Writing feels an awful lot like torture. I will go and be a Navaho, in the hills, somewhere, with fifty feet of rope, and a bright orange car. Easy on the ketchup, hey, what do you think this is? Someone has permanently etched a home cleaning supply, and health aide, onto the wall of the public restroom. Insisting on cherry pie, not the strawberry one, before us. Was it an onion? We're running out of time, what, ho, crazy? Turn me around, and around, the map of Las Vegas, Nevada. Dog food in sugar bowls, feathers falling out of hats, lightweight, new, construction helmets, and crayons, walk right in, free. These are apartment buildings, no, wait, these are apartment buildings, the others have crumbled, or blown away. Terrified of leap year, hopscotch, and guys throwing down the novelty head, of a novelty costume. This is all there is to say, drive by, and scream, drive by, and honk. Thank goodness there was no feature article written, “circle this one,” and comment, with goo-goo eyes. Even though speaking, with words, saying nothing, searching high, and low, for this counter-cultural leader, who was me, all along. Walking down the street, practically dragging the dog, because of some neuroassociation, he's made in the past. My own neuro-dog leash, doesn't let me stray too far away from the straight and narrow, either, but see, I see the truck coming, I see what appear to be headlights. Sex is a myth, invented to titillate children, clay is just screaming, to burn in the kiln, resembling hands, admidst ashtrays, and Amish incense holders. Blood on the chopsticks, at the bead shop, at the bus depot, in the office, on the sixth floor of a medical/dental building, in Oak Park, Michigan. The exact number of times, I have replayed the going away party, in my head? Two hundred sixty three. The great idea of the linguistics degree, the "multi-media restaurant.” It hasn’t fallen together all that well. I will not fly in an airplane, do not ask me to do so, again. The drink, Joe, the Charlie can. It looked like a giant greenhouse. Make peace with the turbulence. This is the smell of spectacular. The exhibition went badly. Stains on the wall, is all I'll amount to, but I'm looking too far in the future, again. Be aware of your own odors. For now, there are porches, lawn chairs, and garden equipment. Obstruct, in any way you see fit. Pull off the protective, plastic coating. We let them get away with what they do to us. Why is that oil painting, so threatening? Where do those guys with funny hats, strange beads, and long black coats, work? Fly day, stomach growls, salt licks, and Kewenaw county. Up and down the flood damaged boulevards, into the beer gardens (I laid there, immobile). This is the next book. I will continue to use coal. Don’t you taunt, or tempt me, ever. Warts all over the right side of my face, and ink stains, car doors slamming; hair, and ashes, are all I can taste. This has become "ex-funeral home workers, reading material." No one knows what's shouted, and/or mumbled, in the Paradise Diner's, dishwasher kiosk. There, let the dust settle, let the arguments, end. Mexican egg throwing, deer carcass ribs, exposed, the new kind of spring-like, contraption (on cans). Refusal to address the establishments by their true names, refuse to buy a motorcycle, because of what happened to D. Refusal to give in to urges (criticize me), because of the other guy. Cry baby whining, because there didn't seem to be anything else to do. Then, out of nowhere, the switch is thrown, the sweat, starts flowing, handshakes, and hugs, and screaming, and kisses. Falsetto, kick starts, despite what was said to me, while standing there, waiting to be served. Some great change, has been engaged, it wouldn't appear to matter, anymore, what was mailed to who, or where. Find those infernal scratchings. Over to the RAUNCH-A-THON, checking out the offerings to the hinter zones, and neverlands, with their will-o-wispy, wishy washy, asses. Then, for no reason, Doris Hanson mounts the table, and commences those, "wiggly, jiggly, jaunts and shimmies." Addicted to aerosol, crosswalks, cigarette butt pails. Not without one of these plastic badges, you don't! Find the cream colored midriff, the nail is on the floor, and it's been pulled from the side of the building, walk up and down the street, make no accusations. Come on, come on, hee-haw, hee-haw. Smashing the church windows, but there was a reason this time, the box of pizza, on the counter. These new paper towels, are so much more, absorbent. Read this, while your shadow falls across the mud encrusted, wheel, the snow is melted. Like a teenager, I groped, fumbled, stumbled, tried again. Something, about something… But how did it get on that angle? "Drunk," the kid said. Stay uncorrupted. Then, yes, put beverages all over the table. Hello, cat, I'll miss you when you're not on my papers anymore. The room is a sanctuary for empty soft drink cans. The jar of processed, whatever it was, was balanced, squared, yellow. Lust, out loud. Incest, destroys more families, than we’d like to know. Beware the cheap, and tawdry, merchandise, they sell. They are really after me, and they always get their man.
The tissues on the floor, the shit in the toilet; worms, snakes, graffiti, wonderment. At least three "I's," and two "selves," like the way it must have looked, from the table by the window, the long road to the back, where they unload the kegs. Antiques in inappropriate places, editing, leaving five minutes after the arrival. Half reborn, partial spring fever, the brand new toothbrush, spitting the mouth full of toothpaste, all over the dashboard, in the car. To claim that there's no longer anything that we take for granted, to claim that we think we had a few things worked out, or at least, a bit more orderly than they were, in reality. They would melt in the summer, and crack in the winter, the closed down ice cream parlor, is saying to the community, "We've seen quite enough of you, we've had our fill." Pushing down, the blood, wrong turn, but it won't blow those sparkles onto our faces, anymore than that huge piece of plastic, being dragged across the highway, since becoming thoroughly affixed, on that guy's muffler. I was scoping out tongues, and orders, men's big and tall shops. Authors, writers, well-wishers, the other kinds, the sometimes kind, whose hands are always free, to pick up the beer mug, but not the pen, that they profess to be so familiar with. More life, more bowel movements, like that one, more stickers, with green patches, more poison for the fingernails. The vultures wait there, so patiently. Early warning, was ignored. Strings and/or sticks, for your birthday. We never get sick of it. I thought a lot (or did I?). Open the textbook, at random, and read a paragraph. I have never wanted anyone more, in my entire life. Suspicious eyes, or, "what the fuck planet are you from, "arm movements. This is a great pulling under, of some kind. Put a word here (yikes!), congratulations. Long letters, before we got selfish, dried up, and just found ourselves in the pizzeria, more often, than not. Two years, it took, to get grey, old, and boring, stop answering the phone, practicing those exercises, in the park, with the weirdoes, drink beer in a glass, not bottles, or cans... the two year significance, of what went on behind the scenes. The words reach the ears, the two dogs are looking on, with contemplative expressions. So, this is a tea room? So, this is a roll of flypaper? Crawling across the velcro wall, at the hour of power revival, got me to thinkin', fixin' my own clothes. The accompanying music, to this text, can’t be described. This is not a party, it’s a hurricane! I must remember to wipe off the toilet seat, after pissing all over it, the shower curtain must be affixed to the plastic pole, the Nazi sympathizers, must be removed from the grill work, the jury is excused, the nightmare of phone calls, on cellular phones, and "sexy roofs," or was it, rooms? The pancakes have already been put on the plate, with butter, the factory waste, is a new toy, the record albums, are all over one corner of the thrift shop, in cardboard boxes, and somebody, is telling someone else, that they'd better be careful, for ground water, seeping up through the floorboards of the garden shed, and laying waste, to their baseball card collection. The pens are all chewed, so that the caps can no longer be used, the trees are cut down, and piled neatly, in the backyard. We'll make a night of it, ending up upside down, at the comedy revue, the personality clinic. Why is it, that we appreciate this? Blue eyed girls, in corner booths, gnats, or flies, being shooed away, by impatient cooks, new traditions, a total lack of fitting rooms, or anything, post-1956. We will take the trail, to the one that's tucked back, and over, no one makes their way to the middle of the page, stuck with the hand-me-downs, stuck with the losing lottery tickets, hand out, pants down, fight, fight, fight. This is how it begins, old women, being mistaken for young girls, right turns, into legitimate careers, real offices. Then, we know we’re doomed, or, the other way around. The smell of the sewer lids, the astonished expression, on the policemen's faces, the straw, piled in the barn, the wall, smashed down, no safety goggles, let it get in your eyes. It isn’t, correct. Quick side street touch, just a pfftt, and some rain. I'm not even sure that the killer had a motive, at all. “Extreme fame,” she mumbled, over, and over. The shuffle/stumble, to avoid the obstacles, set about in the room. More sideshows, on the sidewalks, more overpriced knick knacks, and new wave counter clerks. More limp (soft) dicks, hard, hard-on’s. Yes, I shot you, but I didn’t kill you, did I, you ingrate? You want filth, I’ll give you filth. Her vagina just leaked into my hand. I don’t think that anything more, would, or could, improve it.
If you drink, at all, you're an alcoholic; prone, and/or determined, to intermittent self destruction, and omnipresent, self delusion? Dig the curbs! The first step is always to find a pen that works, then, things can usually begin, in earnest. Anyway, back to the infamous, letter writing routine. See, this pen is already kaput. The sun is/was, annoying the wits out of me, one of those spinning, drunken, kinds of suns. I no longer give a shit about anything, most things, are mere annoyances. The growling dog, the errands, five dollars in an envelope, empty cans, co-workers, dreams, deferred. The cans, rolling around the backseat, crashing into one another, with such force, and constancy, to... and why are those giant cake pans, still back there? Well, at least the "bike," or what's left of it, has been removed. I don't believe in mathematics (or much else), but this, or these, "things that get in the way"... insanity ensues. The biography discredited him? Who wrote it? I often wonder, how much requisite space, is used up with quasi-knowledge, concerning the guilty pleasure, of ex-hockey fans, in Montreal, Quebec. I could have sworn, that I put a lot of work into this book. Some of us, just aren’t going to win. There were children's toys, being clanged together, some hoots, and whistles, with some lady mumbling in the background, that weird is sound, but there must be an expressive outlet. Try to make it work, anyway. Call it treason, I don’t care. The only way to make it, is to get rich. Some, will be left out. The already wealthy, get a whole lot richer, doesn’t that bother you? Oh, more talk about the book? The "chicken dance," is commenced, from the seat of a reclining chair, and I still don't know where I am, or where I'm going. What is that, a harpsichord? The only time anything happens, is when the stumble into the darkness, is commenced; the walls are rattling. Low grade, to high grade, idiot, to moron. Eight months, of trying not to get caught, looking, too closely. The curtains rise, and fall, on these dramas, that fold, and unfold, are hidden away, with the books, never to be read, like that one that I bought today. I keep kicking over the laundry basket, that contains, what's left of my consciousness. To buy this, to scratch that. Floundering, sitting there, like mushrooms, do something. Dig the rhombus! If you keep going, it’ll get done. So, then, where does metaphysics, ultimately, lead us? I had an answer formulated, but can't read my own writing. Absurdity, complexity, chaos, discordance, paradox, contradiction; these are the means, of stepping closer to the nature of reality, which is to say, that they are not answers, in and of, themselves. All this former rancor, that I felt, stirring in my bones, these things of supposedly crucial, import, but that can't be answered, the ridiculousness, drunkenness, lungings. There are no answers that aren't arrived at, and discarded, the moment some pretty girl walks by. I'll be damned, if this will be passed around like a joint, in some University basement. I guess I'm just shocked by my inabilities. I become agitated, frothed, nearly violent, kicking at the dashboard, only to be followed, by more silences, more, and more peculiar, back door exits. Drunk, and sleeping it off in the car, wanting some new life, some new independence, bubbling over with enthusiasm, then, the crash, or the fall, or whatnot. I can't click my divergent personalities, together. When given opportunities, to try on my new personality, so to speak, I sit there, with the same shirt, and hat on. I have nothing to say, even though, I believe otherwise, or, did. All I mean by this, is that I am fully, and unequivocally, lost. I don't want, what I think I do. This is all in the present tense, I'm not "over," any of this. I used to dance around toilet paper rolls, in the living room; half screaming, half singing, in a high pitched voice, I used to be able to get over, or at least, forget, partially transcend. Now, there are only fatuous wishes, and dreams, that fade away, not only in the morning, but, five minutes later. The room smells like old books, and it takes everything I have, to leave this room. So, of course, that said, the grand plan, is to move off, to some exotic locale, where things will apparently, begin, where some supposed, "life," is to commence? Always, later, never, done.
