Where every room, is a distinct, discotheque… The “farmer,” smoked marijuana, then, he started to do some really strange, things. Hit bottom, yet, plaything? I do not have, a favorite show. She had a look, on her face, like, “fuck all these, people.” The revolving, pie, and cake, dispenser, in the diner, is, just, spacing me out. The health care crisis, is more than that, as are most of the problems, that the stumbling, fumbling, government, cannot seem to solve. We’ve all got to get, a lot more creative, no matter how creative, we may, or, may not, actually, be. We no longer, fear, you! The flower pots, need (fiddle, on). To be filled, with, dirt. Why should we, imitate, ape’s. Do you recognize, these eyebrows? Oh, I’d say, I’m a little bit, uptight. What, is all over, the floor? We’re planning on laying here, we do not have, any other plans. It’s all an act, but, don’t make me, prove it. Now, they’ve got a broom. It should stop, surprising us, eventually, that each, and every, adventure, we undertake, is just like, the previous, one. It’s too easy, to drop, what’s worth, holding onto, and, it happens, all too, frequently. Don’t gawk, at me, and ape me, rape me, or, cajole me. Invert nothing, apply for a patent, for it. Take a turn, blame/don’t blame, your parents (significant others). How did so many people, ever get to be, so much better, than me? Really, with the real, eh, professor? The whole pie, is going to be eaten, very quickly. It is so, terribly, embarrassing, so many of these things, that happen. They failed, we’re next, and no, there is no, candy. Pothead, clear the air. My hands, were, cold, they, will be, frozen. What I…all I, really, want to be able, to do, is write a complete, sentence, that makes, sense. There is a corner, of the paper, that most eyes, fall upon…I don’t know, I was thinking about, ammonia. The unborn, are listening to unusual, subliminal tapes. Act like, what, you act, like. I smell barbecue, that is, barbecue. He used to play with his dick, until his hand, went soft. My mastectomy, was a success, the anniversary sale, allowed us, to all, enjoy, free balloons, and a festive atmosphere, what, with the spotlights, going crazy, outside the building, and all. This/that, letter, must have seemed, weird, to her, alright…with all that talk, of, “seeing the other side,” and, so on. There were things, about her, especially, concerning…not, “physical harm,” it was pointed out. They tame us, early. Well, phase one, two, and part, of three, have come, and gone, there is going to be, some kind, of, end, sometime, in the future, and I’m not even sure, if I’ll, “be there.” All I wanted to do, was lick her clitoris, what is this paternity suit, crap? It seems as if, it didn’t happen, the car crash, where I lost my legs. To us, the ones we love, don’t shit, one more, apparent, lack, that we overlook, as we oooh, and ahhh, over our good fortune. What’s to, fear? The tragedy, of modern day, life, is more tragic, than any Greek, in antiquity, had the foresight, to envision. The dumb, fail to forget, what, should be. Don’t care, either way, at the moment? The passion, as such, must have been there, for you to write letters, goo-goo, letters, to her, that make no sense, three years, after you broke up. Still, facing ninety days, in the slammer (jail), smoking, drinking pop, driving around, aimlessly, with no destination. The good ones, tender petals, tender petals. We’ve got to learn how, and when, to eat, drink, be merry. Fill the vase, up, with sticks. Governmental, listening, and recording devices, were used, to find the true core, of depravity, behind any of those things, that you say you want to be, when you grow up. If I ever were to get any time, away from work, I’d like to try that trick, with the thumb, finger, and support hand, you know, the one, involving, gravity, cupboards, uh, is it PG-13, enough, to describe, this? Doubting, doubts, shouldn’t happen, as often, as it, does. Sex, happens, like a washing machine. In a way, it’s a mistake, to even, try. Flex out, the trembling.
Worse things, could, happen, to me, than this, but, I cannot, even imagine, what those, could be. People, like me, used to go to institutions, but they/the State, closed them, all. To say the least, this is going to be, a trip. Life, the living of it, is way, way, too expensive, this is not funny, this is the furthest thing, from it. I’m not interested, in up to the minute, trial coverage, all I am allowed, to care about, is how in the hell, am I going to make, more money? Line, by line, word, by word, page, by page, I hope, only, hope, that something, will come, from this. Trying to concentrate, on your breath, and focusing your attention, on lampposts, porch lights, and trees, may help you, halve, the screaming, of your sinister, alter-ego, from inside your head (at least, for awhile). I am fully aware, that it makes no sense. Shrink back into, the mystery. Mold, wrestled me, to the ground. I relied on the number line, too much, and, for too long, thus, my math skills, are, well, not the strongest. Beware, intelligence, goes away. Do you think, if I slammed my head, into that wall, as hard as I can, that something, will dislodge, that will get things going, in the right direction? Don’t look, don’t even, look, at that thing, that electrical appliance, which warps, rots, steals, and destroys, your mind, there is more than destruction, being let loose, on us. Eventually, the bowels, stop moving, which is why we pay so much attention, to the fact that they still do, now. Our heads, get so empty, after awhile, there is no way, to fill them back up, again. Staring down, another waitress; creepy, creepy. Mmm, I smell, really strong, glue. It’s moxie, plus one, time, we just want to move on, down the line, from potential, to, actual. There is a hiring blitz, going on, right now, and the wages, that these companies, decide worthy, of imparting, to us, are, uh, measly. Those fuckhouse, whores, sure got, sexy cunts, don’t they? Let’s take turns, wasting each other, again. Remain a creature, remain, confused, nobody is any better, than anyone else, at anything. Remedy our illnesses, if you’re sick of doing the disco dance, by yourself, nix it…just nix, the whole deal. Well, I’m ready to be Elvis, the trouble is, that nobody else, is willing to see me, uh, quite, that way. It’s too bitter, outside, c, c, c, cold, right now. Maybe, I won’t starve to death, today, but, my days, are numbered, that’s for sure. Forgive me, the, “shoddy pool, treatment.” If you can’t, remember, the way things, were, consider yourselves, lucky. Let this, be like the entrance, to, an elegant, ball. Well, no, this isn’t a nice, book, I don’t think that anything I’ve ever written, or, anything I ever, will write, will ever be, “nice.” Much fanfare, and hubbub, surrounded the, downslide. Some city skyline, oil painting, would make for a fabulous, parting gift. There aren’t any footrests, in the asylum. Carve into her haunches, whatever those, are. My appendix, just fell asleep, and I’ve only got, one. This part-time job, is taking it out of me, like a full-time, one, with too much, overtime. Break the bowl, gun the television, lie there, amidst, what’s left, of Chicago. Do it, like ants, for fun. The transistors, are making fun of me, again. Things are not, or, would not seem, real, or, possible. Copulation, is some writer’s, wet dream, that is being, reenacted. There are no buts, about it, the use, of the word, but, implies a timidity, in its utterer. A lot of things, are either sub, or unconscious, but we’d better make them, as conscious, as we can, before, whatever it is, they are, buries us. People who steal, should stop. Rarely, does sitting, provide the sitter, with the Kundalini, kind of pleasure, in which, he is seeking. It’s all, about, economics! Iota, your baby. The kids, are coming home, from school. We, really, don’t want to, remember. There is too much, order, and regularity, out there. They are annoyed, with you, for good, reasons.
