055

It’s degrading, to have to (no, leg room) sit on your face, all the time. Anita, is seventy. Let it all, fall away. There is so, so, much, to say, and no one, to say it, to, no one, to listen. The celery flats, were a big, big, deal, over there. You’ll be, put through, the paces. Say, no, to the next, big, thing. Floods, tornadoes, mudslides, earthquakes, volcanoes, the world, isn’t ours. It’s probably, for the best, these habits, and all, that they, continue. Hold off the horde, of screaming, drooling, eyeless, people. Entrance yourself, with structure, most fishing expeditions, don’t yield, any fish, it doesn’t matter, it never matters, to any true, fisherman. Tap your feet (be hated), incessantly, don’t leave things, to chance, beat yourselves. The spray on, butter, that I have been using, as cologne, is not having the kind of effect, that I thought that it would, when I first came up, with the idea. My first poem, will no doubt, be entitled, no title. There is a visceral secret, that can’t be, communicated. It quite, sincerely, all depends, on us. Just, please, allow me, to sit here, and emasculate, myself. My sanity, is already, gone, yours, will follow. This isn’t just mixing colors, on a palette, I assure you. Why do I insist, on scratching my neck, and face? One, or, the other, but, choose! Everything, will be admitted, to. Engine parts, and color spectrums, will suffice. We’re going to ask the questions, we want to ask, and we’re not afraid, of anyone. Don’t slow down, pause, or, stop, now, Bubba. Hold on tight, to your dreams, especially, after, they’ve been taken away, from you. Show me the finger, you play with, your pussy, with. No more tearing, or, skipping ahead, to cheat, and see how the book, ends. Swallow it, whole. I’m planning on, compiling, some lists. No toilet paper, what are we supposed to wipe our asses, with, rags? We’re still keeping an eye, out, for a good, first baseman. Hungry, with only your own scabs, as nourishment? Thread a Madonna, with needle, and bobbin, make some poor, third world, family, happy, by donating, old blankets, and foodstuffs, tonight. Become, an invalid. Find your back, to front, it may be a good idea, to define, and know what that means, to yourselves, first. I need a vacation, more, now, being, long unemployed, than I ever, even, thought, I needed, while I was working. My hands, are splattered, with ink, my emotions, are romantic, and sentimental, we’re all just going home, with a quiver. The overall feeling, of discontentment, is what, ultimately, got me through the front door, of the hair weaving, “clinic.” As I cease, partying, I become, much less, able to. My ass, is not hungry, for cock, but, my penis, is, ready, for, the other. I want to scream out, one of those words, that you really, would, react to. The glass cleaner, is not in here. Maybe, fumbling into the river, that one time, wasn’t such a big mistake, after all. Nothing is written, or, printed, on the other side of this piece of paper, at least, not, that I, know of. My billfold, is disrupting, my ass. Which animal, just walked in here, “created a nest, for him/herself,” and then, sat down? We, know about the ceiling, you, don’t, well, not as well, as we do, please, take my word for it, here. The burnout, the…end, the block, whatever the hell, it is, only acts, as the murderer. It is taking longer, and longer, and longer, at night, to do, whatever it is, that you imagine, I’m doing. These sounds, must be made, manifest. Why is my nose, always, itching? Why can’t I stop, thinking about vaginas, right now? They want, shit. I’d like to scratch myself, absolutely, once, and for all. Well, the plane, is late (boo-hoo, tantrum time, for the suit, and tie, people). Darn you all, not just, them, all of you, I’m sick, of acting civilized, cultured, and soft/gentle/polite. The shit, that we see, on television, or, on the movie screen, does not really, occur, any of it, anywhere (and, it never will). Boy, do I miss the days, when it was thirty bucks, a blowjob, in the back room, without any worry, about cops, diseases, unsure, mouths. This is part one, of a trilogy, the other two parts, of which, will not appear. Just, concentrate! It’s so, long. Now, I’m the only one left, with faith in me (very little). It’s all, steer, and stab. We’re only, passing through.