Meguire), with turntables (the tunbar art robea)…
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
163
The walls, that interrupted our meditations. As usual, we stand on shaky legal, and ethical, ground. If things never happened, when they should have happened, they never will. Here we go! What day is it? All he's, and she's, and what they do to each other, at the carnival, it's all too much. A formaldehyde morning, unfortunately. Butter, and guns, standing in for money, until the point gets made, to a nation full of undergraduates. Absorbing Montana, through the gills, we all hold a special place in our hearts, for plexiglass. The sky peels back, people start to emote, shit, make strange noises, come out of the closet. Alien rapists, bronze fixtures, zinc coated tables, we belch, and mumble something, about our former ways of being. Distinctive, or destructive, in the nightclubs, with tape recorders, in both hemispheres of our brains. Twisted, and we'll never know, we went there, and came back. Pretend angels, and devils, master, and enslave, each other, with lubrication tools, near at hand. There are an awful lot of crows outside, today, cooing, and cawing. We try not to take anything for granted, but we all do. None of us are ever quite at home, wherever home is. A dream of a broken heart, high on satisfaction. Great big mistakes, that always come back to haunt us, terrorize, or just, annoy us. Reel it in, over the template, with a toss, cross, observe. Iota in the middle, like a soft spoken philosophy professor, hiding his "wild years," underneath the guise of education, and book learning. We built our own space station, out of wood (for our action figures). Demeaned by numbers, and the crossed out sentences, of what I wrote. Waiting, to vacuum up the mess I've left, waiting to leave. That page, is not first page material, it is found, dried. Through their land, of pale imitation. Bent open address books, full of dead movie star’s, phone numbers. One guy urinated, right on the thing, they dropped him right off, the police were waiting. Does it only rain, on days when a clown dies? After the lifetime achievement awards, have all been handed out, what then, what next? I think we all have a pretty good idea. Suicide watch, 24-7, at the Incognito Palace, tales to tell the children. Drifted, lost, bent over, spoons, this implies, infatuation. Can't keep up, with all the thousands of forgotten conclusions, it's all over now, anyway. Commercials, and numbers, militant lesbians. Get that mildewed mattress, off of the train tracks. Charged with grand theft tricycle, by row, after row, of medicated insomniacs. Mysterious, floral print, tulips, symbols, regarding, reincarnation. This mass of raw materials, that hasn't yet been whipped into anything useful. He's a why, and you're a what? Blind emotions, the importance thereof, perhaps those false starts, were the only one's possible, given the circumstances. Overrated freedom, is probation, community service, the unemployment, and parole offices, the jails, and courts, all the wonderful places, that desperation, leads us to. Anyways, this is all there is! We are at your service, and, we are perishable. The orange, plastic, laundry basket, and wooden crate, make unique noises, when kicked across the lawn, at 5:15 A.M. I don’t remember what I wrote in all those letters, it really doesn’t much matter, though. So, now, we are all cowboys, with all the rights, and privileges, thereof. All the errands mean nothing, it’s just meaningless movement. I'm "just waiting until something better comes along," that never will, come along, and I know that, now. I tried to clean up my act, it didn’t work. Is it, navigable? Staring at the coals, in the old fashioned grill, vodka logic, "fucking, asshole, pricks". Nibble, stumble, stare, and wish, at things, and for things, we want, but can't have. Everything's been spilled out, and it's been gone too long, to slide back into, or even, nearby it, it's over, and it really wasn't anything, anyway. It’s never been more clear. Who cares who’s in goal? There is nothing to miss. It doesn’t feel any better, to suffer this way, than that. You now have something to do. Even though, it seems like time wasted, that's really all there is to do, anyhow, and regret, is one of many, automatic, pseudo emotions, that flip through our brains, with atomic regularity. An egoeuphoric, narcissist, with his tubes tied, and everything else that dangled, cut off, or tucked under. The world can't kill us, unless we let it, but, we all do. Let's hit all the matinee orchestras! What does it matter, that we fill in every single blank, or not?
The discrepancies have been solved, the pine forest lynchings, have taken place, the body has been exhumed. Accolades; songs for other people, for nobody, for the glory, of fade away, aneurysms. Things are a lot less "boring," when you’re in, and out, of courts, and marriages, talk shows, and "superstores". Destroy the factory, try to decipher your own handwriting, wherever it was spray painted. Have we all punched in, yet? Because, you know, you won't get paid, until you've punched in. Optical illusions, on the inside of the lampshade, are flitting across the grey, stone walls. Lets get moving, on that tape recorder business, we had all set up, on easy chairs, back when we didn't have anything better to do. Feigning interest, diddling in, and out, false, and phony, over, and over again, with no real, or false, starts. Staring at the fake wishing well, that doesn't have any water in it, wondering, what the fuck sort of town I've stumbled across, now. Ah, the "unpure urges," the most holy of the lot! Mistake, after mistake, and sale, after sale, transaction, after transaction. Bells ringing, and people jumping head first, off of the towers; porch sitting, gloating, imitating the 1970's, or something, even more asinine. Twenty-first century twerps, and the baton, has been officially, passed. Oh yeah, the "important parts," pffftt. He, and I, fairied around, but, there wasn't anything there, but grass, and stores. Long gone Stanley, like a streaky kind of crevice, in an uh-oh, spilling-like, moment. Violent, geometric, arguments, divide the factions, and fractions. Leave us alone, this is your final warning, and, this means you, asshole! Photographs of real pretty girls, in quaint, little, boxes. Guerilla, colon, good-byes? Sometimes, we want to, other times, we don't, it doesn't matter, what it is, but, that's the way "it," is. Is this the best I can do (hmmmm....pretty sure, at this point)? Hump the car, or at least, try to. We’re all, so easily mistaken, fooled, taken, bamboozled. The invention of god, and the invention of rolled toilet paper, are equally, brilliant. Alcoholism, is an affliction, that we court, not a disease, we can't control. The rat trap effectiveness, of writing a girlfriend a letter, to explain your bizarre behavior. The “things," I'm always obsessively, blabbering on, and on, about. The only problem I face, is that there aren't any solutions. Core issues, such as not liking the way we look, particularly, electrical impulses, zap, the frustration, is vented, the girlfriend, bolts, quickly turned off, by all the talk interludes, precursors, bullshit. We do, what we do, for ourselves, alone, or for nothing at all, what we generally do, is pretty boring, a lot of the time, but, who cares? The only goal, that can be, is that something, gets done, I've been dicking around with these papers, and words, for years, take it, or leave it. At bottom, it's nothing, but nothing, is important, it should be granted. I'm not saying my nothing, is any more important than anyone else's....fuck it. I'm done, laying low, as if I had something to hide, even though, my hands have been washed, and re-washed, everything has been said, and re-said, several different times, to several different people, in several different ways. Will it be published? Oh dear, dear, me! That great, big, frightening, word, that supposed to set me, trembling. I don't much care, if it's published, or not. I do things, I did this, it's done, beyond that, I don't care. Fuck the world, and it's cultures, society's, and symptoms, it's diseases, mistakes, errors, lies (take a stand, now), thewholeshithousesixtythreeways. What next? Who knows? People pay dues, to the club, where, the first line of the manifesto, is about partial responsibility, how no one's to blame for anything, but ourselves. Then I burst in the door, bellowing, “I am here, if you want to call the police, call the police.” Don’t do, what everybody else is doing, ever! Let the kids sleep, for ten more minutes, the bus, can wait. We are going to ensure that something new happens, something different, gets done. The suspect, forged himself, every which way, and filmed it, for a private showing, of close, intimate, consorts. Don’t wait too long, or take things lightly. I'm so deathly sick, that I've discovered, a new kind, of health. Mafia head tilts, from the guy behind me. What will we find washed ashore, next? My menopause occurred, two, or three years ago, now. Ask us, nicely. Free film, huh?
The integration of integrity, to this thing, with eyes, etc. Marked pedophiles, jerk off weirdoes, and what goes on, behind closed doors, public, and private. Antichrist type, crazies, that don't like being recognized. Have you ever wanted to kill anyone? The career path with the highest projected growth, is in the panhandling sector. Perhaps, there is more to be said about this, maybe, this can be expanded upon, a sociological study, conducted. Ego dystonic/dysphoric, entropy. Self loathing, sleeping in the janitors closet, on the clock. Bloodless wandering, with the moist rag, in my hand. Weeping willows, losing their leaves, allergic to needles, needing help, and toilet paper. Where is the luxurious? The obituary, never mentioned that the man died, while taking a shit. His favorite example, to use in the discussion, of his many economic theories, were also not mentioned in the rather short, death notice. Corn, thrown at scarecrows. What's the score of the game? This, is all people are truly, interested in. Mellow people, will begin to make you very ill. The glamour of picking scabs, that used to be acne, maybe still are, red marks, unfinished business, empty paper bags, and cups. Somnambulism, every night, in search of peanut butter. Being a screw up, becomes tiresome. Tribal idealisms, that translate down to, "only trying to have a good time". A small, inconsequential, burden, to carry, the price to pay. Ah, back to the oil soaked rag, back to the, land of no faces. The look back, at the wasted year, the glued in, snapped in place, fake, false, evil, lockstep, Nazi drills, I went through, against my will. I thought about taking out the "fuck you page", but, oh, no, that, if nothing else, stays in! First, I gotta’ get over a few omnipresent, sexual, and social, hang ups, I suppose. Buy love, happiness, please, don't be fooled! Money, is the most important thing that there is, it's completely false, and evil, yes, but also, the only invention of man's, that has any value. There are no "Bavarian misunderstandings," they remembered my name. I'm studiously, self-indulgent, but that still equates to, being a self-centered, ego-drunk, nihilist. Looking for the right words, through this morass of indifference. My sarcastic insecurity, marked the definite end, of the demonstration. The system is designed, for you to merely, break even. It is time to sit still, and, of course, I’m the least able to do that, at this time. You’ll soon see. You can't think yourself out of it. There are still apathetic tirades, childish outbursts, oral fixations, small, inconsequential, annoyances; anyway, I lend them no credence, they are binary blips, that somehow, don't correspond, to the CPU's commands. There are many things like this: radio commercials, billboards, books that the author hopes will be turned into a movie, someday. I keep sticking my hand into the septic tank of culture, and am still astonished, by the fact that my hand smells. They say, that death motivates us, towards annihilation. No one wants to hear what I have to say, and I don't want to hear, what anyone else has to say, we subsist, in this half life, like some microorganism, full of agar, red dye #7, and whatever other preservatives, are thrown in. We don't want to be preserved, or to persevere, but these things are out of our hands. How many good-byes, until you don't have to say it anymore, how many invitations, how many maybes, soons, high standards? What then? A very large, and assumed, set, or sets, of false beliefs, that are supposed to organize, and make sense of things, for us. Like, there are no accidents, well, let me tell you, yes, there are. Turn on the siren. I’m obsessed with this book. The third sign, shall be just like the second. That's almost it, in a nutshell. Do not believe you’re getting anywhere, or making any progress. How many why's, that can be attributed to blind chance, and luck, alone! Many of my comments, were inappropriate. We try so hard, and get, so little. Be superstitious, nothing else, works. Not a win/lose, kind of chance, more of a partial convenience, idle amusement, ideas of possibility; not actual, possibility, mind you, possible possibility. No invisible dice, are rolled, you were drunk, she was drunk, or vice versa, the cop was busy with some domestic dispute, you drove drunk, across the golf greens, things like this, many things, like this. Lucky, or unlucky, has nothing to do with it, that's the key, to understanding chance, it’s it's own thing, chance, is almost, it's own mitt. There is no security, of any sort, at all, I may, or may not, have mentioned this, previously. How does what happens, ultimately, occur? Out of words, no thesaurus. Most of us wish only for sinful things.
