This is the last part, of the care package, to be, completed. This is only, fanning, the flames. At least, there’s nothing else, like this, of course, that could be good, or, bad. We aren’t, what we think, we are. The whole incident, including the, “candle thing,” was captured, on film. Try some, orange juice. Wow-whee, we can park, for free! It seems like, hairspray, is coming out, of the furniture, somehow. I knew this day, was coming. They all, have their own, lives. You are only as good, as your next, at bat. Thousands, upon, thousands, of errors, and mistakes. I’m counting, calories. Things will get more homogenized, over time, not, less. I went too far, again, I don’t know why, that, surprises me. Paranoid, in the mall, the workplace, the changing room, even the car, now. Tonight, is the night, for vodka, Russian, vodka. Handle people, technically, face the facts, squarely, your excellent reputation, in the advertising world, isn’t going to do you, any good, in the real, one. What will be my excuse, this week? Name, title, address, zip code, etc. must be put, on the upper, left hand, side, of the page. I’ll take my gratification, right now, if you don’t mind. I don’t care about your screw-up, it’s getting late, now, and it is beyond the time, to get a move on. This is going to wind up, being, a screwy, wait, in a foyer, with great anticipation, ain’t it? The smell, of these shoes, makes me want to burn them. I am very, very, afraid, for my future, if my life, is going to wind up, being devoted, to, and entrusted, into, someone, else’s. These menial jobs, that I work, had best, not, be just the beginning, or, I’m sorry, I don’t want to be around, to see how the movie, turns out. The pets, have all gone to sleep, for the night, and, little do they know, how much trouble, there is, yet, to be transcended, and/or, averted. You can’t know, what you’re in for, until, you get into it. The minute, that the phone, is hung up, it becomes clear, what should have, been, said. Small wrists, or, big hands, who cares? Being, “in the process,” is what we’re supposed to be, enjoying, who could, ever, enjoy, this? Spilling your guts, reveals, too much, perhaps, I still do, look like a cartoon, boy, in a background, world, but, see, that’s no excuse, the dog, would appear, to have put himself, into a trance, state. One way, eyes, can’t see, what they should be, looking at, that last, left turn, just, coined me. Give yourself, a discount, fuck, shit, up, be eggbert, the egghead, if, it’ll get you what you need, in the long run. The other clerks, insist on gloating, to one another, and then being surprised, that nobody else, agrees, on the, shit, now, this one, is torn, how did, that, happen? Wipe the counter. Know, before you turn the gun, on yourself, that, you finally, did something! Isolation, is a valuable (beware, insight) commodity, time to get, well, the chess world, may not be interested, but, maybe, somewhere, somebody, is. The people, who use the booths, just love, to put on, “little shows,” for the congregating, “audience.” That’s not such a bad idea, to, you know, knock off, each thing, in a logical, order. Most everything, in the file, can be burned, I mean, there is nothing, at all, in it, that currently, matters, one, iota. Nothing in any magazine, that I read, relates, to me, in any way. It’s too easy, to sit around, and talk, chit-chat, with people, the challenge, is to find a challenge, and then, to do, it, get into it, and go on, from there (perhaps, but, perhaps not, bitching, all the way). String me up, like a dead deer, on a hook, split me open, from stem, to stern, and tell me, what’s wrong, with me. These are my entrails, arcing, wildly. You thought this, would do it, eh? Avoid sound byte/bite/quasi, culture. At bottom, profit, always. There would appear to be, a lot of wasted space, here. Twirling, in ecstasy, there was bound to be a letdown. Ruffle up, some, feathers.
If only we could, laugh, at the tragedy, so, refreshing, to mildew, into the couch. It went from, windmills, to whirleygigs, to ceiling fans. So, sex-like, using, only, fingers. I’d assume, the flowers, are still opening, and closing. That damn, son of a bitch, ruined my life. Our set-ups, get infringed upon, constantly. The aches, and pains, get, worse. Why use a telescope, when binoculars, would work, just as well? An hour, is too long, to be floating around, in the lake, on a boat. People have been giving me, more than my share, of subtle hints, indicating, that the jig, is up. To say, that I’m embarrassed, for my casual, and…my, my, my, it sure takes a long time, to find out, you’ve, failed. The bank, no longer sends me, hate mail, I no longer use, a bank, there isn’t enough money, to bother. There is room, for two, in the tent, but, nobody else, in their right mind, would dare, to climb in there, with me. An honest adaptation, of a fairy tale, would have the hero, dying, in the end, the…objects, there is a lot, left, to be broken, in this room. Writing, can only be done, alone, and, by oneself. I, for one, do not have any marketable, skills. People with different opinions, beliefs, and experiences, don’t think that my violation, of the rules, of how to survive, are very likely, to get me, anywhere. Last September, was the last time, that any alumni group, contacted me, thank goodness. I can’t even take care of myself, anymore, what’s in store, for me, could, very well, wind up to be, worse, than it is, already. Baby, you’re as gothic, as a grey, November day, with no snow, on the ground. Apply psychology, into your workaday self, talk about forms, and aesthetics, the study of life/death, and being, eighty years old, with no human nature, or, instinct, to be able, to rely on. People, can read, most of them, just, don’t want to, they get, beyond, what I, can’t seem to, get beyond. Whoever stole that loaf, from me, can return