Absolutely nothing, matters, this is rule #1. These are the famous sad sounds, of one composer, or another, that are so beyond life, and death, so beyond mere words, so as to render life, and death, and words, utterly obsolete. What, top? It doesn't say one, or two things, or diagram a certain mood, it "says," all things, is, all "moods." Anyway, I'm steeped in nothing, save for an occasional, obsessive/compulsive phase, that's dropped, as soon as it's picked up. I'm hiding in the barn, I'm outside, looking at baby raccoons, in cages. I'm over in the back of the store, wherever I am, it looks like I'm going somewhere specific, or at least, I know, where I am. The tapes have had some things recorded on them, that I wish were even half as beautiful, as that story that I heard from, I can't remember where. The construction paper lies there, with all the other grandiose ideas The trains keep blowing their whistles, not a mile from my house, I'm not on them, no one I know, is on them. It's the cat, in the road, with it's guts squirting out it's ass, that's on my mind, now. I should be doing anything I can, to see that at least a sliver of the truth, comes out of all these scribblings. I don't give a hoot whether the writing is legible, or not, the poetry readings, with the dull sap shits, with their fingers in each other's assholes. Disgusted by the scum, the escapism, what makes sense, and doesn’t, what is, and what isn’t. It’s already, way too damn long. How can it be? I don't care about the bruises, cuts, and scars. Try a little harder, to be Indiana. Put the soap back into the dish. All of my circuitry, is dangerously overloaded. I keep cringing up in embarrassment, as I recall things that I have done. I am going to smash the car window, with my bare hand, because it needs doing, something, needs doing. As for what happened to me, well, I’d rather not say. Death is just one of those things, that happened to me. This book is only a trick, or a tool. I will not cavort from table, to table, I will live according to a definite schedule. I have no life, and don't see anyone else, as having a life, consisting of anything worthwhile, that doesn't amount to insurmountable debt. I seek weak words, on flimsy paper, I see shame, pain, despair, desperation, and destitution, I feel the pointlessness, up, and down, my spine, I hear it, dance with it, fuck it with my hand, fist, tool, equipment. I went on, and on, some stupid thing, about the lack of a desk. These snack foods, are not satisfying. Whining, yes, but also kicking at the sand, and soot, ash, and manure foundation, of this false chase, this flashy game. I make my way through the trash, and around the room, and I want what I can't have, not because of any weakness of will, on my part, but because such things, do not exist. A lazy, good for nothing, that has transformed himself, into a machine, of sorts, for the entertainment of those, who have been down similar, dead end, streets, observed the same veil of tears, seen the body in the casket, and it can't move; then, you think you see it move, but it's only your eye, playing tricks on you, as it does all the time. And shit falls out, and your hand hurts, your hair gets long, and you think, and think, and think, but nothing ever happens, can happen, will happen, except for our eventual dissolution. We see heads, and hands, faces, fingernails, we hear snippets, sound bites, and there's, "just something wrong with us." But we can't figure out, after years of trying, just what that something, is. Then, we fly into a rage, and take a right turn, we rant, we rave, we apologize. You have too much disposable income. It is time to give up, now. There are people who did it, people who do it, and people who will never do either, and it's our choice, entirely, what, or which type, of each of these, we decide to be. We’re merely, overwhelmed. We're apes, but there's more to it; reptiles, but we can get over it. The drunken oaths, forgotten, the precocious hollerings, the obstinate stances. This is the sign of someone who has walked the tightrope long enough, without a net. After the net, is either, put there, or stripped away, people stop looking. I bark like a dog, I howl the four seasons, I bellow the call letters, I whisper to myself, all of my wonderful possibilities, or, whatever those were (why ever, I said, wonderful?). To be in hell, crawl out, and then, apropos of nothing, willingly, crawl back down. Let’s fake it! There is no “underground.” They are on my tail, the noose has been tied. Can you dig it?
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
178
When they "look at you funny," check into the clinic. Action? What if there's nothing to do? My unwashed, whatever it was, leapt headlong, conjuring, diddling. Imagine the kit, and kaboodle, go out for months (in my head). Standoffish, and aloof. What have I got? Yellow skin persuasion. What does she got? Blue eyes, but she'll never notice mine. These days, well, the teapot's still screaming. I've been classified, crucified, did have to explain myself, but then, I'd move away. The maniacally logical, grim reaper, philosophical, lip smacking. Is this, was that, just a joke? I went through the convention hall, I told them all, that I was dead. Photographs in hidden places, strangers filling up the frame, once known. That's my mold. The template of seraphim, with pearls in their hands, lightning, and thunder, but really, just turning round. So warm, so cozy, so safe (but, not really). We’re on our way, out. Slide rules, measuring out hiding places, spelling bees, screaming. It’ll cohere, because it’s so chaotic. Taco! Taco! Piles of nowhere, equates, in ways, to gangrene, cockroaches, sonical logjams, psychical nausea. I am not important. What I wouldn’t give, for something to give. Sitting in the lost and found, saying nothing, staying home. Sitting on the garbage can, and living out the drivel, the driving rains, of the way things go. I can understand the words, but not in the context of the paragraph. I should've been a virgin, but I woke up first, or, was it she? No matter, this is really going to blow, I see it blowing. Strange respiratory fascinations, drooling softly, automatically. Praying at pelvises, worshiping at cherry red, pheromone soaked, graveyards. An outlet, a code, I don't like X, he tries to be like Y. The weaknesses, the cover-ups, we fear you, because you're entertaining. Pounding on the table, what's on the other side of that piece of paper, you? I’ve been done wrong. Drained out of all the false senses, of shame, pain, despair. Not really hiding, incubating. I think I'm seeing and hearing things, again. Still waters, turned out to be, surprisingly, shallow. Break in the new mitt! Our recoveries, were false. So, this is choppy, and makes no coherent point? Given, but, nothing does. One mistake past the line, is not a pleasant place to be. Did I mention the jail/desperation thing? Not that I care, but there were some ideas that... anyway, the ends justified the means. I have made up my mind, to write a clear, concise, sentence. That was it, did you miss it? I’m sick of these rent-a-friends, who only hang around me, for my money. If you only knew what I thought about, day in, day out, you would lock me up in prison. I want to FUCK!! No one's left to be astonished, or impressed, and that's fine, by me. The dramatis personae, on these printed pages, are fictional, and any resemblance to persons, living, or dead, is entirely coincidental. It just, has to work out. Bad things happen, that fuck up the picnic, permanently. There is nothing in my head, anymore. We'd mumble through the day. She laid out there in the sun, wearing almost nothing, literally, taunting everybody. It was more of wrestling match, than an "intimate moment." Things went wrong. The piglets came out, and immediately began running around. Can I, please, touch it? I made an accusation, while falling down the stirs. All the dingy, shitty, places, faded away, I pissed on my vital signs, it was really a billboard. That's the power of suggestion, I'm amused, I'm an amoebae, too. Poor men, don't have any moral dilemmas. Flipping George Gradle, into teepees, and aspertine. Kite flying, wishing wells, buses, malls. Nowadays, the kids, do inhale. Fascinating, I beg your pardon? Jaded, by our first experiences. "You plum promised me, that you wasn't gonna' make them faces" [sic]. When it takes over, and fucks up neutral things, it’s a psychological problem, otherwise, unnerving. Boots, cause feet to stink, nine times out of ten, so that it's embarrassing, to take them off. Hail Douglas Ionia, sharp shooting champion. Fondling the beige, but only to try and improve my mood, hypnotize, actualize, nowhere my way, from Cleveland, to Buffalo. Disappointment always kept us going, to the Slice and Dice Restaurant. In luck, dirt cheap with Bertha, on the highway. What about "Boo," and the window look, suicide? First, put the book down, sitting Indian-style, etc. Waterlogged, and pretentious, kind of a crumb, who plagiarized himself, which is why it took so long. We got out the… or, bought one, I was well brought up, and well, brought down. I can’t live with it, yet. We’re not “stars.”
It's tough to... uh, well, I only have one fan, maybe. Trapped, guilt ridden... We bought two plots by the Elm tree, that caught a disease. There wasn't enough slack in the rope, but there's plenty of time (no, there is not). Tickling at the drainage valve, sort of an inside joke, sort of an experiment. Tongue-tied to whipping posts, apron strings, and laugh a lot. Vinegar, softly, through my nasal passages. Unbelievable discoveries, sex-like noises, unlock to unload. It did seem to draw water away from the intestinal lining, easy, so far. To do what one ought, or should; bullshit. Be "moral," or go to jail, there's your reason. My name was lost in the shuffle, of the no-win, solitaire game. Cooing, partial passion, as far as things that are worth doing, I'm at least, on the right track. That's not to say that I'm not severely crippled, in several, important, social areas, because I am. But, eventually, this project will be on a shelf, somewhere, and I can, maybe, be old, and point to it. The hearing in triplicates, the loose narrative, the ditzy-pitzy, steel parts. I suppose I did limit myself, in "the better way to find it," snip and clips. I destroyed everything, and something, happened. Something, came from nothing. I sat in the basement, for an hour, trying to figure out the dehumidifier. Accidental, triple graduations, years later. Toss the crushed, stink, pillow, while listening to gibberish. I see the flags, I see the court summons, I see orders, not to remove the stub, fiddle with my nub, morning statements, rent due, post it’s, window series, etc. Let's see if we can stomach some of these stranger, than strange, mouth sounds, that are designed, to drive us out of our wits. People don't believe what they lean on, when they lean on it. Writing this book, has been sheer torture, a living hell, absolutely, positively… impossible. Tears in the park, another lonely birthday. It’s never finished, or done, good enough. The single, most important thing, I know, with certainty, is that God, does not exist. And, never has, except as ideas of wish fulfillment, in people’s brains, erroneous ideas. To finish off the whatever, to dine in, on the beat, the cloud marsh, gypsy thing. In front of a tree, with downcast eyes. To smile, better than pearls, better than Big Bob, the ice cream man. There was this drive, to be there (or at least, nearby). I am in anguish, for the most part, because I am so radically, dividing my energies. There is no poof-poof, involved, it's just that, there are things that are diametrically opposed. To engage in behaviors, that are the absolute, opposite, I've driven myself insane, well, overwhelmed, I don't know. The worst thing of all, is that writing doesn’t pay, which is to say, there is no money in it. Fucked, let's leave it at that. All that matters, is all that matters. We did things to one another, which I cannot repeat here. You like that talk? Full time distractions, part time annoyances, no time, ever. Everything but this second, minute, day, hour... but those units, keep getting bigger, all the time. Become someone who no longer gives a fuck. They clean drapes. Pardon me/excuse me, life on the run, running in place, chained to the... who cares? Atomic forces, pursue me. Don’t buy into one way, or the other. Sorry for the inconvenience, can't finish, can't do anything, one, by one, they die, or otherwise, fall out of the picture. Stolen eggs, uncomfortable silences, Hollywood shame, three night, "what am I doing here," question, and answer, seminars. Flunkie cop-outs, bombastic spending, ascetic and aesthetic illusions, no pride, more of a, "let's get rid of the evidence, and blow out of town." The roaming, and searching, is over, sitting still, bored, listening to the voices, through the walls, for entertainment. Eleven years difference, can't help it, still... sometime, later, it will be more, or less, acceptable, but for now, no. Never again, with thimble tits, endless onions, no more, of that. More gets removed, with nothing to replace it, ever. Whole, huge, sections, are removed, you know what I mean. No hope for redemption, no room for even one more, mistake. The time has come, for the likes of us, finally. Put it in the reference pile. Swim in charcoal.