Flappy, sappy, slap happy, stupid, both, as a secret mask, that I'm required to wear, and, as a genuine need, to let go, of the screwing, dried up, bloody thought trains, that go choo-choo, through my head, blowing hot steam through my intestinal tract. And thoughts, are very funny(fuzzy). As I've said, many times, tragedy, and comedy, are two sides, of the same mask, they’re attached up at the top, somewhere. If you laugh, when you are alone, it is a good bet, that you are pretty healthy, emotionally. It's a funky, little phenomenon, though, isn't it, laughter? It's usually for the benefit of the neighbors down the street, or some buddy, for their comfort. Don't cough, don't die, and don't hesitate, don't let me turn away. I'm here for a reason, that I give to myself, everyday. I'm also here, and want them to know this, and I'm not letting them know, other than by my occasional appearance, or out of place comment. I had the potential to be normal, but something happened, along the way. It's hard to tell, whether these changes, these "differences," are good, or bad. In a way, I'm trying to. Every rebuke, or slight, I've received, met with a standoffish, aloofness, a "fuck you," attitude, even though, I just stand, or sit there, like a starving calf, nearly crying, and not half drunk. All of the things that I have done alone, the failed attempts, sudden creative bursts, of activity, crash, worries, fears, about uncontrollable, natural, phenomenon. Tears, real, or imagined, by just listening to the right music, at a certain time. So quiet, pickled, damaged, nailed, crossed off, pissed. Medicine taken, effect, unknown. It's "all our own fault," only after, we cease to care. "Help us help ourselves," the damned, screech. To wish to be remembered (uh, no)? Yet again, tricked, appendix b starts, and stops. It feels good, to go on, beyond just a bare (banal), statement, and really explain, the statement. It's also very shady, and difficult, in that it makes one, uncomfortable. Of course, we all know that pain, and discomfort, are the two proofs, of your own growth, there are more, perhaps, but not less. Never believe one who offers you, "the seven keys to love," or any such drivel. Don't believe me, either, shit, don't believe anybody. We were in the cemetery, and we did see a tombstone, with only one word on it! Nearby, was a plaque, that was laid in dedication of a great oak, that was planted to commemorate some centennial, or whatever... there was the plaque, but no oak, anywhere in sight, not even a stump! Here we are, and yes, graveyards are exceptional places. No matter how great you are... we all fall down. Does that stuff have any effect? I can no longer control my problems, even slightly. To bury bodies, though, a tad archaic, don't you think? People who have been dead, a great, many years, just don’t seem to be able, to leave me alone. As it is, now, at present, it won’t cut it. It won't last long, but still, the idea (we do such things). Now, do the orders. We saw what we could have been. Do the dance! Keep going, and keep moving, dancing, screwing, drinking, whatever you happen to do, do it. Hula hoop? Well go, cat, go! Cultivate it, if you believe it to be lacking. Yes, it's overwhelming, but, it's also convertable, in a limited way, in limited circumstances. We found pearls by the lighthouse, there was no body. There will be no, “weekend at the cottage.” Not to discourage, no, to encourage! Attribute the underwater era, to a non-clinical, phenomenon. Don’t you dare, say that to me. Go, melt the wax figurine, put the crab meat on the sidewalk, with the candles, and the cartoon character lunch box, mail a letter, tear out the mailbox, loop de loop, with toy cars, or whatever is at hand. Pump the gas, have a vision of many snakes, shame on you. Perhaps we will endure, but, I doubt it. So much, went so wrong. Overcome indifference.
The discrepancies have been solved, the pine forest lynchings, have taken place, the body has been exhumed. Accolades; songs for other people, for nobody, for the glory, of fade away, aneurysms. Things are a lot less "boring," when you’re in, and out, of courts, and marriages, talk shows, and "superstores". Destroy the factory, try to decipher your own handwriting, wherever it was spray painted. Have we all punched in, yet? Because, you know, you won't get paid, until you've punched in. Optical illusions, on the inside of the lampshade, are flitting across the grey, stone walls. Lets get moving, on that tape recorder business, we had all set up, on easy chairs, back when we didn't have anything better to do. Feigning interest, diddling in, and out, false, and phony, over, and over again, with no real, or false, starts. Staring at the fake wishing well, that doesn't have any water in it, wondering, what the fuck sort of town I've stumbled across, now. Ah, the "unpure urges," the most holy of the lot! Mistake, after mistake, and sale, after sale, transaction, after transaction. Bells ringing, and people jumping head first, off of the towers; porch sitting, gloating, imitating the 1970's, or something, even more asinine. Twenty-first century twerps, and the baton, has been officially, passed. Oh yeah, the "important parts," pffftt. He, and I, fairied around, but, there wasn't anything there, but grass, and stores. Long gone Stanley, like a streaky kind of crevice, in an uh-oh, spilling-like, moment. Violent, geometric, arguments, divide the factions, and fractions. Leave us alone, this is your final warning, and, this means you, asshole! Photographs of real pretty girls, in quaint, little, boxes. Guerilla, colon, good-byes? Sometimes, we want to, other times, we don't, it doesn't matter, what it is, but, that's the way "it," is. Is this the best I can do (hmmmm....pretty sure, at this point)? Hump the car, or at least, try to. We’re all, so easily mistaken, fooled, taken, bamboozled. The invention of god, and the invention of rolled toilet paper, are equally, brilliant. Alcoholism, is an affliction, that we court, not a disease, we can't control. The rat trap effectiveness, of writing a girlfriend a letter, to explain your bizarre behavior. The “things," I'm always obsessively, blabbering on, and on, about. The only problem I face, is that there aren't any solutions. Core issues, such as not liking the way we look, particularly, electrical impulses, zap, the frustration, is vented, the girlfriend, bolts, quickly turned off, by all the talk interludes, precursors, bullshit. We do, what we do, for ourselves, alone, or for nothing at all, what we generally do, is pretty boring, a lot of the time, but, who cares? The only goal, that can be, is that something, gets done, I've been dicking around with these papers, and words, for years, take it, or leave it. At bottom, it's nothing, but nothing, is important, it should be granted. I'm not saying my nothing, is any more important than anyone else's....fuck it. I'm done, laying low, as if I had something to hide, even though, my hands have been washed, and re-washed, everything has been said, and re-said, several different times, to several different people, in several different ways. Will it be published? Oh dear, dear, me! That great, big, frightening, word, that supposed to set me, trembling. I don't much care, if it's published, or not. I do things, I did this, it's done, beyond that, I don't care. Fuck the world, and it's cultures, society's, and symptoms, it's diseases, mistakes, errors, lies (take a stand, now), thewholeshithousesixtythreeways. What next? Who knows? People pay dues, to the club, where, the first line of the manifesto, is about partial responsibility, how no one's to blame for anything, but ourselves. Then I burst in the door, bellowing, “I am here, if you want to call the police, call the police.” Don’t do, what everybody else is doing, ever! Let the kids sleep, for ten more minutes, the bus, can wait. We are going to ensure that something new happens, something different, gets done. The suspect, forged himself, every which way, and filmed it, for a private showing, of close, intimate, consorts. Don’t wait too long, or take things lightly. I'm so deathly sick, that I've discovered, a new kind, of health. Mafia head tilts, from the guy behind me. What will we find washed ashore, next? My menopause occurred, two, or three years ago, now. Ask us, nicely. Free film, huh?
The integration of integrity, to this thing, with eyes, etc. Marked pedophiles, jerk off weirdoes, and what goes on, behind closed doors, public, and private. Antichrist type, crazies, that don't like being recognized. Have you ever wanted to kill anyone? The career path with the highest projected growth, is in the panhandling sector. Perhaps, there is more to be said about this, maybe, this can be expanded upon, a sociological study, conducted. Ego dystonic/dysphoric, entropy. Self loathing, sleeping in the janitors closet, on the clock. Bloodless wandering, with the moist rag, in my hand. Weeping willows, losing their leaves, allergic to needles, needing help, and toilet paper. Where is the luxurious? The obituary, never mentioned that the man died, while taking a shit. His favorite example, to use in the discussion, of his many economic theories, were also not mentioned in the rather short, death notice. Corn, thrown at scarecrows. What's the score of the game? This, is all people are truly, interested in. Mellow people, will begin to make you very ill. The glamour of picking scabs, that used to be acne, maybe still are, red marks, unfinished business, empty paper bags, and cups. Somnambulism, every night, in search of peanut butter. Being a screw up, becomes tiresome. Tribal idealisms, that translate down to, "only trying to have a good time". A small, inconsequential, burden, to carry, the price to pay. Ah, back to the oil soaked rag, back to the, land of no faces. The look back, at the wasted year, the glued in, snapped in place, fake, false, evil, lockstep, Nazi drills, I went through, against my will. I thought about taking out the "fuck you page", but, oh, no, that, if nothing else, stays in! First, I gotta’ get over a few omnipresent, sexual, and social, hang ups, I suppose. Buy love, happiness, please, don't be fooled! Money, is the most important thing that there is, it's completely false, and evil, yes, but also, the only invention of man's, that has any value. There are no "Bavarian misunderstandings," they remembered my name. I'm studiously, self-indulgent, but that still equates to, being a self-centered, ego-drunk, nihilist. Looking for the right words, through this morass of indifference. My sarcastic insecurity, marked the definite end, of the demonstration. The system is designed, for you to merely, break even. It is time to sit still, and, of course, I’m the least able to do that, at this time. You’ll soon see. You can't think yourself out of it. There are still apathetic tirades, childish outbursts, oral fixations, small, inconsequential, annoyances; anyway, I lend them no credence, they are binary blips, that somehow, don't correspond, to the CPU's commands. There are many things like this: radio commercials, billboards, books that the author hopes will be turned into a movie, someday. I keep sticking my hand into the septic tank of culture, and am still astonished, by the fact that my hand smells. They say, that death motivates us, towards annihilation. No one wants to hear what I have to say, and I don't want to hear, what anyone else has to say, we subsist, in this half life, like some microorganism, full of agar, red dye #7, and whatever other preservatives, are thrown in. We don't want to be preserved, or to persevere, but these things are out of our hands. How many good-byes, until you don't have to say it anymore, how many invitations, how many maybes, soons, high standards? What then? A very large, and assumed, set, or sets, of false beliefs, that are supposed to organize, and make sense of things, for us. Like, there are no accidents, well, let me tell you, yes, there are. Turn on the siren. I’m obsessed with this book. The third sign, shall be just like the second. That's almost it, in a nutshell. Do not believe you’re getting anywhere, or making any progress. How many why's, that can be attributed to blind chance, and luck, alone! Many of my comments, were inappropriate. We try so hard, and get, so little. Be superstitious, nothing else, works. Not a win/lose, kind of chance, more of a partial convenience, idle amusement, ideas of possibility; not actual, possibility, mind you, possible possibility. No invisible dice, are rolled, you were drunk, she was drunk, or vice versa, the cop was busy with some domestic dispute, you drove drunk, across the golf greens, things like this, many things, like this. Lucky, or unlucky, has nothing to do with it, that's the key, to understanding chance, it’s it's own thing, chance, is almost, it's own mitt. There is no security, of any sort, at all, I may, or may not, have mentioned this, previously. How does what happens, ultimately, occur? Out of words, no thesaurus. Most of us wish only for sinful things.
Flappy, sappy, slap happy, stupid, both, as a secret mask, that I'm required to wear, and, as a genuine need, to let go, of the screwing, dried up, bloody thought trains, that go choo-choo, through my head, blowing hot steam through my intestinal tract. And thoughts, are very funny(fuzzy). As I've said, many times, tragedy, and comedy, are two sides, of the same mask, they’re attached up at the top, somewhere. If you laugh, when you are alone, it is a good bet, that you are pretty healthy, emotionally. It's a funky, little phenomenon, though, isn't it, laughter? It's usually for the benefit of the neighbors down the street, or some buddy, for their comfort. Don't cough, don't die, and don't hesitate, don't let me turn away. I'm here for a reason, that I give to myself, everyday. I'm also here, and want them to know this, and I'm not letting them know, other than by my occasional appearance, or out of place comment. I had the potential to be normal, but something happened, along the way. It's hard to tell, whether these changes, these "differences," are good, or bad. In a way, I'm trying to. Every rebuke, or slight, I've received, met with a standoffish, aloofness, a "fuck you," attitude, even though, I just stand, or sit there, like a starving calf, nearly crying, and not half drunk. All of the things that I have done alone, the failed attempts, sudden creative bursts, of activity, crash, worries, fears, about uncontrollable, natural, phenomenon. Tears, real, or imagined, by just listening to the right music, at a certain time. So quiet, pickled, damaged, nailed, crossed off, pissed. Medicine taken, effect, unknown. It's "all our own fault," only after, we cease to care. "Help us help ourselves," the damned, screech. To wish to be remembered (uh, no)? Yet again, tricked, appendix b starts, and stops. It feels good, to go on, beyond just a bare (banal), statement, and really explain, the statement. It's also very shady, and difficult, in that it makes one, uncomfortable. Of course, we all know that pain, and discomfort, are the two proofs, of your own growth, there are more, perhaps, but not less. Never believe one who offers you, "the seven keys to love," or any such drivel. Don't believe me, either, shit, don't believe anybody. We were in the cemetery, and we did see a tombstone, with only one word on it! Nearby, was a plaque, that was laid in dedication of a great oak, that was planted to commemorate some centennial, or whatever... there was the plaque, but no oak, anywhere in sight, not even a stump! Here we are, and yes, graveyards are exceptional places. No matter how great you are... we all fall down. Does that stuff have any effect? I can no longer control my problems, even slightly. To bury bodies, though, a tad archaic, don't you think? People who have been dead, a great, many years, just don’t seem to be able, to leave me alone. As it is, now, at present, it won’t cut it. It won't last long, but still, the idea (we do such things). Now, do the orders. We saw what we could have been. Do the dance! Keep going, and keep moving, dancing, screwing, drinking, whatever you happen to do, do it. Hula hoop? Well go, cat, go! Cultivate it, if you believe it to be lacking. Yes, it's overwhelming, but, it's also convertable, in a limited way, in limited circumstances. We found pearls by the lighthouse, there was no body. There will be no, “weekend at the cottage.” Not to discourage, no, to encourage! Attribute the underwater era, to a non-clinical, phenomenon. Don’t you dare, say that to me. Go, melt the wax figurine, put the crab meat on the sidewalk, with the candles, and the cartoon character lunch box, mail a letter, tear out the mailbox, loop de loop, with toy cars, or whatever is at hand. Pump the gas, have a vision of many snakes, shame on you. Perhaps we will endure, but, I doubt it. So much, went so wrong. Overcome indifference.
