Keep a suitcase, packed, at all times, you never know. Hold on, we’ve gotta’ get a better angle. I thought I heard a saxophone, it was only my, stomach. We will be, unfaithful. Survival, is all I’m, about, too much of the time. Radio stations, try to stir up, excitement. The dead, lie, still, attractive girls, will appear, next August. Cope with the complexity, don’t run away, from it. Adapt to your own, rituals. Sad stories, in the paper, should, make us cry, instead, they just make us more bitter, hardened, and nihilistic. This is too much, it is all, too much, and we’re required, to, go on, and pretend that nothing, terrible, has happened, that, “life, goes on,” even when we don’t want it, to. I know, that at times, I may seem glib, but, I assure you, I’m, not. I don’t expect you, to care, in the least, but, I do feel the need, to let you all, know, that I care, too much, too deeply, and that, that, very, caring, has damaged me, utterly, and permanently. I’m not the swishy, sensitive, type, but, you can throw me, into a tailspin. It’s not what, we, as people, can, or, can’t, do, that bothers me, it’s what I, know, that I can, and should, do, but, don’t (for others, for whatever reason), that guilt, and regret, that builds up. There really isn’t any love, left, in the world, is there? Start from the end, and work your way, inward, it doesn’t matter, how, you do, what, you do, as long as it gets, done. Oh, the splendor, of every airport, cannot be, underestimated. First, you have to cross, half that distance, then, half of, that, etc. It would seem, as if, with most, problems, that it is impossible, to think, yourself, out of them. The attractive people, will be loved, the rest of us, will (not) look on, and live, vicariously, through them. Blow the snot, up onto, the windowsill. It’s all, a damn, shame. Any old, thing, eh? The over-analysis, of thought, leads to inebriation, plans, and planes, crashing. Maybe, we’ll figure it out, someday. Don’t try to compare yourself, to the man in that photograph. We need life, not whatever, this, is. Way after, the event, is over, the psychologists, will have a lot to say, which, may, or, may not, be, true. We aren’t as charismatic, as we think, we are, or, anything else, for that matter. Don’t eat, or, attempt to consume, in any way, the electrical cords, attached to the appliances, in your home. More of the same, old, same, old? Change, completely, right now, and don’t apologize, to anyone, for doing so, before, or, afterwards. Don’t talk to me, about bungie jumping, I’m talking about, real risks. I wear headphones, in order to drown out, my own, thought processes. The back of my car, has, endured. You finished that one, thing, cool. The orgy, seemed like it would last, forever, they always, do, but, really, don’t, nothing does! No more butter, and, peanut butter, sandwiches, no, no, thanks. Our convictions, will be upheld, in a higher court, should we ever, wind up, doing something, that would get us convicted, in a lower one. Standing close, to graduate students, has a certain, effect? Who knows, if this, will ever wind up, as dialogue, or, not, in a way, it’s kind of a dialogue, right now (between, my two, or, more, selves). Don’t talk about hillbillies, then, maybe the talk shows, will go away. Motor your way, to a bad pair, of britches. If you find, that you’re shifting your weight, a lot, perhaps, you’ve got too much weight, to, shift. The lost, must, arise, admit, where it is, that they’ve, been. Paper hats, can really liven up a party, along with the right choices, of music, the proper use, of other, colorful, products, can’t, hurt. If I started, burning, things, what would really, be missed? Those, “modern essays,” that I said, that I would, write, have never been, written. Maybe, blind emotions, are more real, or sacred, than anything else, out there. My inner ear, itself, seems to be telling me, to shut up. I will never apologize, for anything harmful, that I ever write, or, say. We’re still waiting, for the opportunity, to apply our knowledge. It’s harder, than you, think. There is a tumor, inside of me (it is, real).
Double checking, can become something, weirder, if you’ve got, what I’ve got. Twenty years, I’ve been trying, and I still, can’t figure out, just what in the hell, is wrong, with me. Kindly, remove chapters, three, eight, and twelve. That black shirt, isn’t stolen, it is really, mine. There is nothing, whatsoever, that can be called, “wrong,” about a nice, pornographic, sex fest. As for your tits, and everything, thank you. I probably, won’t, mail this. Ah, Lafayette, home of the madman. Too many polaroids, of diseased vaginas, could lead to the photographer, being branded, as, “more than, a pervert.” We only think, that we long for conversations, about clothing, our own, or, anyone else’s. Unattractive people, fuck, way more, than the average, or, merely, exquisite? Let fly, with the sit down, the fifteen hundred dollars, the takeout menus. So much milk, really, too much, milk. We are customers, sometimes, but, for the most part, we’re not. Stanley, we miss you, more than you’ll ever, know, even those, who didn’t know you, miss you, terribly. The first manuscript, was a “serious affair,” and look, what’s happened, to it. Hangnails, are not the end of the world, stupid. From apartment, to apartment, we refuse, to flit, we’re too old, too old. You forgot to flip the record…just, because you…whatever…whatever. It looks a lot different, when it’s, sideways. Find the, words! Luck, or hope, drinking, or driving, gin, or tonic, buy the home. What difference, will that, make? My thumbs, are angular. It’s called, a deadline, and, I have one, now. It’s what we struggle, for. Admitting, that lies, were told, doesn’t undo, the fact, that you are, a liar. I let it, get, too bad, too fast. Why did it, have to be, tacos? Why, tacos? There has got to be, some kind of, way, out of this. Hey, let’s talk about the, garden. Let’s destroy the door! A job, is not an easy, thing, to get. Just like that, things, are pulled up, others, are torn apart, and, destroyed. Sweep the back porch, “poet.” Nowhere, getting somewhere, means, get out of the fucking way, man. Sloppy, you’re soaking, again! Nobody will be interested, in your ridiculous, slide show. My feet, smell, so terrible, right now, it’s because of these rotten, shoes. My skeleton, is waiting, patiently, to show, itself. Butter up, the sing song, in a foreign language, put a new spin, on it, present a different, version. The live crab, gave me a little pinch, in effect saying, “don’t you fuck, with me.” We pass our time, thinking that such, and such, can be done, later, when later, arrives, it’s real, late. My arm, is as pink, as my face, something terrible, is happening to me, right now. The query letter, was too damn, disposable. What should be, exciting, is like a funeral. Most of us, might as well, be in prison, considering, how little, we do, on our beloved…the prisoners, are more free, than the flopsy, failures, at loose, on the outside. It’s more fun, than twenty five minutes, in the, Boom Boom Room. Well, I’d better start a new, sit up, regimen, because, I’ve been, that, and, then, that, went, totally, away, and, no matter, what, I will not allow myself, to be anything, even, close, to that, again! Which race, to the finish line, is closest? The man, really seemed to go overboard, decorating his entire backyard, with reflections. Two geese, chased each other, around the industrial park’s, employee, lot, in an apparent, mating ritual. There are no instant classics, anymore, that’s for sure. The further away, two, sappy, homesick, sentimentalists, get, from each other, the closer together, they are, in actuality. Be, bored. The embarrassment, of being oneself, goes away. Turn the old fashioned, siren, on, and off. The perfume, followed her, in concentric, circles. We’re too busy, digging, to see, the hole (our own, graves). You are, so, soiled, sour.