I'm just another guy at the laundromat, looking at those paintings (?), of baby lions, and tigers, dogs wearing suits, pissing on fire hydrants. These are the scribbles, and follies, of a madman, a moron, a fool. I've come to understand, it's best to leave the pretty women, alone. Most, don't want to be bothered, especially, by the likes of you, uh, "struggling artist types." The bottom line, is they probably see right through us. I'm reminded of the old yarn, about the rat that fell into the deep fryer, and was put into the bucket, with a load of extra crispy chicken. They probably arm wrestled, for the honor, to suck the pus off the giblet. Oh, boy, to see the look on that face, on such a glorious evening. Life is just, well, maybe, I thought so, I don't know, anymore. Events transpire, make no bones about it. Pellets are just the same, and just as good, as a big log, or steamer. And we are all alone, and all that existentialist crap, but that doesn't mean we have to walk around slouched over, with that look, on our faces. When ideas work, we use them, but see, anything can work. There's no rule book, no guidelines, that hold any water, have any authority. Symbolism, I gushed, both to myself, and others, really, anyone within shouting distance, for maybe, three days. Over, done with, me, scratching my head, and asking people, "What was I saying?" Take that dribble out of the flower box, and tie your shoes! Paradox, o.k., sure, but that's sort of a half of an hour, spent in a psychologist’s office, as for what we mean: we had best mean what we say, say what we mean, or shut up, and let the monkeys do the talking. You fuckers are tearing my ear off! Where did that come from? Caring, is part of the problem, well, it was; nowadays, I don't think that I've really got any problems, at all. The goal, is to be able to just, buy a house off of this, to give up the day job, of drudgery, boredom... to make the pegs, sort of, fall into the wrong shaped holes, with the clever placement, of strings, and mirrors. Fanfare, usually equals, “no thanks,” or, more often, “please, stay away from me.” Look, and there it is, more than enough material, for a dozen books (not really). Stay lucky, don’t be fooled. We don’t know what to say. I need to try and get circulation back, in my index finger I need to start violently, crossing out, or erasing. Egotism, a soft, more applied, egotism, is the rule, after the turkey hunt is over, and you're left holding the bag. It's that damn critic, again, that internal voice, that has done everything it could, to completely, tear my world apart. I wouldn't, and am certainly not saying, this to be cute, and/or clever, I do need some kind of "shaking out," of some kind. Well, no. I mean, what does that even mean? Who really helps? Let's play word games for a half hour, or so, and try to adequately, define altruism, again. Being a chained slave, leads to schizophrenia, you don’t say? Refuse things, as they stand now. What is it, that keeps us, who we are? A slice of the pie, is to do it on your own, heal yourself, feign some integrity, or, have some hidden away, somewhere. We felt out the pow wow, and left, unimpressed. Cultivate some concepts. My obituary, was blank. I refused, past tense, to buy their soap scrubbed, whitewashed, products. What I am doing now, is wasting physical, and mental, energy, merely, moving the exact words, on one page, to another. I'm into consumables, beverages, and the like, I don't usually have an awful lot to "show," for the money I earn. Stop, was written across the page, five times, with exclamation marks following each one, all five, were highlighted, with a yellow pen. Stop what? It doesn't say. People are funny, sometimes, licking their hands, sometimes, not, sometimes eating burritos, or tacos, in cars, sometimes, not. Clichés, are generally, not meant to be taken very seriously. Clichés of clichés, are usually denied, and laughed at. No, sure, it's hard to strike new ground, and make some kind of original statement, but c'mon, to resort to using hand gestures, groans, grunts, and hisses? Please! How about this for an update, no more mistakes, ever? No more room for risk taking, no more bail bond, standing on nylon mattresses, without any bedding, maturity calls. This one goes out to the one I lost, whoever, or wherever, she may happen to be. The jargon, became barbarous. Call this an Alan Smithee book. We faked it, to make it.
My own banality, I project onto, "them." Suddenly, thrown out of the wishy washy, world, of how I thought the world should be, and nothing lost, by this insight, but, very much, gained. I will lie out, in the seven acre, land parcel, all night long, if I feel like it. I'll make the same old comments, about lighting, and the tricks that we can pull, on the consumers, but I'll do so, with a glint in my eye. Piles of cereal, tons of cereal, and bacteria, what we thought meant the whole world, amounted to a fifteen second recollection, of "those who have passed on," places we've been before. So the team of the moment, walked in, and walked out, raising the price of lemon bundkins, and keeping Americana's on the menu, for a few years, or more. Fantastic booby trap, garish signs, to get the motorists to take heed. What did it say in the margin of the program? That I struck out, every, single, time. Is it tucked in, or folded? This will end up being the biggest risk, I’ve ever taken. I never could do cartwheels, never really tried, though, either. Back in pink, in Arizona, it’s these new drugs! I can appreciate the corrosion! In a rage, I tore the handles off the antique, display case. Managing the bedposts, managing the store in the strip mall, selling flowers, and poems out of the back of a pick up truck. The unusable pillow is, of course, the one, that I not only, like the most, but, need now. They had a lip-to-lip, tongue hold, on one another, that didn't quite embarrass anyone, but did make a few of the passersby, slightly ill at ease. Here are some new ideas; it said at the top of the page... which really got the old fingers snapping, feet tapping, and the noodle all revved up. Flunk it, but do it, when at wit's end. Do it badly, rather than, not at all. I don't mean any of this, and don't know what I meant to say... finish the job with your hand, I suppose, I was edging toward. They want it free. Someone mumbled, that we look like, what we want to look like, how we carry ourselves, assume ourselves, to be. To spend all day, and night, taking out the one, or two, year old, dated, passages, the crap we didn't even know was there, then, taking off all of our sweat drenched, clothes, and folding them, neatly. Chickens are having sex, in the peculiar way, that they do, they sort of, keep running up into each other... it's not like I hung around, and watched, but... The facts, become revelations, which destroy us, like an orchestra. At least death, is tangible. We don’t know who the hell we look like. Ah, girl troubles, add this to a thousand and one, other, futile chases, and let downs, that I don't need. Good thing they see me for the lush, and/or, unstable person, that I really am, before the march up, and down, the escalators. Gotta’ be ready! What was the other way of looking at things, and the flip side of the coin, or issue, or, whatever? The peroxide, self-destructive streaks (really, just hangovers), all of this spit, and bile, whining, crying, without tears, all of this, and more to come. Sci-fi feet, making their way through the graveyard? Well, right here and now, wherever you are, is the only place, time, etc., to be exactly, what, and who, you want to be. There is not, has never been, any such, "feel good about yourself place," in which to sit, and drink tea. See how it feels to shit backwards? Talking about how neither one of us, was the least bit interested, in any sort of relationship, this being said, as alas, we tumbled to the floor. Six words per line, and still you wonder how you didn't light up Broadway, in the Dixie Puck years? Wasted ink, and weird, screwy, headlines were all anybody expected of me. Once again, the "mood," and/or atmosphere, was, shocked, bewildered. Trephoning holes in my skull? Be damned, vicious fiend. Dorothy, get away from the curtains. If you don't, you'll soon find yourself, quite disappointed. The center will not hold, they tell us, gravity will make us fall, bodies at rest, tend to stay at rest, bodies in motion, stay in motion. All over achy, and blaming the crown chief Buerogard, wasting away in one similar pose. The guy screaming at us, as we drove by, that we should, "get some new shoes," or something along those lines. Sure, I bite my nails, what good is it to clip them? Does it have something to do with the aerodynamics of flapping our arms, in bird-like motions? I can't seem to think in front of blank paper, some kind of rough sketch, or outline, is needed, perhaps. Forget about the dorm room, peek-a-boo! You were taken aside, near where the bananas were kept. It stops being funny, eventually.
Driving around, and around, smoking cigarette, after cigarette. Always a baby's step forward, and a full sprint back; a waste, a shit pot, fantasies about playing with the soft flesh. There's not enough time for spitting, and luxury, clearing the nasal passages, with these peculiar snortings, and grunts. See what's been underlined, life exists outside of four dimensions. Up to the stranger's door, disrupting the peacenik’s party. Left (imagine my dismay) in a hurry, when the know of's, turn into, know abouts. This is Nelson, he's our new P.R. man. Still, giant blisters on the floor, toenails on the bedstand, plastic horses in the basement, army coats, sailors hats, orange pop. It's going down, it's going down. To be damned, is better than to sit in silence, around here, nothing to say to nobody, wandering through graveyards, losing keys. Give me the two dollar variety, give her the purse made of see through plastic, hand out the syrup, up the ante', buy the ten sided dice. I'd forgotten about the tuna sculpture, lied about the likelihood of being spotted in convention halls, drove by the auto plant, made out at the drive through, recalled the filibuster, that could've decided the whole end of Chistendom, right then, and there. To let the chattering of the Koreans, in Irving's sandwich shop, intoxicate you, to park in the wrong lot, and wander in, and out, of restricted access buildings, to go down to Ohio, just to say you did it, to walk over to that borrowed CD/cassette machine, and press play, dammit. How could Rick have forgotten the gazebo? This, after I remembered purchasing all those blank tapes. Who’s pouring themselves a nice big bowl of snack chips? The pretzels aren't free, that guy knows his beer. I said (not for the first time) that it had, “been a long time." A dime an aphorism, still waiting on the response, in regards to the side project. Smoking, like a prehistoric cave painting rendition, of Chief Ollie, with three sides, and assistants, who know the mass media game, inside out, and are intent on winning it. Watching your house while you're gone, being responsible for turtles, while, a turtle myself, migrating toward someplace in time, where the sun doesn't set, and refract light off the plow. It should be a complement to the way we are living; psychotic delirium, is merely moving your hand really fast, or refusing to switch lanes, and pass by Papa Gillicutty. This is the start of it, these are the bland ones, tornadoes set to touch down, and I bought the video. All of the sudden, seventeen is seventy seven (watch out!). War is coming, very soon. Lost sense, blue (speak, use words) notebooks? Our acts wear thin. Their modus operendi is to cut the beautiful trees in half, to protect their precious power lines. Strip it, with turpentine. We shouldn’t, and ultimately, can’t, anyway. Now I see, why I was not invited. Well, the inflatable woman, is stuffed in the closet, like a corpse, symbolic of skeletons. Say your lines. The cattle call, went unheeded. Through the alley, vomit on mattresses, we've finally forgotten what never really happened. Try phosphorus (no overflow). Storm the beach (backwards). Why the dream of the great panhandling, why the color coordination, of the four disk retrospective? They stole it out of my room. As usual, there is only one person whose rug has been pulled out from beneath him, but I yanked the tiles out, cheated in solitaire, wormed my way out of Memphis, leaving my coat, shoes, and bag. It's a game we play, with the remains. Become the ones who got through it, spread the disease across four continents. Parting words in Hank's bar, dollar beers, and résumés written, thrown into the bottom of a dresser drawer. We appease ourselves, indulge in the latest dance crazes, wait at the train stop, jangling the change in our pockets. An hour, for each double breasted, gold embossed, page. The poster that we had planned to steal, and the plastic toys, held together with super glue, and that spray around fun foam, they sell down at the Holly Hop market. There's the historic landmark, there's the old fashioned fire station, no bell, but still standing (and a bum staggers by). Falling into the real news, of wastrels, and denizens, of strange clubs, so far out, there's no getting in. Smoke comes out the doorways, the line forms outside. I don't know who you are, but don't get your hopes up. Twigs in my throat, blood in the capillaries, starry eyed looks, in convenience stores, cheap cigars, bridges, burned. Shifting in the seat, remembering back to sleeping in somebody else's, urine soaked, easy chair. The past is all left off, and doesn't matter at all, and I don't know what I used to find so hard to ignore, but once in a blue moon, is quite alright with me. The same guy who exposed himself, probably robbed the bank. Why there was a bullet in the ash tray, I never could figure out. Principally, an atheistic doctrine. The back of the door, still has holes, where the thumbtacks used to be. Supermoss knows only of the old kind of phones. Photos of the corners of basements, bizarre states, of spellbinding elation, it falls apart, and then some. The malt shop era, is part of somebody else’s dream. It isn’t good enough.