162
The key, the answer, is to spring out of the molecular orbits, in which we revolve. The libertine, the dilettante, the alcoholic, moron; not happy, or unhappy, either. Doing something, sort of. Can't be achieved, as a goal, but can only be cultivated, in the attempt, in the aim. Lines crossing, re-crossing, discriminating, rancid fish, meat, etc. Getting weirder, and weirder, and weirder. Life is like throwing water at a moose, well, trying to fight back against it, anyway. All of the Jesus dolls, fall off of the shelves, and reveal their true natures. Peeling, not a thing, at all. I hate you, I don’t know you, I am you (who is this?). They asked me why I wanted to hurt myself. And then, there’s Dilly, with, “the bust out.” We are like those that died before us, hopefully, we can pick up a few lessons from them, from what they did, how they lived. We don’t like what has happened to our stomachs. I will act like William James, pretend. Put the old windows, back in. Some silly woman, said something. Go alone, stay alone. God looks back at you, from the mirror in the kitchen, the same old. We've always been limited, unholy, weak, mortal, stupid, repetitive, vague, and very, very, scared. Progress is destruction. Weird, unbeknownst, images, drift in, and out. How did this happen? How did what, happen? Nothing happens, that I can see! No modulation, to this brand of frequency. Slowly, the self therapy, becomes individualized, I keep my germs, to myself. Mold, lies outside the realm of control. My days are numbered at the factory, and, in general. Language dissemination, and recollection, Indo-European, truffle sniffing, pigs. Driving around, for fun, even though, it's not fun anymore, hasn't been, for years. Somehow, losing a minimum wage job, can be a turning point. How much lower, etc.? The door keeps opening, and closing, but no one’s walking in, or out. Abdicating question marks, in memory of Johanes Brahms. Put us at ease, Lord? Some fun, selfishness, some more. Beaten straight, beaten, normal, beaten into being a man, into doing it their way, or else. I made sure to graduate, so I could tell people that it didn't get me anywhere, apparently. I am, or, will be, a salmon, I will spawn, and die, float back down the river, but I will not float downstream, now. Science can keep me from spawning, but not from dying, as per, the preordained, schedule. The gray, withered thing, on the shore, was at one time, an Alaskan, Pink King Salmon. What do they mean by pain (physical or mental?)? I am scratching at the veneer, of my inside the tortoise shell, self, trying to get free, I do not complain, or comment, any longer, about "mental anguish". I don't really think anymore, at all, why? Low serotonin, is the reason things are this way. Blending in, is a disguise, for digging your own grave. Reminded of my old acne problems. This retarded globe, is not enough, possibilities, are unpredictable. Stuck, is being stuck, usually, not recognizing it, as such; thinking that it's education, practical, wise, etc. I wish I had become a taxidermist. This is not very impressive, not too much of a point… What is there left to do, with the supposedly, sixty pages to go? Perhaps, I only imagined people, to be laughing at me. The room is full of maps of Canada, just in case. If necessary, please forward to the new address. What I do, and don't do, fucked me, and stuck me into right here, right now. Things that seemed so cool, cute, at the time, hands shaking, heart pounding, hello. Tally up your standing, on the social readaptability scale. Let the Magnet School, burn. Hack the estrogen off of your spleen. I played sexy, acted so, never actually believed such and such, to be so, it was a bad act, to being with (eh). Wanton, happy accidents, nihilistic madness, and of course, not really understanding the question, that was asked. What country are you from, originally? Thus, going off on our own tangents, willy nilly, like speed freaks, even though we don't do drugs, it only looks like we do. Of course, there are no bottom lines. My "solution," for a while there, was to work eighty, to eighty eight, hours a week, my solution, mind you, really, the problem, of course. And yes, it usually seems to work out that way. Let's play clip and save, for awhile, and see what happens. Moot evidence, blind conjecture, hard to find "the facts". Lines that are missing and gone, haunt me. It was an accident. The neighborhood has been getting weirder, and weirder. What's with the "non-tree hugging," environment, that I am always whining about? Things as such, are not quite apparent, certainly, not certain. Charlatans line up outside of the welfare hotel, with endless doctrines, of hokey pokey. They get us all worked up into a tizzy; but the doom, and gloom, still shoots through, in between the lines. Where is the guy with the spoons, and the proof, when we need him? More time wasted; maize, or corn, what's the difference? Gott ist tot, and we're still standing. Who art thou? Shit, lets not get into that. Whisper the coldness, to the maniac at the swap meet. Robbed, stripped, then handed back an empty hull, that really isn't a hull. Is there even such thing as an original thought, really? Robert grooves on tax forms. Three pounds of this, these excuses. It felt, so good/right, but was, so bad/wrong. We get told to clean the cat litter, it's written in red pen, the cats are in the kitchen, retching, and puking. In the dark imagination, believe me, I'm someone else. We want to fuck, but for some reason, or the other, we’re prevented from doing so. I swam in the fields of wheat, virtually. It is all my fault. We know the backroads.
I've gotta' get out of this prickly honeycomb, of insecurity! I'm trying to write left handed, to see if I say anything, anymore surprising, or revealing. Still, no solutions, still, free association, and "help me," scribbled. Eliminate alternatives? Oh, now, hold on a minute! Sure, when you're knee deep, you gotta’ dig, but, what is slipshod, bargaining power? The polar opposite of that, is the truth. Why were Chinese restaurants used, to explain the exchange theory? Or, at least, all waving straws, or sticks, at people? We'll suck you, till you blow, red hot asses, spread wide for you! See, these are the kind of sentences, and statements, that people respond to, thus, that is what's being written! Arguing the relative merits of narcolepsy, inventing meaning! Unpleasantness, equals escape, or, an escape attempt. Vomit, written backwards, on a bachelor of arts degree. Death, and the anxieties that are produced by this ultimate end (positive and negative), are the major themes, of all of my writings. It's the diary of an iconoclast. Johnny on the spot, here, doofy-there. So what? That's life! Ah, the embarrassment of my former, and current, psychiatric disorders, put on paper, for all to see. It did bother me, for awhile, I guess. She could've dressed up my interior, but a lot of people could have (could have, always seems to be the operative word). Could've, should've, shouldn't have, bag it! Guess, after guess, ad infinitum; relativity, assumptions, talking about concrete, and the poles that are stuck in it. Buck naked, on a rocking horse, linoleum slapping. Electrochemical, however it works, and 98% water. Throwing out the jerk off, pin up, photos. Shifting questions over, another graduation, unjustified assumptions, the zygote divides, and keeps re dividing, eluding, until we can't keep track of it, anymore. Ostensibly, we extrapolate. Vertical, versus non-vertical, in true, and false games, that measure, not intelligence, but only, whatever the test measures, x. Keep track of Dinky's whereabouts, pining for the playground full of used car, and truck tires, ice cream socials, and innocence. Begin life, now, that is to say, log on. Ah, the long overdue, commencement, maybe. Hiding our rage, underneath thin veils of blank expression, that only look apathetic, believe you, me! African spears, with tassels? Gloom, seemed to be spelled out for me, in one those strange, yellow, shower illusions. Can't mention what, to who? The obvious, the predictable? Budapest, has its good points, I guess. Sad farewells, and ambivalence, for the most part, at the same time. Us, spent poets, had best band together, fast, the sideshow is moving on, without us, it appears. Playing with the seatbelt, struggling out words, and a can of bad beans. Fine, be a pervert, lust, as long as it doesn't interfere with anyone else's, perversity. Told you, tell you, all absurd. There was a flip over a rail, and onto a table (I thought it was a chair), but I can't remember who I was talking to, that actually, witnessed it. Things do get done, but they take a long, long, time, to get that way. Smiley is resentment, or a close approximation. Mumbling things into the lens of a camera, without having a clear idea, of how the information I was emitting, would be processed, later, or where it would be broadcast, or anything, beyond the smell of the farts, after a night of eating cheap hamburgers. Who were they, why was I there? The memory of someone, who'd rather not recall; wasted! Let those who still (what is appropriate to this situation?) believe in pleasure, have it. Go off on a rant, rave on. There are indentations in the pleats of the corduroy fabric (it wasn’t polyester). In Tahiti, even the Hilton, is makeshift. The disputes, will not be resolved. There aren’t many excuses, I haven’t tried.
The museum is housed in a gigantic, plastic fish. This is how it smells, even. Pistols rust, at civil war battle grounds, descendants search with metal detectors, up, and down, hills, and in the mysterious places, where trees used to be. Working midnight's, in the second richest county. Boy, do I need that suppository for some, "get up and go". There are ink stains on my tongue, now, from chewing too hard, too long, on the wrong kind of pen. Pontificate, wildly. Alternatives, choices, autonomy, individuality. Withering around the walking dead, while letting your suspicions, out. White, brings out the dark, in everybody. Statuettes are for desks, but we'll probably never have desks. Do not eat any food again, as long as you live. In many ways, drained, thus, feeling most assured, confident. Ah, Marshall, with its absolute humanity, and old-fashioned stores. The wrong things, keep getting left out in the open, the wrong self, keeps asserting itself. That sweater I stole, is all stretched out, I review my long list of obsessions. As years pass, I become more, and more, empty, and the more empty I get, the more fulfilled. Who's Anne, and why is her name written on my checkbook? This room is full of dust, and bugs, and toenail clippings. I tried to pick a scab on my hand, but its time had not arrived to be picked. I try to get comfortable, it is a futile gesture. Conjoin the effervescent, together. The overall mood, is one of.. ..it's more of a smell, a raw smell, that I can't really describe, unless it's hovering in the air. Forget the old way, invent a new one. It's more, or less, a stagnant smell, but, it's also, somewhat electrical. To sell out, would be to buy in, and that's, what I can't do. The knuckles are pink, there is still dirt under the fingernails, the tobacco stains, still there, slime covers the pillow. For me to have been there, for as long as I was....some things (many), that you would have thought, impossible. We are responsible for our lives, entirely (but, we must know, that we will often, unconsciously, sabotage ourselves). No experience makes it all better, equates yin, with yang, or really, gives anybody, any real grip, to hold onto, at all. People wait, to tear your body from yourself. This must be one of the reasons why I sleep all the time. This is my only hope (our). Ingrid's mine, forget me not, two wrinkle free dogs, in an automat extractor. Songs about vaginas, and "the next day, after that". Well, is it growing, and evolving? At present, I believe so, but only time will tell, in these matters. I am extremely addicted, to artificial sweeteners. What passes for joy, nowadays, are dandelion fuzzies, flying down the street. Change is a Poseidon, empty. Wearing a beanie cap, carrying perfume boxes, from Dondy, and Jop. Sexual innuendo, fourth degree, grilling, phone calls, outside of the area code. Black fingernail polish, blond hair dye, loud music, in the apartment down the hall. She was of the type that I yearned for. It is against the law to mistake girls, for women. Ambiguous, but adorable, even in the midst of wiping grease, out of the bottoms of doors, in factories, smelt canning sweatshops. What we've seen happen: part of the cacooning process, blue serenity, framed pictures, the wrong pants. Amiss, is something, obvious, yet secondary. Misanthropes, die young. Far out squares, with words for computers. Pretty soon, I won’t have anyone to, talk to anymore. Tongue tied, when asked to explain, anything, really. Little do they know, it takes a hundred years, for a tree to grow, five minutes, to cut it down. As for the latest style, whatever we conform to, honesty, is usually a lie. Everything afterwards, and backwards, antisocial, schizoid. Sister urinal mint, that no one would agree to touch. Half baked, to jump full on into the give, and take, slap, and grab, here, and there. Years have passed, just killing time. We've been to jail, as many times as we've screwed, and that's a handy ratio, to keep tabs on. A book about masturbation, stimulation, and why, why, why?! Sliding in, for the guy in the kitchen, talking around it, too male, for a female side, obtuse; then, in the middle of the room, in front of everybody, the jackrabbit screams. They lock us up in the pen at night. The floor will never be clean. Hey, wait until you're off probation. So many beautiful backyards. We've gotta’ add another name, to the list, carve another set of initials, into the tree, get out of the trouble we're in. Three years, versus three months, three weeks, sixes. The twenty third day of every September, is the cabaret, the cabaret. Good egg boy, has gone bad. Push down the plunger, badda-boom. My parole was cut short, due to my affliction. Shake the car, hear the moo.