it, at this address, no questions asked. I don’t want to be seen, this way, the way, I currently, am. No one is independent, it’s just a word, we like to toss around, we’re all, way more, trapped, than we’d like to believe. Who really gives a fuck, about, “all that matters”? We told ourselves, we were going to get all A’s, too, something else, happened. Plan a curriculum, that ensures, at least, in part, that you will never again, be, what you currently, are. The incognito, are the ones, who write the songs, that make the rest of us, want to sing along. The spoons, are set aside, and ready, to be used, doctor. My thoughts, are illegible, to say nothing, of my handwriting. Good-bye, my love, for all the wrong reasons. At least, now, there is something, that can be counted, and, counted, on. I will, most definitely, never meet, Ms. Magazine, girl, that I, supposedly, “fell in love, with.” Meanwhile, back at the apartment, a different kind, of hi-jinx, are taking place. Weird man, goes to, somehow, “get on,” the man’s, wife, he starts, licking the wife, she does not, respond. Of course, something, has to be interesting, in order for anyone, to be interested, in whatever the hell, was done. The casino, is full of fools, they go there, day, after day, night, after night; who, tell me, who are, these people? The only thing, more difficult, than writing, is running, and having to finish a marathon, without ever having ran, before. Why do I insist, on biting myself, after all these, years? Why didn’t I think of (the answer is: because I, couldn’t), that? We wanted to be, vital. Don’t be “on,” anything! I’ve got to live with this, now. Get it, while it’s, tight. Peaches, was only, part time. We just like to look, touching, ruins everything. Soon, enough, you will never, see, or, hear from me, again. This, interests, me.
Another, Italian restaurant, another place, to park, pinch me, baby, I’ve got to, wake up.Yeah, there’s, a lot, but, in retrospect, not really. We’re, both, and, neither. Big sale! The criticism, is constant. You like, cheese? It’s like, taking leave, of your senses. The liars, and cheats, will be upon you, shortly. Can you see, what I’ve done, here? This is one of those, typical, fuck ups, that, so regularly, assail, me. The way, that the large, plastic, bowl, was broken, left much, to be desired. The way to be self sufficient, is not to do, what I am, doing. Our luck, is not going to change, we try to be silly, and funny, but, you can’t, “try,” to be, such things. Don’t have an accident, don’t let those three pairs of pants, sit around the room, gathering dust, for too long, get them to the store, and exchange, them. Punch out, the editor, get angry, at people, who, “dare,” to stand in line, in front of you. Oh, the show, was just, peachy, and delightful, darling. What was once, owned, gets, sold away, after you’re gone. Break the electrical, power, lock, boxes, they’ll replace them, again. Oh, this book, is like a bad curse, worse than, voodoo. Don’t hand out balloons, while (her feet, drove me insane) the guy, in the chicken outfit, stands behind, you. I saw it all, so, clearly, once. Tweak your own ass, out of the chair, and up, and into, whatever tree, that needs to be climbed, to get you to where, you need to get, going. Passion, is what the process, takes from you. Idiots, don’t, “mean to be,” they just, are. So, celibate, it’s lunch time. Too many things, were taken, from me. There aren’t any subjects, or, predicates, just, guideposts, that don’t lead, anyone, anywhere. One must, live, their own life, their own way, seldom, do. There is some classical music, things, are happening, or, at least, it would appear, so. The smell of guilt, is very distinct, the whole world, is a shaky, little, leaf, in a breeze. As a research participant, are we going to be, paid, for this? Well, am I going to make movies, or, just, think about it (the latter, it would appear)? I want excitement, but, my life, what I have, chosen, freely, will not allow, it. The “north plant,” doesn’t seem like the type of thing, I want to do. To even, attempt, to survive, as a freelance writer, is futile, from the point, before, actually, getting started, like most, all, things. Another year, down the drain, more, ridiculous, searching, for some way out, that doesn’t exist. Let out, some kind of holler, check your manuscript, for errors, or, omissions. I am a contributing, idiot, to your, work in progress. We don’t know, if we want to be involved, or, not, in that woman’s discussion, of menopause. The competition for jobs, at the bottom, is twenty times, more fierce, than for those, at the top. Those who watch too many movies, have problems, too serious, to even consider, here. Dumb, is right, you are correct. For me, there is no other way, than this, and, naturally, I don’t think that this, is the most wonderful thing, that can be, imagined. I don’t want to be a part of, your, success, I want, you, to be a part, of mine, and, I guarantee, that I would pay you, more, than you, could, possibly, be willing, to pay me. Just, finding a way, even a sneaky, sidewinding, way, is really, becoming, more, and more, difficult, as the years, roll on. I’m upset, but, I’m always, upset, I, don’t even give a damn, anymore. Solve, the ever, present, dilemmas, nobody, can do it, for you (or, I). He wheezed, from the corner. Pick it up, and move it. Find out what you can get, and, take it. Publish your explanation, of how much it means, to know, what you, don’t, know. The suffering, is real, but, it doesn’t matter. This jumps, randomly, from, one thing, to, the next. The sounds of seasons (summers, mostly), past, leads me (falsely), to believe, that everything, or, most things, are going to work out, fine. Did somebody, say, pussy? It’s all been, removed. There is nothing, in here, about a fuse (until, now). This elevator, only goes, down. Belize?