It's tough to... uh, well, I only have one fan, maybe. Trapped, guilt ridden... We bought two plots by the Elm tree, that caught a disease. There wasn't enough slack in the rope, but there's plenty of time (no, there is not). Tickling at the drainage valve, sort of an inside joke, sort of an experiment. Tongue-tied to whipping posts, apron strings, and laugh a lot. Vinegar, softly, through my nasal passages. Unbelievable discoveries, sex-like noises, unlock to unload. It did seem to draw water away from the intestinal lining, easy, so far. To do what one ought, or should; bullshit. Be "moral," or go to jail, there's your reason. My name was lost in the shuffle, of the no-win, solitaire game. Cooing, partial passion, as far as things that are worth doing, I'm at least, on the right track. That's not to say that I'm not severely crippled, in several, important, social areas, because I am. But, eventually, this project will be on a shelf, somewhere, and I can, maybe, be old, and point to it. The hearing in triplicates, the loose narrative, the ditzy-pitzy, steel parts. I suppose I did limit myself, in "the better way to find it," snip and clips. I destroyed everything, and something, happened. Something, came from nothing. I sat in the basement, for an hour, trying to figure out the dehumidifier. Accidental, triple graduations, years later. Toss the crushed, stink, pillow, while listening to gibberish. I see the flags, I see the court summons, I see orders, not to remove the stub, fiddle with my nub, morning statements, rent due, post it’s, window series, etc. Let's see if we can stomach some of these stranger, than strange, mouth sounds, that are designed, to drive us out of our wits. People don't believe what they lean on, when they lean on it. Writing this book, has been sheer torture, a living hell, absolutely, positively… impossible. Tears in the park, another lonely birthday. It’s never finished, or done, good enough. The single, most important thing, I know, with certainty, is that God, does not exist. And, never has, except as ideas of wish fulfillment, in people’s brains, erroneous ideas. To finish off the whatever, to dine in, on the beat, the cloud marsh, gypsy thing. In front of a tree, with downcast eyes. To smile, better than pearls, better than Big Bob, the ice cream man. There was this drive, to be there (or at least, nearby). I am in anguish, for the most part, because I am so radically, dividing my energies. There is no poof-poof, involved, it's just that, there are things that are diametrically opposed. To engage in behaviors, that are the absolute, opposite, I've driven myself insane, well, overwhelmed, I don't know. The worst thing of all, is that writing doesn’t pay, which is to say, there is no money in it. Fucked, let's leave it at that. All that matters, is all that matters. We did things to one another, which I cannot repeat here. You like that talk? Full time distractions, part time annoyances, no time, ever. Everything but this second, minute, day, hour... but those units, keep getting bigger, all the time. Become someone who no longer gives a fuck. They clean drapes. Pardon me/excuse me, life on the run, running in place, chained to the... who cares? Atomic forces, pursue me. Don’t buy into one way, or the other. Sorry for the inconvenience, can't finish, can't do anything, one, by one, they die, or otherwise, fall out of the picture. Stolen eggs, uncomfortable silences, Hollywood shame, three night, "what am I doing here," question, and answer, seminars. Flunkie cop-outs, bombastic spending, ascetic and aesthetic illusions, no pride, more of a, "let's get rid of the evidence, and blow out of town." The roaming, and searching, is over, sitting still, bored, listening to the voices, through the walls, for entertainment. Eleven years difference, can't help it, still... sometime, later, it will be more, or less, acceptable, but for now, no. Never again, with thimble tits, endless onions, no more, of that. More gets removed, with nothing to replace it, ever. Whole, huge, sections, are removed, you know what I mean. No hope for redemption, no room for even one more, mistake. The time has come, for the likes of us, finally. Put it in the reference pile. Swim in charcoal.
I'm just another guy at the laundromat, looking at those paintings (?), of baby lions, and tigers, dogs wearing suits, pissing on fire hydrants. These are the scribbles, and follies, of a madman, a moron, a fool. I've come to understand, it's best to leave the pretty women, alone. Most, don't want to be bothered, especially, by the likes of you, uh, "struggling artist types." The bottom line, is they probably see right through us. I'm reminded of the old yarn, about the rat that fell into the deep fryer, and was put into the bucket, with a load of extra crispy chicken. They probably arm wrestled, for the honor, to suck the pus off the giblet. Oh, boy, to see the look on that face, on such a glorious evening. Life is just, well, maybe, I thought so, I don't know, anymore. Events transpire, make no bones about it. Pellets are just the same, and just as good, as a big log, or steamer. And we are all alone, and all that existentialist crap, but that doesn't mean we have to walk around slouched over, with that look, on our faces. When ideas work, we use them, but see, anything can work. There's no rule book, no guidelines, that hold any water, have any authority. Symbolism, I gushed, both to myself, and others, really, anyone within shouting distance, for maybe, three days. Over, done with, me, scratching my head, and asking people, "What was I saying?" Take that dribble out of the flower box, and tie your shoes! Paradox, o.k., sure, but that's sort of a half of an hour, spent in a psychologist’s office, as for what we mean: we had best mean what we say, say what we mean, or shut up, and let the monkeys do the talking. You fuckers are tearing my ear off! Where did that come from? Caring, is part of the problem, well, it was; nowadays, I don't think that I've really got any problems, at all. The goal, is to be able to just, buy a house off of this, to give up the day job, of drudgery, boredom... to make the pegs, sort of, fall into the wrong shaped holes, with the clever placement, of strings, and mirrors. Fanfare, usually equals, “no thanks,” or, more often, “please, stay away from me.” Look, and there it is, more than enough material, for a dozen books (not really). Stay lucky, don’t be fooled. We don’t know what to say. I need to try and get circulation back, in my index finger I need to start violently, crossing out, or erasing. Egotism, a soft, more applied, egotism, is the rule, after the turkey hunt is over, and you're left holding the bag. It's that damn critic, again, that internal voice, that has done everything it could, to completely, tear my world apart. I wouldn't, and am certainly not saying, this to be cute, and/or clever, I do need some kind of "shaking out," of some kind. Well, no. I mean, what does that even mean? Who really helps? Let's play word games for a half hour, or so, and try to adequately, define altruism, again. Being a chained slave, leads to schizophrenia, you don’t say? Refuse things, as they stand now. What is it, that keeps us, who we are? A slice of the pie, is to do it on your own, heal yourself, feign some integrity, or, have some hidden away, somewhere. We felt out the pow wow, and left, unimpressed. Cultivate some concepts. My obituary, was blank. I refused, past tense, to buy their soap scrubbed, whitewashed, products. What I am doing now, is wasting physical, and mental, energy, merely, moving the exact words, on one page, to another. I'm into consumables, beverages, and the like, I don't usually have an awful lot to "show," for the money I earn. Stop, was written across the page, five times, with exclamation marks following each one, all five, were highlighted, with a yellow pen. Stop what? It doesn't say. People are funny, sometimes, licking their hands, sometimes, not, sometimes eating burritos, or tacos, in cars, sometimes, not. Clichés, are generally, not meant to be taken very seriously. Clichés of clichés, are usually denied, and laughed at. No, sure, it's hard to strike new ground, and make some kind of original statement, but c'mon, to resort to using hand gestures, groans, grunts, and hisses? Please! How about this for an update, no more mistakes, ever? No more room for risk taking, no more bail bond, standing on nylon mattresses, without any bedding, maturity calls. This one goes out to the one I lost, whoever, or wherever, she may happen to be. The jargon, became barbarous. Call this an Alan Smithee book. We faked it, to make it.
My own banality, I project onto, "them." Suddenly, thrown out of the wishy washy, world, of how I thought the world should be, and nothing lost, by this insight, but, very much, gained. I will lie out, in the seven acre, land parcel, all night long, if I feel like it. I'll make the same old comments, about lighting, and the tricks that we can pull, on the consumers, but I'll do so, with a glint in my eye. Piles of cereal, tons of cereal, and bacteria, what we thought meant the whole world, amounted to a fifteen second recollection, of "those who have passed on," places we've been before. So the team of the moment, walked in, and walked out, raising the price of lemon bundkins, and keeping Americana's on the menu, for a few years, or more. Fantastic booby trap, garish signs, to get the motorists to take heed. What did it say in the margin of the program? That I struck out, every, single, time. Is it tucked in, or folded? This will end up being the biggest risk, I’ve ever taken. I never could do cartwheels, never really tried, though, either. Back in pink, in Arizona, it’s these new drugs! I can appreciate the corrosion! In a rage, I tore the handles off the antique, display case. Managing the bedposts, managing the store in the strip mall, selling flowers, and poems out of the back of a pick up truck. The unusable pillow is, of course, the one, that I not only, like the most, but, need now. They had a lip-to-lip, tongue hold, on one another, that didn't quite embarrass anyone, but did make a few of the passersby, slightly ill at ease. Here are some new ideas; it said at the top of the page... which really got the old fingers snapping, feet tapping, and the noodle all revved up. Flunk it, but do it, when at wit's end. Do it badly, rather than, not at all. I don't mean any of this, and don't know what I meant to say... finish the job with your hand, I suppose, I was edging toward. They want it free. Someone mumbled, that we look like, what we want to look like, how we carry ourselves, assume ourselves, to be. To spend all day, and night, taking out the one, or two, year old, dated, passages, the crap we didn't even know was there, then, taking off all of our sweat drenched, clothes, and folding them, neatly. Chickens are having sex, in the peculiar way, that they do, they sort of, keep running up into each other... it's not like I hung around, and watched, but... The facts, become revelations, which destroy us, like an orchestra. At least death, is tangible. We don’t know who the hell we look like. Ah, girl troubles, add this to a thousand and one, other, futile chases, and let downs, that I don't need. Good thing they see me for the lush, and/or, unstable person, that I really am, before the march up, and down, the escalators. Gotta’ be ready! What was the other way of looking at things, and the flip side of the coin, or issue, or, whatever? The peroxide, self-destructive streaks (really, just hangovers), all of this spit, and bile, whining, crying, without tears, all of this, and more to come. Sci-fi feet, making their way through the graveyard? Well, right here and now, wherever you are, is the only place, time, etc., to be exactly, what, and who, you want to be. There is not, has never been, any such, "feel good about yourself place," in which to sit, and drink tea. See how it feels to shit backwards? Talking about how neither one of us, was the least bit interested, in any sort of relationship, this being said, as alas, we tumbled to the floor. Six words per line, and still you wonder how you didn't light up Broadway, in the Dixie Puck years? Wasted ink, and weird, screwy, headlines were all anybody expected of me. Once again, the "mood," and/or atmosphere, was, shocked, bewildered. Trephoning holes in my skull? Be damned, vicious fiend. Dorothy, get away from the curtains. If you don't, you'll soon find yourself, quite disappointed. The center will not hold, they tell us, gravity will make us fall, bodies at rest, tend to stay at rest, bodies in motion, stay in motion. All over achy, and blaming the crown chief Buerogard, wasting away in one similar pose. The guy screaming at us, as we drove by, that we should, "get some new shoes," or something along those lines. Sure, I bite my nails, what good is it to clip them? Does it have something to do with the aerodynamics of flapping our arms, in bird-like motions? I can't seem to think in front of blank paper, some kind of rough sketch, or outline, is needed, perhaps. Forget about the dorm room, peek-a-boo! You were taken aside, near where the bananas were kept. It stops being funny, eventually.