I've gotta' get out of this prickly honeycomb, of insecurity! I'm trying to write left handed, to see if I say anything, anymore surprising, or revealing. Still, no solutions, still, free association, and "help me," scribbled. Eliminate alternatives? Oh, now, hold on a minute! Sure, when you're knee deep, you gotta’ dig, but, what is slipshod, bargaining power? The polar opposite of that, is the truth. Why were Chinese restaurants used, to explain the exchange theory? Or, at least, all waving straws, or sticks, at people? We'll suck you, till you blow, red hot asses, spread wide for you! See, these are the kind of sentences, and statements, that people respond to, thus, that is what's being written! Arguing the relative merits of narcolepsy, inventing meaning! Unpleasantness, equals escape, or, an escape attempt. Vomit, written backwards, on a bachelor of arts degree. Death, and the anxieties that are produced by this ultimate end (positive and negative), are the major themes, of all of my writings. It's the diary of an iconoclast. Johnny on the spot, here, doofy-there. So what? That's life! Ah, the embarrassment of my former, and current, psychiatric disorders, put on paper, for all to see. It did bother me, for awhile, I guess. She could've dressed up my interior, but a lot of people could have (could have, always seems to be the operative word). Could've, should've, shouldn't have, bag it! Guess, after guess, ad infinitum; relativity, assumptions, talking about concrete, and the poles that are stuck in it. Buck naked, on a rocking horse, linoleum slapping. Electrochemical, however it works, and 98% water. Throwing out the jerk off, pin up, photos. Shifting questions over, another graduation, unjustified assumptions, the zygote divides, and keeps re dividing, eluding, until we can't keep track of it, anymore. Ostensibly, we extrapolate. Vertical, versus non-vertical, in true, and false games, that measure, not intelligence, but only, whatever the test measures, x. Keep track of Dinky's whereabouts, pining for the playground full of used car, and truck tires, ice cream socials, and innocence. Begin life, now, that is to say, log on. Ah, the long overdue, commencement, maybe. Hiding our rage, underneath thin veils of blank expression, that only look apathetic, believe you, me! African spears, with tassels? Gloom, seemed to be spelled out for me, in one those strange, yellow, shower illusions. Can't mention what, to who? The obvious, the predictable? Budapest, has its good points, I guess. Sad farewells, and ambivalence, for the most part, at the same time. Us, spent poets, had best band together, fast, the sideshow is moving on, without us, it appears. Playing with the seatbelt, struggling out words, and a can of bad beans. Fine, be a pervert, lust, as long as it doesn't interfere with anyone else's, perversity. Told you, tell you, all absurd. There was a flip over a rail, and onto a table (I thought it was a chair), but I can't remember who I was talking to, that actually, witnessed it. Things do get done, but they take a long, long, time, to get that way. Smiley is resentment, or a close approximation. Mumbling things into the lens of a camera, without having a clear idea, of how the information I was emitting, would be processed, later, or where it would be broadcast, or anything, beyond the smell of the farts, after a night of eating cheap hamburgers. Who were they, why was I there? The memory of someone, who'd rather not recall; wasted! Let those who still (what is appropriate to this situation?) believe in pleasure, have it. Go off on a rant, rave on. There are indentations in the pleats of the corduroy fabric (it wasn’t polyester). In Tahiti, even the Hilton, is makeshift. The disputes, will not be resolved. There aren’t many excuses, I haven’t tried.
The museum is housed in a gigantic, plastic fish. This is how it smells, even. Pistols rust, at civil war battle grounds, descendants search with metal detectors, up, and down, hills, and in the mysterious places, where trees used to be. Working midnight's, in the second richest county. Boy, do I need that suppository for some, "get up and go". There are ink stains on my tongue, now, from chewing too hard, too long, on the wrong kind of pen. Pontificate, wildly. Alternatives, choices, autonomy, individuality. Withering around the walking dead, while letting your suspicions, out. White, brings out the dark, in everybody. Statuettes are for desks, but we'll probably never have desks. Do not eat any food again, as long as you live. In many ways, drained, thus, feeling most assured, confident. Ah, Marshall, with its absolute humanity, and old-fashioned stores. The wrong things, keep getting left out in the open, the wrong self, keeps asserting itself. That sweater I stole, is all stretched out, I review my long list of obsessions. As years pass, I become more, and more, empty, and the more empty I get, the more fulfilled. Who's Anne, and why is her name written on my checkbook? This room is full of dust, and bugs, and toenail clippings. I tried to pick a scab on my hand, but its time had not arrived to be picked. I try to get comfortable, it is a futile gesture. Conjoin the effervescent, together. The overall mood, is one of.. ..it's more of a smell, a raw smell, that I can't really describe, unless it's hovering in the air. Forget the old way, invent a new one. It's more, or less, a stagnant smell, but, it's also, somewhat electrical. To sell out, would be to buy in, and that's, what I can't do. The knuckles are pink, there is still dirt under the fingernails, the tobacco stains, still there, slime covers the pillow. For me to have been there, for as long as I was....some things (many), that you would have thought, impossible. We are responsible for our lives, entirely (but, we must know, that we will often, unconsciously, sabotage ourselves). No experience makes it all better, equates yin, with yang, or really, gives anybody, any real grip, to hold onto, at all. People wait, to tear your body from yourself. This must be one of the reasons why I sleep all the time. This is my only hope (our). Ingrid's mine, forget me not, two wrinkle free dogs, in an automat extractor. Songs about vaginas, and "the next day, after that". Well, is it growing, and evolving? At present, I believe so, but only time will tell, in these matters. I am extremely addicted, to artificial sweeteners. What passes for joy, nowadays, are dandelion fuzzies, flying down the street. Change is a Poseidon, empty. Wearing a beanie cap, carrying perfume boxes, from Dondy, and Jop. Sexual innuendo, fourth degree, grilling, phone calls, outside of the area code. Black fingernail polish, blond hair dye, loud music, in the apartment down the hall. She was of the type that I yearned for. It is against the law to mistake girls, for women. Ambiguous, but adorable, even in the midst of wiping grease, out of the bottoms of doors, in factories, smelt canning sweatshops. What we've seen happen: part of the cacooning process, blue serenity, framed pictures, the wrong pants. Amiss, is something, obvious, yet secondary. Misanthropes, die young. Far out squares, with words for computers. Pretty soon, I won’t have anyone to, talk to anymore. Tongue tied, when asked to explain, anything, really. Little do they know, it takes a hundred years, for a tree to grow, five minutes, to cut it down. As for the latest style, whatever we conform to, honesty, is usually a lie. Everything afterwards, and backwards, antisocial, schizoid. Sister urinal mint, that no one would agree to touch. Half baked, to jump full on into the give, and take, slap, and grab, here, and there. Years have passed, just killing time. We've been to jail, as many times as we've screwed, and that's a handy ratio, to keep tabs on. A book about masturbation, stimulation, and why, why, why?! Sliding in, for the guy in the kitchen, talking around it, too male, for a female side, obtuse; then, in the middle of the room, in front of everybody, the jackrabbit screams. They lock us up in the pen at night. The floor will never be clean. Hey, wait until you're off probation. So many beautiful backyards. We've gotta’ add another name, to the list, carve another set of initials, into the tree, get out of the trouble we're in. Three years, versus three months, three weeks, sixes. The twenty third day of every September, is the cabaret, the cabaret. Good egg boy, has gone bad. Push down the plunger, badda-boom. My parole was cut short, due to my affliction. Shake the car, hear the moo.
161
FISH! This is declaration number one. Instinctual fish, forward momentum, on a crystal shotgun. Elephants squealing, for hot pretzels. Cranking Seminoles out, and discussing biodegradability. This is what I (Gott ist tott)... Transactional dialectic, for your fingertips. Wear the stolen black panties, tonight. Groin rubbed, anatomy lessons, gender bending, on I-94, west. I guess I’m just not smart enough. The nerdy days, are mostly, gone. Laughing in the middle of the news telecasts, show your bra who's boss, sister. It’s time to pack it in, I’m done. Blow off classes, doodling in the margins, get out of my house, or I'll blow you brains out, buddy. Was it, take a left into the cornfield? One, two, three,hold your breath, and jump! The view from nowhere, looks an awful lot like the view from right here. Painted on a two headed body, that's me, in line behind you. The differences between the annual, and the return, I ran like a rerun, into a vacant warehouse, someplace. It all comes back to the book. We kept regretting things, before they even happened. I want to know her, biblically. Ride the anxiety out, right off the split screen. The familiar town, that I'd never been to before, trains going by, deer in the field. She evidently, didn’t wear any underpants. Presumptuous letters sent, that were really, not true. We tried to get the bird out from in between two walls. All of the beautiful colors, have faded out. The peanuts, were roasted, right there. Clap marathons, refusing our medication, crying, and hitting ourselves; it's hard to tell who the caregivers are, and who's in need of care, themselves. Sex is a myth, of the California teasers. Sad, as our inspiration to get out of the pit? The time is now, in all respects, to act like a surrealist, this is the ballad of the keen observer, the pickle barrel man. The answer, of course, ends with more question marks. Double sided accuracy, makes us all cry out, with dead feet, dead legs. Another frantic downturn, another unstoppable bout, of uncontrollable laughter. "Next exit," bellows fatty, when he sees the bill¬boards for fast food. Lights in the back room, sparkling, and flickering, like fireflies, in cattail patches. I've jump started my Caligula, for something more appealing. The old hours, and hours, of cup, after cup, dynamite exclusives, were probably imagined! The dirt itself, was screaming at me, scolding me; over where I always used to see old man Cohen, the earmuffs, the bread on the side. I will not allow myself to be mediocre, or, be called such. Put it in a frame. The collapse, is complete, and there is nothing to be said about it, save for, "I am totally responsible, I willed it". Sacre bleu! An insane kind of gaiety, to turn up all the way. Crooked, alcoholic, the uncharted, misdirected. The time to turn into butter, is now. Crackling biceps, the hardened snot, flew out of my nose, off a chair, and fell onto the floor. "If gravity is working, it's magic", I said. Pour ethics on him, bankrupt us all. They checked the (pickle it, pickle it) dental records, on the body, because it's head was wrapped up in cellophane tape, so tight, that it could not be removed. Well, nothing matters, in the "great scheme of things," Traico-Germanic, leaping off into the darkness, and favoring his left leg. The woman in the passageway, between two doors. The big dead, rotted out shell of a carcass, the empty hull. The writing is on the wall, but I can't read it, it's smudged, the handwriting is atrocious. Write it all down on a pizza box. Drifting into the bathroom tile grout. The penis bent, but it still writes. "That's nice," they always say, after I shimmy over, and say something. These are the in-between times. Cut evenly, sliced, or chopped. What strange words we write, on the back of our hands. Zoned out again, in her own world, most assuredly, on something. Fine, but what have I learned? No gas in the tank. A slap in the behind, of all things human. Working in the aviary, sweeping up shit. But....not but's. Can I just paint? I mean, there are no stories to be told. Binding, and blinding, first decisions, the atoms are already falling out of their molecular formations. Balzac! The worlds largest swap meet/gun and knife, show. I dislike ping pong, only purchased all these books, to waste money on. Half an egg shy, of a lobster flambe! Books about books? The skeleton soup, and happy, jerk off, monkey toy. I thought I saw a bunch of people standing over by the hotel. People painting people.... and so on. A scratch on the sole of your foot, that you can't reach. Ah, the manic depressives amusement park, I just touched the controls, and this pod takes off, spinning around, like a whirling dervish, on mescaline. Crawl under the fence. What’s important, right now, is for me to take this karmic crap, and garbage, out to the cosmic curb, to be scattered, and redistributed. To leave this nowhere, for another, would be extraneous. Three hundred years, of nothing. Ruined, by baklava, and figs.