Driving around, and around, smoking cigarette, after cigarette. Always a baby's step forward, and a full sprint back; a waste, a shit pot, fantasies about playing with the soft flesh. There's not enough time for spitting, and luxury, clearing the nasal passages, with these peculiar snortings, and grunts. See what's been underlined, life exists outside of four dimensions. Up to the stranger's door, disrupting the peacenik’s party. Left (imagine my dismay) in a hurry, when the know of's, turn into, know abouts. This is Nelson, he's our new P.R. man. Still, giant blisters on the floor, toenails on the bedstand, plastic horses in the basement, army coats, sailors hats, orange pop. It's going down, it's going down. To be damned, is better than to sit in silence, around here, nothing to say to nobody, wandering through graveyards, losing keys. Give me the two dollar variety, give her the purse made of see through plastic, hand out the syrup, up the ante', buy the ten sided dice. I'd forgotten about the tuna sculpture, lied about the likelihood of being spotted in convention halls, drove by the auto plant, made out at the drive through, recalled the filibuster, that could've decided the whole end of Chistendom, right then, and there. To let the chattering of the Koreans, in Irving's sandwich shop, intoxicate you, to park in the wrong lot, and wander in, and out, of restricted access buildings, to go down to Ohio, just to say you did it, to walk over to that borrowed CD/cassette machine, and press play, dammit. How could Rick have forgotten the gazebo? This, after I remembered purchasing all those blank tapes. Who’s pouring themselves a nice big bowl of snack chips? The pretzels aren't free, that guy knows his beer. I said (not for the first time) that it had, “been a long time." A dime an aphorism, still waiting on the response, in regards to the side project. Smoking, like a prehistoric cave painting rendition, of Chief Ollie, with three sides, and assistants, who know the mass media game, inside out, and are intent on winning it. Watching your house while you're gone, being responsible for turtles, while, a turtle myself, migrating toward someplace in time, where the sun doesn't set, and refract light off the plow. It should be a complement to the way we are living; psychotic delirium, is merely moving your hand really fast, or refusing to switch lanes, and pass by Papa Gillicutty. This is the start of it, these are the bland ones, tornadoes set to touch down, and I bought the video. All of the sudden, seventeen is seventy seven (watch out!). War is coming, very soon. Lost sense, blue (speak, use words) notebooks? Our acts wear thin. Their modus operendi is to cut the beautiful trees in half, to protect their precious power lines. Strip it, with turpentine. We shouldn’t, and ultimately, can’t, anyway. Now I see, why I was not invited. Well, the inflatable woman, is stuffed in the closet, like a corpse, symbolic of skeletons. Say your lines. The cattle call, went unheeded. Through the alley, vomit on mattresses, we've finally forgotten what never really happened. Try phosphorus (no overflow). Storm the beach (backwards). Why the dream of the great panhandling, why the color coordination, of the four disk retrospective? They stole it out of my room. As usual, there is only one person whose rug has been pulled out from beneath him, but I yanked the tiles out, cheated in solitaire, wormed my way out of Memphis, leaving my coat, shoes, and bag. It's a game we play, with the remains. Become the ones who got through it, spread the disease across four continents. Parting words in Hank's bar, dollar beers, and résumés written, thrown into the bottom of a dresser drawer. We appease ourselves, indulge in the latest dance crazes, wait at the train stop, jangling the change in our pockets. An hour, for each double breasted, gold embossed, page. The poster that we had planned to steal, and the plastic toys, held together with super glue, and that spray around fun foam, they sell down at the Holly Hop market. There's the historic landmark, there's the old fashioned fire station, no bell, but still standing (and a bum staggers by). Falling into the real news, of wastrels, and denizens, of strange clubs, so far out, there's no getting in. Smoke comes out the doorways, the line forms outside. I don't know who you are, but don't get your hopes up. Twigs in my throat, blood in the capillaries, starry eyed looks, in convenience stores, cheap cigars, bridges, burned. Shifting in the seat, remembering back to sleeping in somebody else's, urine soaked, easy chair. The past is all left off, and doesn't matter at all, and I don't know what I used to find so hard to ignore, but once in a blue moon, is quite alright with me. The same guy who exposed himself, probably robbed the bank. Why there was a bullet in the ash tray, I never could figure out. Principally, an atheistic doctrine. The back of the door, still has holes, where the thumbtacks used to be. Supermoss knows only of the old kind of phones. Photos of the corners of basements, bizarre states, of spellbinding elation, it falls apart, and then some. The malt shop era, is part of somebody else’s dream. It isn’t good enough.
177
I like paper plates. Ahem, ahem, ahem. Insight, out of sight, go to the mall; fall, baby, get up, then, fall. After the morning after, is when the real work, begins. Wrinkled up in a ball, clothing is smelling up, this living space, the hall outside, as well. He was fine at first, she said, until he pulled a K. Francis. This is inadequacy, I am inadequacy. Fuck the moi, moi, moi, but, shit, if I was a golf pro, I wouldn't/couldn't, talk this way, write this way, if at all.. I know what color your toes turn. The sickening smell of testes, of napalm, of old paper, old hats. I was the subject of the dialogue, concerning the man in search of the unspecified, reward. All the while, not wanting anything, even what he already possesses, has stolen, will steal. They rigged it! Didn't you just see that? They rigged the machine! As far as there being no hesitation... well, I agree entirely, that is, if things continue, as they appear to be going, direction-wise. Nope, there are few, a very few things, that I cannot, will not, stand for, and that is a big one, maybe, the biggest one. Too comfortable, too complacent, too content, to sink into this couch, and call it a life. Let's can it all, and ship it out in boxes, let's wonder at the movement of the things we send. Every day is numbered, the seal of disapproval is affixed, no matter what we've done. It's too late to play, prevention, control, self-assurance. If this is a dance of death, let me fall out, early. It's like a cake walk, and I can do without cake. These are old telephone poles, and new telephone poles, and if they catch your attention, you realize this. There are reasons I don't give, for the majority of my time, being spent, sitting down. I want to stand, shake, move, but I'm scared, and scarred, and feel like the damage is already done, because, the damage is already done. There is nothing to write, what I do, is not writing, it's stuff you scrape off the milk. As far as inspiration, no. These phases aren't passing, they're getting harder, and harder, to even avoid, for five swift, and pleasant, minutes. I deserve this, in a way, but only in a way. To wake up delirious, and crazy, exhausted (and run down the shoot). You hurt me. My physical deterioration, is only following the course, set by my mental collapse. The truth is there, and to change, starting now, like the hungry, and selfish, who succeed in this country, is paramount. A trigger was pulled. It's easy to feel small, in a car, with a gigantic, glass delivery truck, passing on the right, and splitting your eardrum off it's hinges. Relieve yourselves, wheresoever you see fit. What is repeated, can be ignored. Have something to do. Clicks, are defining our identity's, not, cliques. They sent me up in a hot air balloon, and I haven’t come down yet. Here’s your Bible back, ma’am (the anarchist’s Bible). Sore, and boiling, like the pears, that they were. Sacrifices, do not get us what we ask for, need. A large number of farmers, gathered. Too much has been missed, no one is going to be sympathetic to my slick, and oily, shimmies. If you do without something, anything, you do so, at your own pace/peril/price, etc. Another dreamless, movement free, night, except, up, and to the cupboard, but given my condition, that's to be expected. What I need, is what I need to get rid of. Fudge you, no, fudge you. So I blew a few things, beyond the point of the cover coming off, I don't want to really die, this is worse than death, however. So little, yet so much. I saw the train stop, I saw the smashed to shit, and half opened, coffee machine. I cried to the rain, listened intently. Underground equivalent, didn't really listen. Cried my eyes out, balls off, thought endlessly. Can't seem to stop, thinking about myself. There is a wet dog smell, all over me. It's a long story, a story people like you, don't have time for. The drinks start out slow, then the "fuck it," switch, is thrown, and I'm gallivanting, from table, to table, grabbing glasses, slamming; maybe this is all part of the pow-wow, but I don't like it, anymore. Well, if there ever was a plan, it would be a really good idea, to get rolling on it, right now, when there's still, at least, one whole page of work to do, to be even half there. It's the silence, I can't stand. Of course, I create my own problems, they are artificial, we all do this, the trouble is, I've become so expert at it, and perform them, so admirably. There has got to be another subject, there has got to be a way for me to slide out of these contingencies, surrounding me, and just see things a different way, for a while. I guess, a good start, would be to stop playing the same, sad, song, over, and over, again. There is more to change, in perspective, than this, however, I must change, this pit like, snarl festival, is two figs beyond, depression. I can't get up, I can't walk into a store, look at anyone, this thing that I fiddle with, is no longer pleasurable, or even, amusing. My handwriting gets worse, as my conditions, deteriorate. This is the last sentence in this paragraph, yes, I'm pretty sure. My teeth are removable, and cavity-free. We ought to have recorded that.
The avant, and Kremlin, guards, enjoyed the free bean dip, and other snacks, that were provided. There is a help I need, that can't be given. You cut me up, and distribute me, tell me the dream is self-directed, it doesn't matter, fuck, I've already given my endless series of twenty dollar blowjobs, all through this rinky dink, metropolis/suburbia. To be such an alcoholic, yet so... unable to stop... but, so clear, on... I am ready for the 5x7 cards, on plastic sticks/holders. You are god, I am a lemon, a postscript, an unfulfilled promise, I am the wind blowing through the factory floorboards, or ceilings. If this, was all that was, sure, fine, but, oh, no! We must feel the illness weigh upon us, we must pretend to be healthy, while we die, and provide inspiration. I see the imminent collapse, too easily for my own good, I drive by the graves, and often, get to thinking. My mouth is dry, the snow is back, spring is a long, way away. I saw, as I already explained, the train stop, with the people getting on, and off, hearing buzzes, and whistles. It's getting far too close, things are very, very. I'll pay the admission price, sit in the darkest corner, I know, things, were otherwise. Take off the stolen jacket, and return it, get medicated, get up, flip back the hood of the case, and see what's in there. Deadlines that I paid no mind to, regretting things, now. I am the ridiculous, of the ridiculous, I'm sick of saying this, but it's all I can say! And it is only because, "I'm going through a rough time right now," but shit, it's been three years of this. Perhaps, just part of the cycle, the flipsy- dipsy, circus, tilty- tumble. Overrated things, like dangling carrots, thousand dollar grand prizes, false love, false fashion, same, same, same. Most of that, was yesterday's batch, it wasn't nice, but wasn't meant to be. I don't know why I can't stop writing about myself, but I suppose the reason is, that I'm the only person I know. They all turn their attention to fucking, after it’s too late. Justify the shock wave, before the end. The ritual of repetition, I erased that part. This is just rage, my rage. Anyway, the night has been successful. Fling it all away, let it be known, that you dissaprove. They won. We are vulnerable, which is hilarious, when we consider the extent we go, to hide this. Collapse, and be eaten alive. Wrong, is what I am. I see you every time, I need you, every time. The before and after photographs, were amusing. Dump me off, like a dead goat, crying, drunk. There aren't any excuses for what I am, right now. That's right, it doesn't matter. But, and that's the operative word, but, we've got to make a run for it, don't we? “Keep going,” the cigarette butts position, in the wet ground, seemed to say. This, when I'm too lazy, to look for a rake, or, there aren’t any rakes. We're attentive to transcendence, but don't come across it, too often. Find the notes. The call me smile, was a piece of the fabric, from someone else's quilt. So, that can't be written, because it hasn't been read yet. Fly into Spanish rages, I was disposed of, with the used fabric softener. I write the diary of an apathetic sociopath, I go off into my segued tirades, on, or off, recovering, or addled. I must touch briefly, upon my (curse) stigmata. I've given myself, according to the dictates of the script. It's a combination of factors, that allow me to do this, whatever this is. My posture, odor (I’m a dud), facial expression; all, adequately convey, the meaning, that I am to be left alone. Five diffused days a week, of turning left, and right, driving all over the place, but not getting anywhere. This will fill the void, at least, probably the garden, as well. Selfish to the end, and regretting it, the whole time. How she ever managed to worm her way into all the action, is a mystery to me. Most of "what writing is," most, how-to questions, regarding writing, can be answered by a declaration such as, know where to put the commas! I learned of the death, years after the fact, I still don't know the exact year. It's no use, to even say your name, because you're not human. Nobody who would ever, or will ever, read this, isn’t very human, at all. What I meant to do, became, who I decided, to harass, the world sees right through people like me, and perhaps, that's a good thing. As far as trouble, being a disease going around, as far as the color of my hand, smell of my socks, these are the reasons; some drawers that we find open, should've remained closed. I'm sorry that I didn't say enough, I guess I was too busy thinking of things to say, so, that actual speech, was impossible. So now, I'm a dead asshole, with wind blowing through his ribcage, the years pass on. It all seems to mean, so much less, in the form it's in. I'd mingle around, bothering you, saying nothing; my presence alone, was a bother. I can't sing, or won't, there's not much of a difference. The long lust/obsessions, used to be able to guide me through the day. No longer feeling numerical, designated as a that, peculiar. I might as well, finish what I’ve started. The plywood, remains unexplained. The light, invades my space. There will be no run-on sentence, to wow the kid in the back row.
All out of order, and screwy, strange. The time it takes… Orgasm, to orgasm we stumble, whether alone, or in the company of others. Faces rot away! Spent waifs, with spare time, gasping for air they can be spoon-fed, and then, talking about death, as if it were a carousel ride. Lazy to the core, from years of back breaking practice. I'm a freak, let me get out of hand. I'm cheap, and for sale, it's almost the same. Worn out party favors, things to remember, contradictions in terms. To our sheer horror, the spine of the book let out an unbearable, cracking noise, the library was stunned, the text needed to be re-bound, oh, the pain! Standing innocently, in the backyard, you had me mistaken for a more healthy variety. Blood-covered aprons, histrionics. Not redone, retranscribed, and it wouldn't seem to make all that much of a difference. Maybe we dropped what needed dropping, even though, we half miss it. We do, without thinking, and think things, we haven't the slightest inclination, to do. We reinvent our reality, we invert, and re-invent, everything. They don’t want us to pay any attention to the fake wood paneling. Our urges and instincts will get the best of us. Yuck, I can taste my own mouth. It was just like a real fuck. We’re sick of being quiet, all the time. Yes, I suppose you could say, I wrote pornography, for a while, without any real experience, to back it up with. Sketch the balloon. This is being written, post nebula, hence, the discretion. It takes too much time, to rewind. You already have it. Are you a mutt, or are you a Welsh Terrier? The lone house, on our walk home. When you sit in class, not paying attention to the lecture, your mind has a tendency to focus, on some rather strange things. The whole movie, was made up in my head, in a half hour. This is really it, I don’t want to live anymore, the only reason being, that I can’t, not by choice, but by some sick determination, of fate. I think they were talking about sense experience, as an inroads to knowledge. I refuse to talk about, or look at, your lithographs, again. It's on the bottom, left-hand corner, of the screen, in Spanish, Italian, and Portuguese. Well, I'd yet in more trouble, for not checking, and did, in the end. Make it up as you go. It takes a lot. We're pretending to have done the line dance, before. We don't need any invitations. We talked about parking lot suicides, and syllogisms. Ah, the last that wouldn't let me, was the fondest, of them all. Four thirty five an hour, no contract; return your uniforms, or forfeit your check! Looking at the stains on the sheets, holes in the socks. My memory, and this system, serve the same function, achieve the same results. Who's fucking, who? Shit, don't ask me. Old stuff, from an old poem, 90% of which, is scratched out. The waterlogged, old toys, in the backseat, the synchronicity of imagination. I didn't even stop there, to turn around, the other place, every night. The streaks of blood, and tire tracks, where the deer got hit, the fly encased, nightmare. Looked like a lunatic, angry, and backwards, up, and down, the street. The spectacular porch, was important, for it's own sake, and mine. It was, and contributed to, the long, lost, forgotten, weekend. It was... dreams of poorly painted houses, but, like they planned it that way. Putting away the hide and go seek game. Kindergarten rhymes, sung into mirrors, nothing that can be called memorable, was said, but stuff, was uttered. Every time you need it... I saw the girls in the car, on a negative, but it wasn't in with the prints. Into, and out of, abandoned canneries, fighting fish, and drunken singing. Once again (it’s absolutely mad), paranoid, probably, with good reason, this time, I try too hard, or, not at all. Lost evidence, hopefully, thrown out... scars occur, at center stage. I still have the gothic, sideshow, radio message, kind of. These are the peaks, and valleys, of the damned. If you don’t do what I say, your ass is going to wind up in my hand! Abusing over the counter drugs? Half stares, half afraid, not even waiting, it took far too long. I'm just filling in all these holes, that I've dug, it isn't "satisfying," but I never thought that it would be. It does seem like "love," is a psychological problem, to be treated, and solved. Maybe yes, maybe, no, all kind of delusions, pathological flimflam. All our lives, to no avail, no gifts, no feet, no chase, and catch, or bait, and switch/hook; presumptions, associations, something? Well, not in my repertoire, scheme, etc. There was a kind of respect going on, but, as of right now, I am in between, heroes. Painted red, on the table, so I'd have a marker, indicating that it was there. We should copy those caged things. Put Helen down, stop spinning her around. Leeches in belly buttons, burned out, rot away. Hodags, can only live in logging towns, that have run out of trees. Toss me in the tar pit, knock him out, with ether. Shot out of head, and holding tank. Driving around, and around, the green pitch wonker, then, disowning it. The long defunct, harvest town, still conjures up images of candelabras, and Latin jazz museums. Of all wax things, lips, tumbled out of the junk drawer. She's spinning six times, on an ask first, take two? Neurotic, twisted, graveyard conversations. Haiku moments, were part of that one night of nausea, we’d never forget. Fuck City, home of the limelight. Intercut the footage of that man doing that thing with his jaw, with a pumpkin. So much gets forgotten, when you’re trying to remember. Time is a slipshod, that starts up, and goes forth. It’s money that’s lacking, first of all. All of outer space, would appear to be right out in front of me. Be that as it may, there is an awful pageant, to attend, some spectacle. Last call, last call, for alcohol. I yearn for something, but don’t know what it is. Pulse slow, eye socket, loose, fingers, numb. It’s all like karate. Cream the corn, Lord, cream the corn. I was never one for basements, I liked bomb shelters. Injunctions, get us into the moment. Get down to the bare bones of it, amass raw materials. Be a manic, obsessive, nut, or else. Forgive me, my trespasses, as I forgive those who have, etc. The Continent, is a cul de sac, we’re stuck in the columns. What is repeated, can be ignored. This is my redline, circled, and squared, ridden in, on my upchuck. The sign says straight ahead, but we know we'll never get there. Chalk-like, streets, in all directions, flourish longer, ask some questions, dine alone. Gripmanic, funk fests, one of those, "might as well," things. I was pretty adamant about that, not happening, thus, it occurred. The things I thought I didn't, I did, as well as, the other way around. They recommended counseling to "get through to me," as they put it. I simply, lost my mind. Perhaps, I should give up, now. All the people, somehow knew, that when he got to the end of the driveway that he'd turn back around. Things don't usually work out this way, however. To stir, to cause, to fuck all the asphalt, without making a sound. Take this name tag, and stick it up your ass. Sandblast the Park Street building, it's worth a smirk. In the Garden of Ambiguity, I found a sort of Blessed Virgin Mary, action figure, standing over sheet metal tulips. Only bipolars, ask how high, up, is, or how, low, down? Parsley flakes, had Siddhartha combusting. To aid his quest, we picked up the bargain basement, tuning fork, that was lying next to the eight track tapes. Boring, isn't worth the price of a handgun. Rigor-mortis sunshines, in only really, dark places. We replicated the spider sounds, then, dubbed them in. I had to get off of that, leech waste, dung heap, playground. Yet another, shotgun (pink dress) wedding invitation. Dismiss us! I've pulled slugs out of iron pipes, scraped puke, out of corners, with plastic bags, swabbed up semen, changed many a diaper, and surgery, was nothing. Well, perhaps a front, for anesthesia dependence. The fear is gone, as is the thrill. We'll argue, but never, ever, understand. The note not written, became an issue. Boris, could be a trip. It’s a desperate pull, for something.
I advocate nothing, do not endorse, any point of view. See, there are these infinite points, on this invisible line, that both tie us together, and divide us, permanently, enough The dialogue was predictable, and the outcome, expected. There was a porcelain faced girl, who was wearing a corset, that looked like it was made of iron, but in fact, was not. The three way, on the freeway, months of this? I've got to turn away, every time I pass the gas station. Plant life, tribal messages, cigarettes in the freezer, some kind of ice cream, on the floor. Either, we'd smash all the (we’re off the air) mirrors, or just, not look in them. Over again, to the genus arachnid. Stalled in the shag again, thrown around. The slug member, slump club. To "hate oneself, and want to die" is a society- wide yearning, to be free, to be understood. The con job, and roll, won't solve your problems. Gutters, all fours, found, somehow, disappointment, written. Get this part done. Uncanny attractions, reversals, and bland individualization, consequences. Should we follow around the happy-go-lucky's? I never called her, and this should not surprise you. Staying inside, or elsewhere, to hide from this ant colony world, we infest. Pajamas all day, why put on shoes? The incident, major appliances in my (remove this culture) way. Muzzled, troubled, cold, drunk, alone, and around, thinking about shit. This became a kind of mounting. A couple of mad, fumbling, thumps, wincing at movies, I've seen before. How to apologize, in a way? The bitter laughter dissipates, right when things seem to be going, real-smooth-groove. A solid state, elaboration, in English. Dressed up nice, then, made fun of. Broken records, don't shatter, much to our dismay. For this, to get from here, to there? This is an ego/vanity, death trap/wish, that can’t be escaped from. Astound the orgasmic, use sound bytes. We travel, to flee from ourselves, but they take us with them. We know not, Vermont. My unexpressed, sentiments, exactly; to write down, what could not be said. So, we left off somewhere, swollen, and angry. Around here, it seems as if people are very interested in the overall health, and aesthetic appeal, of their lawns. We’re cynical, sullen, angry, moist. We remember back to the transistor, push button, lime drop, escapade. We’re getting there (very, very slowly). Most of my thoughts are filthy, and I try awfully hard to not, write them down. We all fuck algae, and walk alone. It’s not if, the United States will fall, but, when? I lusted, she was thirteen, bitten. Put two dimes, in the highbrow, darlin'. Just like a wallet. The barn fell in, last night. What were you wearing his hat, for? How far will we be able to get? Hit yourself, often. Even peanut butter machines, couldn't make any soft serve. She carried on, like a squealing piglet, roasting on a spit. What, glossy, portrait packages? Ready to jump? Cleverly placed cellophane wrappers, take up room, ruin the scenery of the dresser, the living room. Isolated, cottage slashings, evidence burned. Where was I going? He's got a girl in his pocket, if he wants her. He's got a girl in his closet, if he needs her. I guess, I did do some things, say some up shit (uh, sorry). Or, be (he needs her) skeptical, be cynical. What? The book of friends, versus, time spent, alone. We need to get back to dancing dentists, people who do phrenology, and handwriting analysis, seltzer bottles, movement. I feel terrible about myself, but, keep going forward, marching off to my doom. Lightning, is a temporary daylight (at night). Not lost, never attained, big-time excitement, vintage. Deferred dreams, dust covered books, ludicrous kisses, lingering memories. Gluton, elastic waistbands, what she said. These kinds of things, make me into a possibly polluted, drinking fountain. Pants, ripped at the knee. Considered opinion, the longing, sham's, staring at the ceiling. Pillows as props, some kind of arm around, but then, we gotta' wonder. Low lit rambling, tubas, cellos, flattering myself. Let it end, with little plastic hearts, and longing, half spoken, half sung, little towns, long distance. I tripped beyond Sisyphus, and schizophrenia. Man, is nothing, but what he invents himself to be, or her. Why can’t this ever end? When all else fails, work harder.
The avant, and Kremlin, guards, enjoyed the free bean dip, and other snacks, that were provided. There is a help I need, that can't be given. You cut me up, and distribute me, tell me the dream is self-directed, it doesn't matter, fuck, I've already given my endless series of twenty dollar blowjobs, all through this rinky dink, metropolis/suburbia. To be such an alcoholic, yet so... unable to stop... but, so clear, on... I am ready for the 5x7 cards, on plastic sticks/holders. You are god, I am a lemon, a postscript, an unfulfilled promise, I am the wind blowing through the factory floorboards, or ceilings. If this, was all that was, sure, fine, but, oh, no! We must feel the illness weigh upon us, we must pretend to be healthy, while we die, and provide inspiration. I see the imminent collapse, too easily for my own good, I drive by the graves, and often, get to thinking. My mouth is dry, the snow is back, spring is a long, way away. I saw, as I already explained, the train stop, with the people getting on, and off, hearing buzzes, and whistles. It's getting far too close, things are very, very. I'll pay the admission price, sit in the darkest corner, I know, things, were otherwise. Take off the stolen jacket, and return it, get medicated, get up, flip back the hood of the case, and see what's in there. Deadlines that I paid no mind to, regretting things, now. I am the ridiculous, of the ridiculous, I'm sick of saying this, but it's all I can say! And it is only because, "I'm going through a rough time right now," but shit, it's been three years of this. Perhaps, just part of the cycle, the flipsy- dipsy, circus, tilty- tumble. Overrated things, like dangling carrots, thousand dollar grand prizes, false love, false fashion, same, same, same. Most of that, was yesterday's batch, it wasn't nice, but wasn't meant to be. I don't know why I can't stop writing about myself, but I suppose the reason is, that I'm the only person I know. They all turn their attention to fucking, after it’s too late. Justify the shock wave, before the end. The ritual of repetition, I erased that part. This is just rage, my rage. Anyway, the night has been successful. Fling it all away, let it be known, that you dissaprove. They won. We are vulnerable, which is hilarious, when we consider the extent we go, to hide this. Collapse, and be eaten alive. Wrong, is what I am. I see you every time, I need you, every time. The before and after photographs, were amusing. Dump me off, like a dead goat, crying, drunk. There aren't any excuses for what I am, right now. That's right, it doesn't matter. But, and that's the operative word, but, we've got to make a run for it, don't we? “Keep going,” the cigarette butts position, in the wet ground, seemed to say. This, when I'm too lazy, to look for a rake, or, there aren’t any rakes. We're attentive to transcendence, but don't come across it, too often. Find the notes. The call me smile, was a piece of the fabric, from someone else's quilt. So, that can't be written, because it hasn't been read yet. Fly into Spanish rages, I was disposed of, with the used fabric softener. I write the diary of an apathetic sociopath, I go off into my segued tirades, on, or off, recovering, or addled. I must touch briefly, upon my (curse) stigmata. I've given myself, according to the dictates of the script. It's a combination of factors, that allow me to do this, whatever this is. My posture, odor (I’m a dud), facial expression; all, adequately convey, the meaning, that I am to be left alone. Five diffused days a week, of turning left, and right, driving all over the place, but not getting anywhere. This will fill the void, at least, probably the garden, as well. Selfish to the end, and regretting it, the whole time. How she ever managed to worm her way into all the action, is a mystery to me. Most of "what writing is," most, how-to questions, regarding writing, can be answered by a declaration such as, know where to put the commas! I learned of the death, years after the fact, I still don't know the exact year. It's no use, to even say your name, because you're not human. Nobody who would ever, or will ever, read this, isn’t very human, at all. What I meant to do, became, who I decided, to harass, the world sees right through people like me, and perhaps, that's a good thing. As far as trouble, being a disease going around, as far as the color of my hand, smell of my socks, these are the reasons; some drawers that we find open, should've remained closed. I'm sorry that I didn't say enough, I guess I was too busy thinking of things to say, so, that actual speech, was impossible. So now, I'm a dead asshole, with wind blowing through his ribcage, the years pass on. It all seems to mean, so much less, in the form it's in. I'd mingle around, bothering you, saying nothing; my presence alone, was a bother. I can't sing, or won't, there's not much of a difference. The long lust/obsessions, used to be able to guide me through the day. No longer feeling numerical, designated as a that, peculiar. I might as well, finish what I’ve started. The plywood, remains unexplained. The light, invades my space. There will be no run-on sentence, to wow the kid in the back row.