Where’s Nate? Visible galaxies? Take out, an apocalyptic sky is brewing. A vicarious catharsis, or something. Slippery tongues, worm my brain away. Whip in hand, at the country thump, and jive. The trees are screaming, and out to get me; terrorized, lost, dark, nuts. Staring long, and hard, into the gutter, to see what winds up there. This is it, this is what's going on. Terrified of my wife, “just not right", reminders, the whole picnic idea, my disease. To celebrate my pointless, fruitless, search for an agent, I started smoking again! I doubt that I ever did exist. Wound up, set free, back to the chains, again. Make sense of the scrawl. They rode bikes. There is grease all over the bag. Which line? To fuck or kill, that was the real, goddamn question!? What, poetry? Kick line, that, and drive recklessly. Pella, Macedonia, you are a weirdo. My skeleton danced, without me. The opposites, are the most alike. I came back from the war, a little bit different. Laminated, hub-bubbing, around fictional landscapes. Super high tech, feedback machines, what do we do? Shuffle papers around, run! Where? The room is puttered around in, two fish plates, hundreds of empty, aluminum cans. In an effort to escape boredom, we destroy ourselves. Within minutes, the project is completed. There are shit stains all over my underwear, and I don't care. Major financial problems, social problems, psychological problems. Glow in the dark moon muck, discovered. We can't win, but, so what, in regards to everything? This is what I write, years have slid by, nothing changes, matters, fuck it all. I am stupid, but, most people are. Rectified, solved (doubtful)? But, I did take a lot out.... blowing my nose on old shirts, and pieces of bread. Two, or three hats, missing suit coats, echoes in our heads, pretty girls, giving up, moving out, and into somewhere, a lot less warm. Not flushing the toilet, because I can't stand wasting so much water. We find out our limits, as individuals, and it’s always disappointing. I have spilled, and cleaned up, but there is still a stain. There are two, or three, openings, on this page, alone. The hangers, the way they get intertwined. Never met the crew on Park Street, collection agencies, insanity given, and it's too late, now. This is the part that needs the most attention? A huge paper mache carrot, with the illusion of fire, reflections in the window pane. Retirement, island life, I can still taste the alcohol in my mouth. The phone is off the hook, yet, ringing, people are fucking, planes are crashing, hands being shaken, change is required. You're the captain! All there is to do, is drive. All I could do was spit, during the post nova, tropical storm. There is always some new thing to deal with. Back to Kilometer Lake. More, and more see-saw, hee-haw, yelling, and screaming. Where's that diagram of the desperation/futility, fulcrum? I don't know anything about the original flavor, but someone must have cut their hand over the sink, and not cleaned up after themselves. Things are all, or nothing, now, in every daily affair, no middle ground. Nice, blowjob practice, on fruits, and vegetables. Mexican jumping bean people, are excited about their lives. Five years lost, in three dimensions. Unsavory aspects of a man’s character, the personal diary, of an utter madman. Separating wheat, from chaff, is getting really boring. Sticks of fake butter, sitting on top of the stove, to get peoples associations rolling. Potato salad, sitting in a car, eating it all. This is the comets trail, of what we thought, versus indifference… it works, for a couple of months. The pummel horse deceived me, and gave me a "backwards erection". Fingers pointing, and voices shaming. The place triple dosed me, and now, I'm punchkining, gesunheits! What was that lady saying? I have the facts? Snuff me out, with the clues that I have provided. Luck peeled me, and threw me over by the cotton gin. The Wainwright building is falling down, and I cannot believe that this does not shock everybody, that it's not a cross cultural phenomenon. I poured my heart out to a stranger, in the liquid tofu section, on Bastille Day, 1986. My shoes are blending in with the underbrush. Pinging around, and taking too much time. Right in front of you, cursive writing They probably do fart around you, on purpose. The sounds are those of a heater running on high, and soda being sipped, through a straw. We don't ever really know, what we're hoping for. The coffee tastes better over there, because there is something wrong with their water supply. South of the Mason Dixie Line, or wherever it was. Silly, little, sea monkeys, that guppy, evolving, then, scraping itself to the shore, specify, wings, learning, only through failure, after failure. Flunk us, we scream, so that we'll be sure, that we learned something. Safe no more, floundering, and epileptic, episodes, sometimes, gestures. It finally felt cleaned off. Oh, well, fold it in half way, put it somewhere in the middle. It's not as if order, and regularity, were interesting, anyway. Looking forward to the day I quit. This is more or less fucking, in a round about way. I didn’t feel I deserved new shoes. An upside down, and turned on, television, with bad vertical hold. Someone wants me, dead. Avoid stupid people, with things to sell. The simplest things, are the most baffling. E, I, E, I, O (next thing you know, you’re forty). We need vocabulary, awareness, living, is nearly impossible, so we clip, and tune, serve, report, gossip, wizz, piddle, and puff up our feathers. Dragging the dog, anger, I'm not one of those. Sue me, it would be a fitting ending to this nightmare.
My "frustrations," were just so much diddle in the sheets. Recent developments from the land of nod... nothing has changed, will change-ever! Drives in the country, killed a couple of years. High on India Ink, again. Chemical company lawyers, swimming, and singing, "this one's not polluted". Put down the pencil, I just want to be able to answer my own questions. Brain, to voice, to air, to ear, and back again, in a continuous loop, that doesn't solve anything. Stuck in the cerebellum, and there is no trephoning available, or, our insurance won't pay for it. Crunching with the numbers, I stuck my hand in the stove, and then in the sink. Hiding in the laundry room, making all the noises I like to make. The towel is underneath my ass. I am looking at the paper plates, and thinking about the motives behind my actions. This is molecular, has a lot to do with your daily behavior. The mannequins in the store window, define the kind of town you are living in. Desperately seeking nothing, though, that's not what it looks like, we're doing. My shoes are squeaking, and the blood is turning blue/green, breathing heavy, and lying on a heating duct. Accidentally washing my hair with bleach, then, years in a stupor. Observing rusted buttons, searching for truth, in between the sections of the couch. Hinting, only hinting, at everything I wanted to say. Woodward was fading, in, and out, the white, or yellow, hues, on the shoulder, were pointing off, into the car in the far left lane (not good signs). Now, can this new aversion therapy, get rid of these urges, doctor? Most days, are just geysers going off, every fifty two minutes, with no significance beyond that (wait (geyser), then, go home). The clowns bout, and the placenta, shifts. Death is an annihilation, the entity of fear. Ahem, oh, amen, amen. Now, for the yes, the no, save your shoes! Aggression turned inward, to never agree, to never sign. Two weasels, one way out. The wall is not really any color. Why would the Gestapo mod squad, be knocking down my door, at this hour? Corn silk masks, to hide the blemishes, I'm billowing, half fresh, thinking of flipping my monster truck. Neo-nihilism, is flailing on the bed. Some myths have ceded, I'm still quite dead, still no clear, diplomatic way of going about this. Beyond life, three days in the sensory deprivation tank, emptier, and emptier. Seeing black, hearing silence, wondering how I ever thought there was anything else. The repetition, is what kills the creative sort, mopping every day, same, this, same, that, same everything. Slowly, but surely, the artist in us, rots away, and is quickly burned, forgotten. Bitterness, and angst, have their own cynical appeal, welcome to the group, we are the truly damned. All maybes, all chance. No more heartbeat. To forget, and forget, and forget. My hands look crippled, but beautiful? Chance events, and mere exposure. Looking at arms, all will be for naught, if you continue to live a life of mental constructs, if you keep thumbing your way around the problem. Was it a voodoo, love experiment? No! Where is that incense smell, coming from? What lasts, is an accident. Get out your tools. Casting the demons out, by shotgun blasts, is not the answer. That’s not milk. The thick layer of dust, is yellowish, mauvey, colorlessness, in a word, nondescript. Some game was being played. Re-fill the trough… It takes close inspection, of the ashes, and dust patterns. On the inside, a rip, a division. Right now, a hair from my head, or an eyelash, maybe, is stuck to my hand, and trailing it across the paper, as I write these words (it keeps hanging on). Day in, day out, listening to the white noise. Water is dangerous, so are words. Gone, are the days of transitional words, transactional analysis. A fear, bridges, and wind, food, to focus our attention on. Sandpit serenades, no enrichment, spider bites, infatuation. Just like light bulbs, we've clicked off...and on. To be honest with you, it is already too late. If nothing is what we're searching for, we're doing a great job. You are being tracked. Make a face, have a clue, dig a ditch, set something on fire. Only moving our eyes across the page, flirting, flitting, from scratch, to scratch, mark, to mark. The in and out motions, create friction, bang, and it’s over. Cut all ties, break all bonds, stop being the way you are. Heat emanates, from a central, control system. Winter, and percussion rhythms, but seemingly, responding to an order, of sorts. Social acceptability, drifts, and slithers, at you. Expandable commodities, with their fingers up their asses, while laying on sofa beds, on their left sides. Love is like an enema, that we give to ourselves. Read people, interpret people, like art murals. The doorknobs, will far outlast, anyone on this world. Not normal fingers, Hepatitis B: death of a vampire. Halloween, is our Christmas. Slaps in the face, with a wet fish; fish everything, fish everywhere. Self-help books, never seemed to do a whole hell of lot of good. Looking, just looking, deep, and contemplative. Mockeries, and mere halves, shoes made of clay, or they look like it, in this light. Patrons are affected, dentists, are annihilated. More chance events, more petty excuses. Bloating in Mexico, doing our own Vietnam, right here. Being standoffish, and indolent, not doing anything, nor, accomplishing much. Whining about dullness, tediousness. Always, "growing up", nothing to prove (or lose). I've seen the ivy covered buildings, and dark, and exclusive, night clubs. Fantasies about coffee, with what's her name, and dinners, with who's his face. Three years apart. Or, be made of ether, wet, with pseudo perspiration, and fashionably late. Society needs men, construction worker men, with construction worker hardons, to work! False hopes, wrong books, one of a kind, doesn't mean much, any more. I wanted to be Syd, for about a week. Too many reality checks? It’s really only difficult, when I pause. Repair the fan above the stove. Now, my wrist is bending too far, inwards.
After, procrastination has done it's damage, after the "so be it." There is no time, for one of my atypically, typical, manifestoes. Back to the sandbox, I am going to let the rest of this sentence, trickle off.... It's time to throw away everything we own. Now, a free flowing, ramble through. Eyes like a tattooed spider, this is who, "the hidden, are"? Wall flowers forgotten.... this is the old stuff. Washing hands, never separating from the bunch, the herd. Let this be a love poem....let that be an anathema. Whatever happened to all of the Emily type gals? Pimp, whore, fractions! Spatio-temporal posturing, bulk, and motion, primary, and secondary properties, some sort of declaration, by someone, somewhere. No matter how much, we may try, it would appear, to be impossible, to know what we're feeling. I don't think anything’s really, "figured out." Kindly ask that Buddha figure, to stop staring at me. What provides, "more of a kick," than invitrofertilization? The faint, but prominent, sounds, of a radio, hissing, and crackling out, secret messages, sounds, that even deaf people are affected by. Dreams, left unlived, on the floors of our living rooms. Freon is a conversation starter, as are, micro ceramic pens. Euclid was right, when he predicted that I would only sit on the couch. I've got to find the edge-sharp, blurry, or otherwise. Then, we can ignore everything else, then, we can live out these new, or newer, ideas, we had. This is some anachronistic, alias. To see the wastelands, to take pictures of the styrofoam. Clever, clever, but not on Thursdays. Limited by the instruments we were using, meaning, all some people could see in the microscope, were their own eyelashes. Broken cigarette lighters, say a lot about a person. Heels dipped in tar, the whiff of lilac, the research is complete. Tin can breath, tripping over boots, and books, and shoes, or something. Rewinding our lives, that have been fine, so far. Ill regarded, backs, and necks, beginning to twist, out of order. Going from inappropriate, to inarticulate, in the span of three days. No light, no darkness, no sight, no sound, everything inverted, and “not quite right”. Could have, always thinking, "could have". Huh, what? A question of handwriting analysis, handshakes, and "what's your sign"? Is it true, that dirty hands, mean dirty minds? We thought some pretty nerdy things, were really, cool. It is not a big deal. After this trick is played, not much remains. He showed up late, short of breath, with stains on his pants. The mob beat the man down to the ground, with their fists. So far to go. When bored and/or, stressed, I smoke, hence, two, or three packs a day, are consumed. Try to keep the bones dry, for us. Hack out the too revealing. This dancing, is a strange mating ritual; waffling, fascinating, sex smells, in the old factory; lubes, driving everybody mad. Androgynous beasts, pulling on breasts; runny yogurt, sponging sophistication, lint on the floor, eyes bobbing, no cutlery. Stolen roses, rotting in the closet. Another guide to immaturity, bears, overtaken by the fumes. Gorging, and regurgitating, the