All out of order, and screwy, strange. The time it takes… Orgasm, to orgasm we stumble, whether alone, or in the company of others. Faces rot away! Spent waifs, with spare time, gasping for air they can be spoon-fed, and then, talking about death, as if it were a carousel ride. Lazy to the core, from years of back breaking practice. I'm a freak, let me get out of hand. I'm cheap, and for sale, it's almost the same. Worn out party favors, things to remember, contradictions in terms. To our sheer horror, the spine of the book let out an unbearable, cracking noise, the library was stunned, the text needed to be re-bound, oh, the pain! Standing innocently, in the backyard, you had me mistaken for a more healthy variety. Blood-covered aprons, histrionics. Not redone, retranscribed, and it wouldn't seem to make all that much of a difference. Maybe we dropped what needed dropping, even though, we half miss it. We do, without thinking, and think things, we haven't the slightest inclination, to do. We reinvent our reality, we invert, and re-invent, everything. They don’t want us to pay any attention to the fake wood paneling. Our urges and instincts will get the best of us. Yuck, I can taste my own mouth. It was just like a real fuck. We’re sick of being quiet, all the time. Yes, I suppose you could say, I wrote pornography, for a while, without any real experience, to back it up with. Sketch the balloon. This is being written, post nebula, hence, the discretion. It takes too much time, to rewind. You already have it. Are you a mutt, or are you a Welsh Terrier? The lone house, on our walk home. When you sit in class, not paying attention to the lecture, your mind has a tendency to focus, on some rather strange things. The whole movie, was made up in my head, in a half hour. This is really it, I don’t want to live anymore, the only reason being, that I can’t, not by choice, but by some sick determination, of fate. I think they were talking about sense experience, as an inroads to knowledge. I refuse to talk about, or look at, your lithographs, again. It's on the bottom, left-hand corner, of the screen, in Spanish, Italian, and Portuguese. Well, I'd yet in more trouble, for not checking, and did, in the end. Make it up as you go. It takes a lot. We're pretending to have done the line dance, before. We don't need any invitations. We talked about parking lot suicides, and syllogisms. Ah, the last that wouldn't let me, was the fondest, of them all. Four thirty five an hour, no contract; return your uniforms, or forfeit your check! Looking at the stains on the sheets, holes in the socks. My memory, and this system, serve the same function, achieve the same results. Who's fucking, who? Shit, don't ask me. Old stuff, from an old poem, 90% of which, is scratched out. The waterlogged, old toys, in the backseat, the synchronicity of imagination. I didn't even stop there, to turn around, the other place, every night. The streaks of blood, and tire tracks, where the deer got hit, the fly encased, nightmare. Looked like a lunatic, angry, and backwards, up, and down, the street. The spectacular porch, was important, for it's own sake, and mine. It was, and contributed to, the long, lost, forgotten, weekend. It was... dreams of poorly painted houses, but, like they planned it that way. Putting away the hide and go seek game. Kindergarten rhymes, sung into mirrors, nothing that can be called memorable, was said, but stuff, was uttered. Every time you need it... I saw the girls in the car, on a negative, but it wasn't in with the prints. Into, and out of, abandoned canneries, fighting fish, and drunken singing. Once again (it’s absolutely mad), paranoid, probably, with good reason, this time, I try too hard, or, not at all. Lost evidence, hopefully, thrown out... scars occur, at center stage. I still have the gothic, sideshow, radio message, kind of. These are the peaks, and valleys, of the damned. If you don’t do what I say, your ass is going to wind up in my hand! Abusing over the counter drugs? Half stares, half afraid, not even waiting, it took far too long. I'm just filling in all these holes, that I've dug, it isn't "satisfying," but I never thought that it would be. It does seem like "love," is a psychological problem, to be treated, and solved. Maybe yes, maybe, no, all kind of delusions, pathological flimflam. All our lives, to no avail, no gifts, no feet, no chase, and catch, or bait, and switch/hook; presumptions, associations, something? Well, not in my repertoire, scheme, etc. There was a kind of respect going on, but, as of right now, I am in between, heroes. Painted red, on the table, so I'd have a marker, indicating that it was there. We should copy those caged things. Put Helen down, stop spinning her around. Leeches in belly buttons, burned out, rot away. Hodags, can only live in logging towns, that have run out of trees. Toss me in the tar pit, knock him out, with ether. Shot out of head, and holding tank. Driving around, and around, the green pitch wonker, then, disowning it. The long defunct, harvest town, still conjures up images of candelabras, and Latin jazz museums. Of all wax things, lips, tumbled out of the junk drawer. She's spinning six times, on an ask first, take two? Neurotic, twisted, graveyard conversations. Haiku moments, were part of that one night of nausea, we’d never forget. Fuck City, home of the limelight. Intercut the footage of that man doing that thing with his jaw, with a pumpkin. So much gets forgotten, when you’re trying to remember. Time is a slipshod, that starts up, and goes forth. It’s money that’s lacking, first of all. All of outer space, would appear to be right out in front of me. Be that as it may, there is an awful pageant, to attend, some spectacle. Last call, last call, for alcohol. I yearn for something, but don’t know what it is. Pulse slow, eye socket, loose, fingers, numb. It’s all like karate. Cream the corn, Lord, cream the corn. I was never one for basements, I liked bomb shelters. Injunctions, get us into the moment. Get down to the bare bones of it, amass raw materials. Be a manic, obsessive, nut, or else. Forgive me, my trespasses, as I forgive those who have, etc. The Continent, is a cul de sac, we’re stuck in the columns. What is repeated, can be ignored. This is my redline, circled, and squared, ridden in, on my upchuck. The sign says straight ahead, but we know we'll never get there. Chalk-like, streets, in all directions, flourish longer, ask some questions, dine alone. Gripmanic, funk fests, one of those, "might as well," things. I was pretty adamant about that, not happening, thus, it occurred. The things I thought I didn't, I did, as well as, the other way around. They recommended counseling to "get through to me," as they put it. I simply, lost my mind. Perhaps, I should give up, now. All the people, somehow knew, that when he got to the end of the driveway that he'd turn back around. Things don't usually work out this way, however. To stir, to cause, to fuck all the asphalt, without making a sound. Take this name tag, and stick it up your ass. Sandblast the Park Street building, it's worth a smirk. In the Garden of Ambiguity, I found a sort of Blessed Virgin Mary, action figure, standing over sheet metal tulips. Only bipolars, ask how high, up, is, or how, low, down? Parsley flakes, had Siddhartha combusting. To aid his quest, we picked up the bargain basement, tuning fork, that was lying next to the eight track tapes. Boring, isn't worth the price of a handgun. Rigor-mortis sunshines, in only really, dark places. We replicated the spider sounds, then, dubbed them in. I had to get off of that, leech waste, dung heap, playground. Yet another, shotgun (pink dress) wedding invitation. Dismiss us! I've pulled slugs out of iron pipes, scraped puke, out of corners, with plastic bags, swabbed up semen, changed many a diaper, and surgery, was nothing. Well, perhaps a front, for anesthesia dependence. The fear is gone, as is the thrill. We'll argue, but never, ever, understand. The note not written, became an issue. Boris, could be a trip. It’s a desperate pull, for something.
I advocate nothing, do not endorse, any point of view. See, there are these infinite points, on this invisible line, that both tie us together, and divide us, permanently, enough The dialogue was predictable, and the outcome, expected. There was a porcelain faced girl, who was wearing a corset, that looked like it was made of iron, but in fact, was not. The three way, on the freeway, months of this? I've got to turn away, every time I pass the gas station. Plant life, tribal messages, cigarettes in the freezer, some kind of ice cream, on the floor. Either, we'd smash all the (we’re off the air) mirrors, or just, not look in them. Over again, to the genus arachnid. Stalled in the shag again, thrown around. The slug member, slump club. To "hate oneself, and want to die" is a society- wide yearning, to be free, to be understood. The con job, and roll, won't solve your problems. Gutters, all fours, found, somehow, disappointment, written. Get this part done. Uncanny attractions, reversals, and bland individualization, consequences. Should we follow around the happy-go-lucky's? I never called her, and this should not surprise you. Staying inside, or elsewhere, to hide from this ant colony world, we infest. Pajamas all day, why put on shoes? The incident, major appliances in my (remove this culture) way. Muzzled, troubled, cold, drunk, alone, and around, thinking about shit. This became a kind of mounting. A couple of mad, fumbling, thumps, wincing at movies, I've seen before. How to apologize, in a way? The bitter laughter dissipates, right when things seem to be going, real-smooth-groove. A solid state, elaboration, in English. Dressed up nice, then, made fun of. Broken records, don't shatter, much to our dismay. For this, to get from here, to there? This is an ego/vanity, death trap/wish, that can’t be escaped from. Astound the orgasmic, use sound bytes. We travel, to flee from ourselves, but they take us with them. We know not, Vermont. My unexpressed, sentiments, exactly; to write down, what could not be said. So, we left off somewhere, swollen, and angry. Around here, it seems as if people are very interested in the overall health, and aesthetic appeal, of their lawns. We’re cynical, sullen, angry, moist. We remember back to the transistor, push button, lime drop, escapade. We’re getting there (very, very slowly). Most of my thoughts are filthy, and I try awfully hard to not, write them down. We all fuck algae, and walk alone. It’s not if, the United States will fall, but, when? I lusted, she was thirteen, bitten. Put two dimes, in the highbrow, darlin'. Just like a wallet. The barn fell in, last night. What were you wearing his hat, for? How far will we be able to get? Hit yourself, often. Even peanut butter machines, couldn't make any soft serve. She carried on, like a squealing piglet, roasting on a spit. What, glossy, portrait packages? Ready to jump? Cleverly placed cellophane wrappers, take up room, ruin the scenery of the dresser, the living room. Isolated, cottage slashings, evidence burned. Where was I going? He's got a girl in his pocket, if he wants her. He's got a girl in his closet, if he needs her. I guess, I did do some things, say some up shit (uh, sorry). Or, be (he needs her) skeptical, be cynical. What? The book of friends, versus, time spent, alone. We need to get back to dancing dentists, people who do phrenology, and handwriting analysis, seltzer bottles, movement. I feel terrible about myself, but, keep going forward, marching off to my doom. Lightning, is a temporary daylight (at night). Not lost, never attained, big-time excitement, vintage. Deferred dreams, dust covered books, ludicrous kisses, lingering memories. Gluton, elastic waistbands, what she said. These kinds of things, make me into a possibly polluted, drinking fountain. Pants, ripped at the knee. Considered opinion, the longing, sham's, staring at the ceiling. Pillows as props, some kind of arm around, but then, we gotta' wonder. Low lit rambling, tubas, cellos, flattering myself. Let it end, with little plastic hearts, and longing, half spoken, half sung, little towns, long distance. I tripped beyond Sisyphus, and schizophrenia. Man, is nothing, but what he invents himself to be, or her. Why can’t this ever end? When all else fails, work harder.