young woman, is disgraced. Time is the enemy, one of them. It’s no use giving a diagnosis, of a dead patient, amongst other things. Evil, is the oil, in society’s car. All wishes denied, by default judgment. What a freakish character, we must appear to be, with our mummy masks, and sunglasses. Repair the robot. Space filler, clipped out later, with rusty scissors. Don't even try to buffalo her, tonight. No interesting girls, anymore, looking at people in my group therapy session. In the mood for some of that sideshow singing, and dancing, in other words, turn on the fan. Where's the missing page? Should I be so bold, as to go over the mispronounced words, and present them as part of the Sanskrit language? Make it a lot crazier. Salute her veal shank, and cutlets. Inflated balloons, glass eye collectors, inflatable women, with "love grip hands". Black, and blue, ink blots, bumbling, over dandelion roads. My essence, has become another. Then, for no reason, Mesmer walks in, with a long, flowing robe, and turban. People are depressed, staring into the corners, where the refrigerator used to be. This could be bad. Pancake face reminiscing, after all these years? It's proximity alone, that gives me an erection, every fifteen minutes, not anything she does, or doesn't do. See the UPC, on my upper forearm, that's a sign of things to come. I thought you had a chiropractor’s appointment? What kind of circle, was he trying to square? Be persistent, and embarrassed, by the department. Circles of light, reflecting around circles of words. Just went out and bought a beer. To celebrate, but there is nothing worth celebrating. Getting more desperate than usual, the ugliness of everything, randomness, predictability, haphazard glory. To drink the beer, before going into the theater, but the theater hasn't opened yet. My invisible friend, more of an invisible nemesis, invisible enemy. Nothing more, yeah, yeah, yeah. Now, I have a little exercise that you must try at home: hoot, pfft. Hoot, pfft, hoot, pfft. Try this, c'mon. Hoot, pfft. Hoot, pfft. Hoot, pfft. Hoot-like an owl, kind of, but actually say, "hoot". Then, like you're showing disgust at something, or don't believe something, "pfft". That's it, now try it on your friends, new sound effects. Be warned, that this is highly addictive, be careful! Take leave from Stinkpot, oh, no, not that, again. Weakness, shortcomings, self perceived, slanting, in the negative direction. Thoughts have a mind of their own, most times. Good books, are only deemed good books, because someone with power, and authority, tells you they are. Shit, to destroy evidence now, would be nigh, impossible. This is not a crossword puzzle! Turn me into a Dutch figurine. She was upstairs, going apeshit over C.C. Marroon, polyunsaturated serenades, are no bother, at all. There is nothing left, to rebel against. We haven't done anything that merits going to confession. Fact/fiction: no different. Evolve, or die, once, or for all. My sadness, is real, and I refuse to be embarrassed by it, any longer.They forced me to bowl. There won’t be any more hiding, trembling…
Where’s Nate? Visible galaxies? Take out, an apocalyptic sky is brewing. A vicarious catharsis, or something. Slippery tongues, worm my brain away. Whip in hand, at the country thump, and jive. The trees are screaming, and out to get me; terrorized, lost, dark, nuts. Staring long, and hard, into the gutter, to see what winds up there. This is it, this is what's going on. Terrified of my wife, “just not right", reminders, the whole picnic idea, my disease. To celebrate my pointless, fruitless, search for an agent, I started smoking again! I doubt that I ever did exist. Wound up, set free, back to the chains, again. Make sense of the scrawl. They rode bikes. There is grease all over the bag. Which line? To fuck or kill, that was the real, goddamn question!? What, poetry? Kick line, that, and drive recklessly. Pella, Macedonia, you are a weirdo. My skeleton danced, without me. The opposites, are the most alike. I came back from the war, a little bit different. Laminated, hub-bubbing, around fictional landscapes. Super high tech, feedback machines, what do we do? Shuffle papers around, run! Where? The room is puttered around in, two fish plates, hundreds of empty, aluminum cans. In an effort to escape boredom, we destroy ourselves. Within minutes, the project is completed. There are shit stains all over my underwear, and I don't care. Major financial problems, social problems, psychological problems. Glow in the dark moon muck, discovered. We can't win, but, so what, in regards to everything? This is what I write, years have slid by, nothing changes, matters, fuck it all. I am stupid, but, most people are. Rectified, solved (doubtful)? But, I did take a lot out.... blowing my nose on old shirts, and pieces of bread. Two, or three hats, missing suit coats, echoes in our heads, pretty girls, giving up, moving out, and into somewhere, a lot less warm. Not flushing the toilet, because I can't stand wasting so much water. We find out our limits, as individuals, and it’s always disappointing. I have spilled, and cleaned up, but there is still a stain. There are two, or three, openings, on this page, alone. The hangers, the way they get intertwined. Never met the crew on Park Street, collection agencies, insanity given, and it's too late, now. This is the part that needs the most attention? A huge paper mache carrot, with the illusion of fire, reflections in the window pane. Retirement, island life, I can still taste the alcohol in my mouth. The phone is off the hook, yet, ringing, people are fucking, planes are crashing, hands being shaken, change is required. You're the captain! All there is to do, is drive. All I could do was spit, during the post nova, tropical storm. There is always some new thing to deal with. Back to Kilometer Lake. More, and more see-saw, hee-haw, yelling, and screaming. Where's that diagram of the desperation/futility, fulcrum? I don't know anything about the original flavor, but someone must have cut their hand over the sink, and not cleaned up after themselves. Things are all, or nothing, now, in every daily affair, no middle ground. Nice, blowjob practice, on fruits, and vegetables. Mexican jumping bean people, are excited about their lives. Five years lost, in three dimensions. Unsavory aspects of a man’s character, the personal diary, of an utter madman. Separating wheat, from chaff, is getting really boring. Sticks of fake butter, sitting on top of the stove, to get peoples associations rolling. Potato salad, sitting in a car, eating it all. This is the comets trail, of what we thought, versus indifference… it works, for a couple of months. The pummel horse deceived me, and gave me a "backwards erection". Fingers pointing, and voices shaming. The place triple dosed me, and now, I'm punchkining, gesunheits! What was that lady saying? I have the facts? Snuff me out, with the clues that I have provided. Luck peeled me, and threw me over by the cotton gin. The Wainwright building is falling down, and I cannot believe that this does not shock everybody, that it's not a cross cultural phenomenon. I poured my heart out to a stranger, in the liquid tofu section, on Bastille Day, 1986. My shoes are blending in with the underbrush. Pinging around, and taking too much time. Right in front of you, cursive writing They probably do fart around you, on purpose. The sounds are those of a heater running on high, and soda being sipped, through a straw. We don't ever really know, what we're hoping for. The coffee tastes better over there, because there is something wrong with their water supply. South of the Mason Dixie Line, or wherever it was. Silly, little, sea monkeys, that guppy, evolving, then, scraping itself to the shore, specify, wings, learning, only through failure, after failure. Flunk us, we scream, so that we'll be sure, that we learned something. Safe no more, floundering, and epileptic, episodes, sometimes, gestures. It finally felt cleaned off. Oh, well, fold it in half way, put it somewhere in the middle. It's not as if order, and regularity, were interesting, anyway. Looking forward to the day I quit. This is more or less fucking, in a round about way. I didn’t feel I deserved new shoes. An upside down, and turned on, television, with bad vertical hold. Someone wants me, dead. Avoid stupid people, with things to sell. The simplest things, are the most baffling. E, I, E, I, O (next thing you know, you’re forty). We need vocabulary, awareness, living, is nearly impossible, so we clip, and tune, serve, report, gossip, wizz, piddle, and puff up our feathers. Dragging the dog, anger, I'm not one of those. Sue me, it would be a fitting ending to this nightmare.
My "frustrations," were just so much diddle in the sheets. Recent developments from the land of nod... nothing has changed, will change-ever! Drives in the country, killed a couple of years. High on India Ink, again. Chemical company lawyers, swimming, and singing, "this one's not polluted". Put down the pencil, I just want to be able to answer my own questions. Brain, to voice, to air, to ear, and back again, in a continuous loop, that doesn't solve anything. Stuck in the cerebellum, and there is no trephoning available, or, our insurance won't pay for it. Crunching with the numbers, I stuck my hand in the stove, and then in the sink. Hiding in the laundry room, making all the noises I like to make. The towel is underneath my ass. I am looking at the paper plates, and thinking about the motives behind my actions. This is molecular, has a lot to do with your daily behavior. The mannequins in the store window, define the kind of town you are living in. Desperately seeking nothing, though, that's not what it looks like, we're doing. My shoes are squeaking, and the blood is turning blue/green, breathing heavy, and lying on a heating duct. Accidentally washing my hair with bleach, then, years in a stupor. Observing rusted buttons, searching for truth, in between the sections of the couch. Hinting, only hinting, at everything I wanted to say. Woodward was fading, in, and out, the white, or yellow, hues, on the shoulder, were pointing off, into the car in the far left lane (not good signs). Now, can this new aversion therapy, get rid of these urges, doctor? Most days, are just geysers going off, every fifty two minutes, with no significance beyond that (wait (geyser), then, go home). The clowns bout, and the placenta, shifts. Death is an annihilation, the entity of fear. Ahem, oh, amen, amen. Now, for the yes, the no, save your shoes! Aggression turned inward, to never agree, to never sign. Two weasels, one way out. The wall is not really any color. Why would the Gestapo mod squad, be knocking down my door, at this hour? Corn silk masks, to hide the blemishes, I'm billowing, half fresh, thinking of flipping my monster truck. Neo-nihilism, is flailing on the bed. Some myths have ceded, I'm still quite dead, still no clear, diplomatic way of going about this. Beyond life, three days in the sensory deprivation tank, emptier, and emptier. Seeing black, hearing silence, wondering how I ever thought there was anything else. The repetition, is what kills the creative sort, mopping every day, same, this, same, that, same everything. Slowly, but surely, the artist in us, rots away, and is quickly burned, forgotten. Bitterness, and angst, have their own cynical appeal, welcome to the group, we are the truly damned. All maybes, all chance. No more heartbeat. To forget, and forget, and forget. My hands look crippled, but beautiful? Chance events, and mere exposure. Looking at arms, all will be for naught, if you continue to live a life of mental constructs, if you keep thumbing your way around the problem. Was it a voodoo, love experiment? No! Where is that incense smell, coming from? What lasts, is an accident. Get out your tools. Casting the demons out, by shotgun blasts, is not the answer. That’s not milk. The thick layer of dust, is yellowish, mauvey, colorlessness, in a word, nondescript. Some game was being played. Re-fill the trough… It takes close inspection, of the ashes, and dust patterns. On the inside, a rip, a division. Right now, a hair from my head, or an eyelash, maybe, is stuck to my hand, and trailing it across the paper, as I write these words (it keeps hanging on). Day in, day out, listening to the white noise. Water is dangerous, so are words. Gone, are the days of transitional words, transactional analysis. A fear, bridges, and wind, food, to focus our attention on. Sandpit serenades, no enrichment, spider bites, infatuation. Just like light bulbs, we've clicked off...and on. To be honest with you, it is already too late. If nothing is what we're searching for, we're doing a great job. You are being tracked. Make a face, have a clue, dig a ditch, set something on fire. Only moving our eyes across the page, flirting, flitting, from scratch, to scratch, mark, to mark. The in and out motions, create friction, bang, and it’s over. Cut all ties, break all bonds, stop being the way you are. Heat emanates, from a central, control system. Winter, and percussion rhythms, but seemingly, responding to an order, of sorts. Social acceptability, drifts, and slithers, at you. Expandable commodities, with their fingers up their asses, while laying on sofa beds, on their left sides. Love is like an enema, that we give to ourselves. Read people, interpret people, like art murals. The doorknobs, will far outlast, anyone on this world. Not normal fingers, Hepatitis B: death of a vampire. Halloween, is our Christmas. Slaps in the face, with a wet fish; fish everything, fish everywhere. Self-help books, never seemed to do a whole hell of lot of good. Looking, just looking, deep, and contemplative. Mockeries, and mere halves, shoes made of clay, or they look like it, in this light. Patrons are affected, dentists, are annihilated. More chance events, more petty excuses. Bloating in Mexico, doing our own Vietnam, right here. Being standoffish, and indolent, not doing anything, nor, accomplishing much. Whining about dullness, tediousness. Always, "growing up", nothing to prove (or lose). I've seen the ivy covered buildings, and dark, and exclusive, night clubs. Fantasies about coffee, with what's her name, and dinners, with who's his face. Three years apart. Or, be made of ether, wet, with pseudo perspiration, and fashionably late. Society needs men, construction worker men, with construction worker hardons, to work! False hopes, wrong books, one of a kind, doesn't mean much, any more. I wanted to be Syd, for about a week. Too many reality checks? It’s really only difficult, when I pause. Repair the fan above the stove. Now, my wrist is bending too far, inwards.
After, procrastination has done it's damage, after the "so be it." There is no time, for one of my atypically, typical, manifestoes. Back to the sandbox, I am going to let the rest of this sentence, trickle off.... It's time to throw away everything we own. Now, a free flowing, ramble through. Eyes like a tattooed spider, this is who, "the hidden, are"? Wall flowers forgotten.... this is the old stuff. Washing hands, never separating from the bunch, the herd. Let this be a love poem....let that be an anathema. Whatever happened to all of the Emily type gals? Pimp, whore, fractions! Spatio-temporal posturing, bulk, and motion, primary, and secondary properties, some sort of declaration, by someone, somewhere. No matter how much, we may try, it would appear, to be impossible, to know what we're feeling. I don't think anything’s really, "figured out." Kindly ask that Buddha figure, to stop staring at me. What provides, "more of a kick," than invitrofertilization? The faint, but prominent, sounds, of a radio, hissing, and crackling out, secret messages, sounds, that even deaf people are affected by. Dreams, left unlived, on the floors of our living rooms. Freon is a conversation starter, as are, micro ceramic pens. Euclid was right, when he predicted that I would only sit on the couch. I've got to find the edge-sharp, blurry, or otherwise. Then, we can ignore everything else, then, we can live out these new, or newer, ideas, we had. This is some anachronistic, alias. To see the wastelands, to take pictures of the styrofoam. Clever, clever, but not on Thursdays. Limited by the instruments we were using, meaning, all some people could see in the microscope, were their own eyelashes. Broken cigarette lighters, say a lot about a person. Heels dipped in tar, the whiff of lilac, the research is complete. Tin can breath, tripping over boots, and books, and shoes, or something. Rewinding our lives, that have been fine, so far. Ill regarded, backs, and necks, beginning to twist, out of order. Going from inappropriate, to inarticulate, in the span of three days. No light, no darkness, no sight, no sound, everything inverted, and “not quite right”. Could have, always thinking, "could have". Huh, what? A question of handwriting analysis, handshakes, and "what's your sign"? Is it true, that dirty hands, mean dirty minds? We thought some pretty nerdy things, were really, cool. It is not a big deal. After this trick is played, not much remains. He showed up late, short of breath, with stains on his pants. The mob beat the man down to the ground, with their fists. So far to go. When bored and/or, stressed, I smoke, hence, two, or three packs a day, are consumed. Try to keep the bones dry, for us. Hack out the too revealing. This dancing, is a strange mating ritual; waffling, fascinating, sex smells, in the old factory; lubes, driving everybody mad. Androgynous beasts, pulling on breasts; runny yogurt, sponging sophistication, lint on the floor, eyes bobbing, no cutlery. Stolen roses, rotting in the closet. Another guide to immaturity, bears, overtaken by the fumes. Gorging, and regurgitating, the young woman, is disgraced. Time is the enemy, one of them. It’s no use giving a diagnosis, of a dead patient, amongst other things. Evil, is the oil, in society’s car. All wishes denied, by default judgment. What a freakish character, we must appear to be, with our mummy masks, and sunglasses. Repair the robot. Space filler, clipped out later, with rusty scissors. Don't even try to buffalo her, tonight. No interesting girls, anymore, looking at people in my group therapy session. In the mood for some of that sideshow singing, and dancing, in other words, turn on the fan. Where's the missing page? Should I be so bold, as to go over the mispronounced words, and present them as part of the Sanskrit language? Make it a lot crazier. Salute her veal shank, and cutlets. Inflated balloons, glass eye collectors, inflatable women, with "love grip hands". Black, and blue, ink blots, bumbling, over dandelion roads. My essence, has become another. Then, for no reason, Mesmer walks in, with a long, flowing robe, and turban. People are depressed, staring into the corners, where the refrigerator used to be. This could be bad. Pancake face reminiscing, after all these years? It's proximity alone, that gives me an erection, every fifteen minutes, not anything she does, or doesn't do. See the UPC, on my upper forearm, that's a sign of things to come. I thought you had a chiropractor’s appointment? What kind of circle, was he trying to square? Be persistent, and embarrassed, by the department. Circles of light, reflecting around circles of words. Just went out and bought a beer. To celebrate, but there is nothing worth celebrating. Getting more desperate than usual, the ugliness of everything, randomness, predictability, haphazard glory. To drink the beer, before going into the theater, but the theater hasn't opened yet. My invisible friend, more of an invisible nemesis, invisible enemy. Nothing more, yeah, yeah, yeah. Now, I have a little exercise that you must try at home: hoot, pfft. Hoot, pfft, hoot, pfft. Try this, c'mon. Hoot, pfft. Hoot, pfft. Hoot, pfft. Hoot-like an owl, kind of, but actually say, "hoot". Then, like you're showing disgust at something, or don't believe something, "pfft". That's it, now try it on your friends, new sound effects. Be warned, that this is highly addictive, be careful! Take leave from Stinkpot, oh, no, not that, again. Weakness, shortcomings, self perceived, slanting, in the negative direction. Thoughts have a mind of their own, most times. Good books, are only deemed good books, because someone with power, and authority, tells you they are. Shit, to destroy evidence now, would be nigh, impossible. This is not a crossword puzzle! Turn me into a Dutch figurine. She was upstairs, going apeshit over C.C. Marroon, polyunsaturated serenades, are no bother, at all. There is nothing left, to rebel against. We haven't done anything that merits going to confession. Fact/fiction: no different. Evolve, or die, once, or for all. My sadness, is real, and I refuse to be embarrassed by it, any longer.They forced me to bowl. There won’t be any more hiding, trembling…
159
Hooray for clucking chickens, fish, and mimes. The worms aren't invisible, just kind of, see-through. And they fall, like we all do, and feed on watery eyes. Cut out cartoon pictures from magazines, and coloring books, put them in a bag. Running, and splashing my way through the campus fountain, of course, the cold walk home. Poppy eaters, are shattering our foundation of democracy. Let the city state, fall, these are the cries of those who couldn't care less. So much the same, but the flowers still looked like Eskimos, they didn't take the time to understand me, at all. A lot of loose change lies around the room, with my name on it. Opaque, if we'd have taken the time. Time, that we have too much of (if we're lost, within ourselves). Along the same lines, I found my"self," to be no more than a case of mistaken identity. Sitting in the clowns dressing room, deciding to ourselves, that they're really not that funny. Hey, tell her I'm nice, and smell like oil. Mere imagery, infatuation, bursting, from one side of the room, to the other, chanting, "how can they go from that, to this"? The fish, drying out, and dying, in the white, mesh tomb, is the perfect example, for explaining the concept of realism-anti-thesis. Months, and months, years, and years: yeah, yeah, yeah. Surrounded by the dashboard, and rattling noises. The molasses-like feelings, after many dreamless nights. Not vicious, uninterested; open your lips a little bit, for the infidelity on ice, show. Obscurity, the buckshot technique, eventually, we stop waving to trains. What's so nasty about stool softener, except, most don’t imbibe? The goth, punk, funk, bitch? The tollbooth thieves, the ones who kiss everybody. Responsibility, and guilt, anger, shame, discipline. Coming off another self-destructive streak/spree, the signal, trash cans, overflowing in Mesa, Arizona, was not enough to keep me from limping around the parade grounds. Financial news, market data, arguments, and long distance travel. It means something else, now. Cold winter heatstroke's, black, barren, lost lunches. This is just a small part of the parade. "More and more radically", equates to a tea cup ride. Waste another day. Count the items in the basket. For the most part, it’s out of our hands. No reason needed, for a good mood, a nice day. Dive into the deeper, and more tumultuous, waters, go over the fence, and into the restricted areas. Lighting cigarettes, transforming the atmosphere from this, to that, in some fringe scientist's, wet dream. It's like, uh-oh, the anticipated variables theory, blown apart by a word, a wayward molecule. Gratify yourself on your fetishistic, free range, actualities. Avoid the bastards, at all cost. In the next to last scene, we get delirious. The game can be lost by forfeit, if you refuse to play. Any thoughts of Buddhism being viable? Check into it. Disengagement, detachment? Who'll pay for the casket? What do we do for fun, around here? Driving around to convenience stores! We, act not. Having been defeated, in our quests for grander schemes, for our own benefits, alone. The creep has been defined, and demagnetized, lying on wood tables, and thinking about who knows what! Everyone started driving, like she did, with rhythmic convulsions, even though they all knew, she was prone to seizure activity. Don't steal dolls from peoples set up, outdoor, homes. Echoes caused the ghost, to hopscotch. Fucking "what's her name," for lack of anything better to do. The challenge that normalcy posed, was not possible to solve, given the periodically literature, that we were handed. I couldn't pretend, like everyone else seemed to be doing, that I was "profoundly moved," by what passed for brilliance, in the 1700's. So, I slipped back into my crib, and haven't really emerged, in years. Society insisted, I put up some resistance, but ended up complying, after all. As for the instant, I call, write, visit, explain.... got dumb, real fast, and was embarrassed about it, but only at the time, and it didn't last long. I'd forgotten all about dying, and was caught up in the problem of trying to live. It was so easy to get sick of ourselves, being battered around the rooms, as we were. I get crazy about trailer parks, not ironically detached. I became kind of professional, fillet, swarming into the wigwam, trying really hard, to blend in, and get sane. Happy birthday, even if you’re dead. Like everybody else, I tried to improve my life, make something of myself, and, like many others, I was left unchanged, unaffected, in short, left high, and dry. Nothing changes, happens, matters, we find out nothing can. In other words, who cares? It doesn't matter what we do, we wind up dead, and not leaving much behind, it's sad, but, only in a way, because there isn't anything to be, or become, there is no way to, "improve ourselves". We're duped, that's all, and it doesn't matter that we are, except that nothing is added in, or subtracted out, no matter what we do. The spice rack, needs to be cleaned, I clear my throat, constantly, hacking, and snorting my way into Nirvana. Freezer burned tongues, bad attitudes. They can eat your face. What? Whoa, that's a good one, you really threw me, there. Dave had on a boddivistra outfit, for no apparent reason. The border between this, and that, is like tingling sensations in your legs, from the leg-less. Refuse to, “talk about it.” You can’t stop any of it.
Round three, in the heavyweight championship, to kid ourselves, again, and again, to slip, and collapse, knee deep into melancholy, but still, to keep both knees off the ground, still holding onto the ropes. The most absurd characatures, are anti. The Russians, took the stage. The same small, country grocery store, everything is hillbilly, and the same. Make it be, what it isn’t. They’ll put me in a camp, for sure. The trend of the nose ringed girls, the sitting around, waiting for something exciting to happen, to grow into our own rows, to slowly, watch bleach blonde hair, fade into brown, again. The gene splicing controversy, bedroom blending, chameleons, big time, lost following, feeling like a fruit cup. Fuck the view from the top of the parking structure, the assumed names, ages, and birthplaces, the toast of the chosen few. The tape ran out, toward the end of the discussion, always conveniently, lunching in the Flamingo Room. The bouquet fell to the ground, untouched. It’s absolutely pointless (but, shhh, that’s our little secret). The smell of the smoke, or the smell of the fire? It’s a dismal, little dittie, we composed it yesterday. How dare you get inside my head, and disrupt my equilibrium, yes, there will be a reversal. Hundreds of years, seem to pass by, in the span of mere, hours. My shame seems to go really deep down. The recurring dream, of the figure, who never answers my questions. No more lilac, for the year. I mean, how do you make it different? Jump starts, with electrodes on my nipples. To be so unceremoniously, brought up on charges, for a few comments, off the record, at a girl’s, camp jamboree. There is no such thing as regret, there was, but, I got wise, or, ambivalent, rather. Seminary masturbation… still ice skating, if you know what I mean. To not throw one’s life away, on things that can never be believed in. Dream girls, find shit stains in pants, to be a turnoff. I'm doing all of the talking, to myself, in the corner of the coffee shop, again. No coherence, just flip, flop, random mileage, ex-fears, ex-inabilities, ex-plans for the future. More fanciful notions, more blending contradiction, and paradox, into nonsense, and absurdity, ridiculousness. Endure the crotch. Morning rollover accidents, old diary entries, about suicide, death, nothingness, insanity, lies....these days, I really don't care. This is going to take a long time, I'm afraid, but it must be done. Looking at thc cobwebs, and dirt piles, in the wrong way? Stoned, but testing negative in the drug test I took, in hopes of being a janitor, at a parking structure, the same one we used to hide out, on top of. Forget the queer wrestling moves, move on. Abandon me, please. Dreams of, and/or about, projectile vomiting, cursing out the boss, shaking hands with someone, while wearing gloves, at the time. Picking scabs, and dandelions, in the side yard. The family dog has been sprayed by a neighborhood skunk. Sure, I knew all the sorority girls, especially, the ones I bled all over. Then, trying to explain myself, and that nothing mattered, a little blood must be spilled, etc. Barefoot, just filling up the raincoat, with magnets, and sobriety chips. With retrospect, with this twenty-twenty hindsight, it's plain to see, that all the of those glorious things, beautiful things, never meant two whit’s worth of anything, at all. These are dangerous times. There was snow, and pornography, everywhere. Tooling throughout Pontiac, in defiance of all murder statistics. Blacking out entirely, and going for a little stroll. I have this tendency to appear, and disappear, in peculiar, and mysterious, ways. Two hours gone, is just the beginning, given the way I've been doing things. The ridiculous, became me. "Horrible sentence structure", she hissed. Wisdom, is like an enema, that you give yourself. I do not need any of your pussy hole, redundant. I mumbled, half-aloud. This infernal, internal, critic, must be eliminated, at all costs. I've spent the last four years, crossing metaphysics, with alpha-hydroxy lotion-to no avail. No more questions, it's time for some answers, not about the nature, of man, or the universe, but about your own flesh, blood, brain, and shit. Me and my image, with scrawny arms, no grip , no real power. I am "everybody else", I just haven't quite accepted it yet, apparently. Most of the last project, hasn't even been glanced over, since the first time it was jotted down. The coat hanger superhero, that somehow survived, the endless prickings, by invisible hands. Now, I emit ashtray enthusiasm. Uncertainty is the anvil on my earlobe, prosthetic limbs. Shall I elaborate, here? No, I think that's been gotten across. I'm reminded to take my medication, and to not bite people. I am already immune to Chinese water torture, but think I already wrote that, somewhere, earlier. Can't go on, sure, I can, it's gonna’ happen, no, it's not. To pull the string, slip my way out of this mess, in my limited way, with my limited resources.... to drive around the world. This is not the real me, I'm not quite my I, yet. Somewhere in between, doing whatever it is, we have to do. "No other possibility," etched in the solid oak counter. Self-confidence, power, et.al, really don't have anything at all to do, with what gets done. Revere the confused, the inconsequential. Even after all this, I’m still searching for reasons, and meanings, explanations, solutions… to the kinds of things that don’t have any, at all. On the heels of madness, I snap. There was a lot of pain.
I attempted to fashion my prosaic whims, with multiple teeth. Would you mind terribly… changing your pants? No doubt, I shall have my critics. They were shittake mushrooms. This is the key to my thought, and behavior, not that you should, or do, care. I can read in between the lines, not the lies. After the fever broke, of "how I thought things were supposed to be", I doubled over in my lap, and induced vomiting. Back in the day, dignity, was the last thing on my mind. What do divorced parents, have to do with the future success, or failure, of their offspring? To take a steak knife to a stick of butter, to drag it to the bean, on the lip. Perhaps, there were a few things that I did, that were "a little bit extreme,” but who will take thc chicken out of the freezer, after I'm gone? And now that I know, why did I ever want to? This schedule, those oh- so important, things, that needed to be completed, or else. The value of all this work, must lie in the middle of some page, somewhere, this can't be all for nothing. Theories of personality, not a guide on how to obtain, one. A sullen, cheese aftertaste, the quickest way, brown shirt, means lose weight, wicker baskets, and potpourri holders, are all over the vacated room. Well, it was so soft, so plush, that I couldn't call it toilet paper. Leaner times, past, meaningful scribbles, more blanket statements, about paradox, without an accompanying explanation. Hickory sticks, were swung. Rewind to the end. We went into the neon and didn’t come out. Don't let them, like a hammer, drive you deep into the wall; don't listen, don't answer, don't do anything at all. People who "have something to say", usually don't say it. Racism still exists. This is what happens, towards the end. Burning candles until the wicks are gone, fiddling with math books, and television remote controls, leaning back in the chair. Disgustingly negative, true, and real, nonetheless. To the first joint of whatever finger, stains . Talking about cremation plans, and pre-arrangement, but will probably get a grave plot, whether I want one, or not. Holding our tongues, and swallowing them, too, if it were possible... lying there in the snow bank, bloodied, all things were equal, and spinning around. Nothing was particularly rational, or humorous, except for the description of the thicket. All the thoughts that we "meant to share," are now forgotten, anyway. Seconds remain, in the infinite loop of memory, two-fold approximations. Turned off, turned loose, and off. Oh, give me long term, clinical, psychotherapy! I need a lot of money, this shyness act, needs to fade away. The world won't let us be, what we want to be. Announce that we are bigger than the world, that we were all God, Christ, Buddha, Mary, and Joseph, rolled into one. After the check is cashed, we can stand on corners, and sleep in graveyards. Easy money, airy ambience, untouchables, time on our hands, crumpled up pieces of paper. More tragedy, picked up on the ham radio, concluding with: "plus the killer, who blew his own brains out". The investigation continues, into the claims made by a man, that brain atrophy, made him compulsive. Officers fired rubber bullets into the crowd, which had gathered around Lardo's Superb Foods, a coil of steel, blocks the right lane. Befuddlement is enlightenment, my anger is in a dead, kind of numb, state. Rumors were confirmed today, that a necrophiliac is roaming the corridors of the county morgue. Thousands poisoned in the gas attack, semen, fresh semen, was found in the slightly decaying sixty year old's, corpse. We made the incognito appearance, on the way back. Oh, the faces they'd make, the skirts they'd wear; bitching about the new stop sign, trying to travel back in time, correcting past mistakes. As if some kind of breakthrough had been reached. I kept mumbling in the corner booth, that something is very, very wrong. I look through you dirty laundry basket, and find outlines for essays, that I'll never write. From the new Hong Kong condominiums, going up by the freeway, you can see every flipped over car accident, every street sign, formula. With guilt complexes, and headaches, they look for reasons to go on living, they say to themselves, that there are none to be found, then, they go out for some aspirin, and forget the whole thing ever happened. A demonstration of how to fall down, is about to commerce. The charade game, can burn, and these sayings, are pure nonsense, excuses, and pollyanna whining, a result of childhood conditioning. It used to be, this road, was gravel. My gallon tank equation, had me perplexed, and underlining what was thought to be important enough, to put in quotation marks. The rubber band snaps, stretches, snaps, stretches, and there isn't any end to it, but why should there be? Philosophy, that former lover in the forest, was finally portrayed, as the "beyond luxury," waste of time, that it really was/is. Archery games, a lazy mans excuse, my former mask, my former excuses. The wolves are at the door, and they are screaming about Portland, and Seattle, cough syrup. By, or because of, love, liver, or law, we put the bottle down, as for what that's all about... the string was broken. This is our cause, our raison d’etre. The cake is burned. Love the girl at the Custard Cup!
Round three, in the heavyweight championship, to kid ourselves, again, and again, to slip, and collapse, knee deep into melancholy, but still, to keep both knees off the ground, still holding onto the ropes. The most absurd characatures, are anti. The Russians, took the stage. The same small, country grocery store, everything is hillbilly, and the same. Make it be, what it isn’t. They’ll put me in a camp, for sure. The trend of the nose ringed girls, the sitting around, waiting for something exciting to happen, to grow into our own rows, to slowly, watch bleach blonde hair, fade into brown, again. The gene splicing controversy, bedroom blending, chameleons, big time, lost following, feeling like a fruit cup. Fuck the view from the top of the parking structure, the assumed names, ages, and birthplaces, the toast of the chosen few. The tape ran out, toward the end of the discussion, always conveniently, lunching in the Flamingo Room. The bouquet fell to the ground, untouched. It’s absolutely pointless (but, shhh, that’s our little secret). The smell of the smoke, or the smell of the fire? It’s a dismal, little dittie, we composed it yesterday. How dare you get inside my head, and disrupt my equilibrium, yes, there will be a reversal. Hundreds of years, seem to pass by, in the span of mere, hours. My shame seems to go really deep down. The recurring dream, of the figure, who never answers my questions. No more lilac, for the year. I mean, how do you make it different? Jump starts, with electrodes on my nipples. To be so unceremoniously, brought up on charges, for a few comments, off the record, at a girl’s, camp jamboree. There is no such thing as regret, there was, but, I got wise, or, ambivalent, rather. Seminary masturbation… still ice skating, if you know what I mean. To not throw one’s life away, on things that can never be believed in. Dream girls, find shit stains in pants, to be a turnoff. I'm doing all of the talking, to myself, in the corner of the coffee shop, again. No coherence, just flip, flop, random mileage, ex-fears, ex-inabilities, ex-plans for the future. More fanciful notions, more blending contradiction, and paradox, into nonsense, and absurdity, ridiculousness. Endure the crotch. Morning rollover accidents, old diary entries, about suicide, death, nothingness, insanity, lies....these days, I really don't care. This is going to take a long time, I'm afraid, but it must be done. Looking at thc cobwebs, and dirt piles, in the wrong way? Stoned, but testing negative in the drug test I took, in hopes of being a janitor, at a parking structure, the same one we used to hide out, on top of. Forget the queer wrestling moves, move on. Abandon me, please. Dreams of, and/or about, projectile vomiting, cursing out the boss, shaking hands with someone, while wearing gloves, at the time. Picking scabs, and dandelions, in the side yard. The family dog has been sprayed by a neighborhood skunk. Sure, I knew all the sorority girls, especially, the ones I bled all over. Then, trying to explain myself, and that nothing mattered, a little blood must be spilled, etc. Barefoot, just filling up the raincoat, with magnets, and sobriety chips. With retrospect, with this twenty-twenty hindsight, it's plain to see, that all the of those glorious things, beautiful things, never meant two whit’s worth of anything, at all. These are dangerous times. There was snow, and pornography, everywhere. Tooling throughout Pontiac, in defiance of all murder statistics. Blacking out entirely, and going for a little stroll. I have this tendency to appear, and disappear, in peculiar, and mysterious, ways. Two hours gone, is just the beginning, given the way I've been doing things. The ridiculous, became me. "Horrible sentence structure", she hissed. Wisdom, is like an enema, that you give yourself. I do not need any of your pussy hole, redundant. I mumbled, half-aloud. This infernal, internal, critic, must be eliminated, at all costs. I've spent the last four years, crossing metaphysics, with alpha-hydroxy lotion-to no avail. No more questions, it's time for some answers, not about the nature, of man, or the universe, but about your own flesh, blood, brain, and shit. Me and my image, with scrawny arms, no grip , no real power. I am "everybody else", I just haven't quite accepted it yet, apparently. Most of the last project, hasn't even been glanced over, since the first time it was jotted down. The coat hanger superhero, that somehow survived, the endless prickings, by invisible hands. Now, I emit ashtray enthusiasm. Uncertainty is the anvil on my earlobe, prosthetic limbs. Shall I elaborate, here? No, I think that's been gotten across. I'm reminded to take my medication, and to not bite people. I am already immune to Chinese water torture, but think I already wrote that, somewhere, earlier. Can't go on, sure, I can, it's gonna’ happen, no, it's not. To pull the string, slip my way out of this mess, in my limited way, with my limited resources.... to drive around the world. This is not the real me, I'm not quite my I, yet. Somewhere in between, doing whatever it is, we have to do. "No other possibility," etched in the solid oak counter. Self-confidence, power, et.al, really don't have anything at all to do, with what gets done. Revere the confused, the inconsequential. Even after all this, I’m still searching for reasons, and meanings, explanations, solutions… to the kinds of things that don’t have any, at all. On the heels of madness, I snap. There was a lot of pain.
I attempted to fashion my prosaic whims, with multiple teeth. Would you mind terribly… changing your pants? No doubt, I shall have my critics. They were shittake mushrooms. This is the key to my thought, and behavior, not that you should, or do, care. I can read in between the lines, not the lies. After the fever broke, of "how I thought things were supposed to be", I doubled over in my lap, and induced vomiting. Back in the day, dignity, was the last thing on my mind. What do divorced parents, have to do with the future success, or failure, of their offspring? To take a steak knife to a stick of butter, to drag it to the bean, on the lip. Perhaps, there were a few things that I did, that were "a little bit extreme,” but who will take thc chicken out of the freezer, after I'm gone? And now that I know, why did I ever want to? This schedule, those oh- so important, things, that needed to be completed, or else. The value of all this work, must lie in the middle of some page, somewhere, this can't be all for nothing. Theories of personality, not a guide on how to obtain, one. A sullen, cheese aftertaste, the quickest way, brown shirt, means lose weight, wicker baskets, and potpourri holders, are all over the vacated room. Well, it was so soft, so plush, that I couldn't call it toilet paper. Leaner times, past, meaningful scribbles, more blanket statements, about paradox, without an accompanying explanation. Hickory sticks, were swung. Rewind to the end. We went into the neon and didn’t come out. Don't let them, like a hammer, drive you deep into the wall; don't listen, don't answer, don't do anything at all. People who "have something to say", usually don't say it. Racism still exists. This is what happens, towards the end. Burning candles until the wicks are gone, fiddling with math books, and television remote controls, leaning back in the chair. Disgustingly negative, true, and real, nonetheless. To the first joint of whatever finger, stains . Talking about cremation plans, and pre-arrangement, but will probably get a grave plot, whether I want one, or not. Holding our tongues, and swallowing them, too, if it were possible... lying there in the snow bank, bloodied, all things were equal, and spinning around. Nothing was particularly rational, or humorous, except for the description of the thicket. All the thoughts that we "meant to share," are now forgotten, anyway. Seconds remain, in the infinite loop of memory, two-fold approximations. Turned off, turned loose, and off. Oh, give me long term, clinical, psychotherapy! I need a lot of money, this shyness act, needs to fade away. The world won't let us be, what we want to be. Announce that we are bigger than the world, that we were all God, Christ, Buddha, Mary, and Joseph, rolled into one. After the check is cashed, we can stand on corners, and sleep in graveyards. Easy money, airy ambience, untouchables, time on our hands, crumpled up pieces of paper. More tragedy, picked up on the ham radio, concluding with: "plus the killer, who blew his own brains out". The investigation continues, into the claims made by a man, that brain atrophy, made him compulsive. Officers fired rubber bullets into the crowd, which had gathered around Lardo's Superb Foods, a coil of steel, blocks the right lane. Befuddlement is enlightenment, my anger is in a dead, kind of numb, state. Rumors were confirmed today, that a necrophiliac is roaming the corridors of the county morgue. Thousands poisoned in the gas attack, semen, fresh semen, was found in the slightly decaying sixty year old's, corpse. We made the incognito appearance, on the way back. Oh, the faces they'd make, the skirts they'd wear; bitching about the new stop sign, trying to travel back in time, correcting past mistakes. As if some kind of breakthrough had been reached. I kept mumbling in the corner booth, that something is very, very wrong. I look through you dirty laundry basket, and find outlines for essays, that I'll never write. From the new Hong Kong condominiums, going up by the freeway, you can see every flipped over car accident, every street sign, formula. With guilt complexes, and headaches, they look for reasons to go on living, they say to themselves, that there are none to be found, then, they go out for some aspirin, and forget the whole thing ever happened. A demonstration of how to fall down, is about to commerce. The charade game, can burn, and these sayings, are pure nonsense, excuses, and pollyanna whining, a result of childhood conditioning. It used to be, this road, was gravel. My gallon tank equation, had me perplexed, and underlining what was thought to be important enough, to put in quotation marks. The rubber band snaps, stretches, snaps, stretches, and there isn't any end to it, but why should there be? Philosophy, that former lover in the forest, was finally portrayed, as the "beyond luxury," waste of time, that it really was/is. Archery games, a lazy mans excuse, my former mask, my former excuses. The wolves are at the door, and they are screaming about Portland, and Seattle, cough syrup. By, or because of, love, liver, or law, we put the bottle down, as for what that's all about... the string was broken. This is our cause, our raison d’etre. The cake is burned. Love the girl at the Custard Cup!
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