176
I thought it had been a long time, since I'd lived a lie. I don't particularly like, anything, I'm not scared of anything, either. I used to talk about fear, but never, was I really afraid, of anything. As far as blockage, or what's blocking... who cares? Something, either is, or isn't. Is today, a good day, to write, to live, die? It wasn't quite that, now, I can't remember what it was, but I'll come back around to it. To be translated, to be emancipated. That stupid, question, sexless day, sexless self. To see the haircut, that stands for, well, nothing. Just another face, another one of those. Look through the glass, into the room, and at the objects, within the room. When you can't take it anymore, drive to the store, to forget for a while. To escape from the folded up pieces of paper. The cigarette got caught in the flip-top box, and snapped in half. The cans, any cans, are easy to open. Thank you for the compliment, if that's what it was. Don't make me go, I'm sick of it all, the mocking, that goes on, without words even being exchanged. You are your true self, when you are alone, you are a lot of different things. There are no choices, chances, I dreamt, that I had a new hat on. Make me be the color blue, and drop all illusions, allusions, once, and for all. The beginning of the end, is this, I can't, there is no help to be had, asked for. There are no love locks, there are no things to desire, look at, frown upon. The oceans are polluted, the ozone holes, are (the cyst?) opening, and for what, we do not care. I like carnival music, I like warm pop, I like these things I have, thus far, avoided. Few people are, but I don't care, if they can, do it, do. I'm not here to be guru-like, inspiration. Less than zero, all the time, out of room. Desist! There is nothing around, but the hens, clucking, looking pretty, bye. We don’t want to go with the flow. Keep the cubbyhole closed, invent new games, watch your wrists. When I bathe, I use shampoo. I can't reach, the promise that I broke to myself, is what will probably be the thing to kill me, or, rather, what will cause me, to kill myself. Shock, is a damn near impossible, thing to instill. I have an empty paper bag on my nightstand, with three numbers written on it. Cream of some kind, filled the sidecar. We can do anything we want, but do, very little. There is so little freedom, as is, don’t lose it. There are two lives, and you can't very well give up one, to have more of the other. You’d better get that photographic memory, of yours, developed, quick, smart ass. I want your money, not all of it, just part. Lap, nap, impartiality, it was always someone else, that they had their eyes on. Has the lightning stopped, yet? Am I still, nervous? Ah, yes, we have indeed, undone ourselves. The serotonin, has me thinking, I’m in an airborne glider. I don't pretend to be anything, but, boring, except for the things I write. Oh, it’s rinky dink, all right. The lucky, don’t pity, the unlucky. We call him, Moodrow, Moodrow, Dali. I can't say, the things I write, or write, the things I say. The core, the most important part of the book, is lost in translation. This is what is, or was, could be, or could not.... I don't know. To say the least, I’m desperate, for a hit. You are abusive, and hollow, but, with a surprise, inside. The ache, of this perpetual torment, and despair. Let's stand in line, go in, try to find a seat in the back, so that noone will see us (not that anyone would want to). Let's finish one thing this week, despite all the time constraints, deceptions, feeling of being trapped in. Let's die with spoons in our hands, and overweight (let's not, and say we did). There are three large books, on the floor of the room, and rotting food. Oh, this implosion, this crumbling into a heap... dance the chicken. We've invented this new way to flounder, to speed up the demise, we are not quite, what we thought we were. Scratch that, let's do that scream from the rooftops, exercise in futility, at least, until the police tell us to get the fuck down. This is the kind of shit that we are used to, these things go on. It's only half of the story, so don't put me in the index, under; the guy who crawled out of the rain pipe. Listen to this one. It's been put into somebody else's, hands, it's someone else's, livelihood, someone else's, honor, and glory, someone else's profits. To sit, and listen, to people, or nonentities, tell us what to do; good, bad, happy, sad. Arcade games, blood clots, panaceas, propagated mischief. Are we happy? Let this be a legendary flush, down, out, of the bowl. Almost all of my days, are gone. Fit it in, anywhere.
I used to bitch about "not getting my due," now, time. Nerdy, nerdy, hail, hail. So I am not outward bound, and never have been, no one says good-bye, hello. Use your check, to block the airflow, escape maneuvers. I just didn't fit, something happened, or didn't happen, I don't know what I'm listening to. There is snot from a sneeze, all over the paper, now, and the book, the coupons, pens. This is the simple, stupid, mystery. Why do I think about, all the time, when I'm too chickenshit, and will always be, to do any such thing, as this? Fifteen dollars, is the going rate, has been, for years. This is corruption, pass me the hemlock, the secret's out. It's what you make of it, we're very lucky. It's moods, are like shadows, on a cloudy day, they're there, then, not there, can't be pointed to, clarified, exactly. Let's snake dance, somehow, across the room, let's take a drive, let's put a staple in it. These are the screams, before the shotgun goes off, this is the atmospheric, thing, we need, before the guillotine, goes down. Letters were written, and proper postage, was affixed. I quit, before I even started the damn job. Poems, are a rip-off, more than anything else. The dog pissed in my room, again, I can't think my way to a smaller waist size, or, really, anything, at all, for that matter. Nobody wants to have anything to do with you, if you aren't a doer, an achiever; nevermind the fact, that there's nothing to do, nothing to achieve. There are dinners to eat, beers to drink, cars to pass, or follow, there is nothing but shit, and it, stinks! Who underlined my name, and drew that wonderful, creative, design, below it? Blow me, Trixie, grade me down, hand me the aspic. You know what… fuck morning! So much, is still missing. Oh, we don't allow that kinda language, around here. I keep finding them, only to lose them, again, in other words, my backyard, is an ecosystem. This needs to be taped, the thing in my ear, not what I've written. I did have some kind of recording system, of one sort, or the other, at one time. Then, I walk out of the bathroom, with only a towel on. Slow, laborious, deliberation, on the nature of peanut butter, health, and longevity. This was once available, people could purchase this, people knew about this, then, more so, than now. They don't get it, no one expects them to. Where are those little, snap back, colored, rubber bands? Not that it would make any difference, but, I've got to unlearn; simply stop, going there, just sit, or run, around the block, or something. Twelve packs, empty cans, hello's, hugs, leave her alone, don't even look at her. Keep a sock in your pocket, preferably, a dirty one. Let it all fall down, let the staples, pull clear, don't listen, look, don't even try. Nobody will read this, anyway, so, I will write whatever I want. We binge, and purge, on what happens, in between. I hereby refuse, to take my medication. What's worth trying for? What's worth anything? Read your stupid, asinine, chicken soup book. My regrets still stand. Must fix what’s wrong with this, at once. Taste, style, these sorts of things, bumping in on people's little secrets. Sorry, I had to turn right, I fell asleep, thereby missing the marathon, or marathons, like a dry fuck, in a factory (husband/wife, life). Grease spots on concrete, no real focusing point... they're all assholes, let's ream each other. Forget about the ring around the posie bullshit, cry, baby, cry. If I'd continued the series, the way the series was progressing, I would have... ah, forget it. Things that happened a long time ago, namely, dead people's doodles, and drawings. My house, although I have a fuzzy idea... where did that green stain on the lamp come from? That was the draw, in all capital letters, that was why people flooded through the turnstiles, no one can take back, what was given away, forever. Wave, or don’t, nincompoop. Use your fork, you filthy animal. Whatever I am, it’s getting worse. Fling up some dust.
If we had more patience, and could pay better attention, we'd be fine. It looks nice backwards, and so do we. Get in a car, with an actual, living, human being. We just like to look, fantasize, imagine, etc. We arise, later and later, in the day. Now, I need to scream. How many years did we suppose it would take, just to buy, and wear, this black beret? I’ll live to regret it, in a way. This is the beginning of the confetti era. I fancy myself that way, or, as having those abilities, but really, I just scratch, and sniff. I want to be an islander, I want to go away. How is it possible to enjoy leisure, when you keep bumping into ex-girlfriends? Man, did I ever make a fool of myself. Posing questions, killing time, crossed off the list, thinking we've found a short cut, that's really a dead end. So, then I designed it this way, and am in the process of re-designing it. Just let external circumstances, allow me to get to work on time, and I'll be just fine. This is what life is!? Flinching away, as an instinctive activity, from any manner of, “what lies before us?” We could afford a mobile home, weekly groceries, anything beyond that, we get into trouble. Who filmed the crash? It sounds like the whole shit bang, is already reverberating, around the room. I see it as an unpredictable, la-la-la. For crying out loud, don't you look at her tits! The monkey walks in, carrying all sorts of wonderful, colored, toys. Four faces looking at me, but they aren't real. It seems that his, whatever it is, has a really good hold, on my scalp! There it is … hey! There is lint, or some other kind of fuzzy stuff, on the tape, so it won't sound quite the way I suppose, we want it to sound. These are the handles that we're supposed to hold, when traveling up, and down, stairs, but no one really needs to hold them, or does, really. Let's drink coffee, until our asses feel like ottoman couches. This living room is just like that one. Motor yonder, give up on living in poverty, learn how to diagram a sentence, use interesting verbs. Emerge from it, rectify your problems. Not where the tree was! Rejoice, I bought a new belt. Empty envelopes, empty bottles, page, after page, year, after year, gripping at imaginary lines. I can't smell the forty one cents. Let's cruise our asses up to the supermarket, buy stock in Arcadia, blow our noses. These boots cause blisters, dance, dance, dance. I could only say thank you, so, that's all I said. Sing along, check the negative, play, wadded/folded up, paper, football, with fingers, for goalposts. Balk. The dark side of the room, is emitting a hum, for the things I can't afford. Smell that shirt, then, question sweat gland declarations. To fuck, or not to fuck, is not even a question. It wasn't me, who wrote what I wrote, it wasn't me who would engage in deliberate nonsense. Get out the machine, see if it works the wonders, that it's supposed to work. I got my very own dummy, but there's a sad side to this. It's not a pen, it's the movement of the hand. Maybe I do spend too much time at home, or near home, of course, I don't have a home. I am the waiting, this is only waiting. I look down at the scars on my hands, but never take the time to count them. Crying is rare, for you, me... that guy over there. We play with mirrors, lights, false beliefs.. let them go, or they will let go, of us. They are all dead now (commenting on a photograph). I just figured out, that I piss a lot? Do not accept this flat, down, and out, position. Once I’m rich, I’ll recant, all of this. They don't look, I don't look, we glance, keep our heads moving. There is no, is no! Get out of the wake, the slipstream. What I want to have happen, will not. Scratch it. If I had anything to give, I’d give it. Feel my wounds. Everything is a scam, a rip off. The evil eye, lurch into oblivion, that she was talking about, trying to convey. Well, here comes smiley, there goes chuckles. To wake up with a bloody face, is better than to not wake up, at all. In, and out, that red door, for years, and years (long years, if it makes any difference). Howdy-doo, for the black pen, flip. More ingestion of something, or the other, more return calls, to make, only looking partially, flabbergasted. Inching closer, and closer, the casket's got my name on it! No, I don't really feel this way, well, most of the time I don't. Suck your own dick, boy. There is vomit in the wastepaper basket, yet again. Life is not fair, but we know why. Try to do more. Charge the mound. Monitor the post, and the pole.
Wobbly, wobbly, hams. Another boring six months. Slumped over the steering wheel, on account of 850 dollars? We can use this for scrap. Now is the time, for all good folks, to dive into their dirty laundry basket. Shit, perfect, that's what I am, lonesome. Amongst other things, but that stands out, that 1950's, lonesome thing. It's difficult to say, a lot of things, that's why I listen, observe, and report, not, do. Nothing feels like enough, but I've saved all of their letters. Correct the inadequacy, use the cereal box, use anything, everything, especially, background music. The plan was to make the tape, but we all know what happens, to plans. The work, and the other work, the hours of, O.K. Can the dry cleaners, get out the ground in dirt, innumerable splotches, of what's her name? Everything looked so good, in theory, but the theory, was anti-theory; so, on that alone, it was lame. But more than that, it was all a great, big, creative delusion. Well, at least it was creative, but in the process, countless days, weeks… of making a complete, and utter fool, of myself. Get down to the half¬way mark, then put a star there. Open up the paper bag, or throw it off the table, pick it up later, and throw it in the trash. Return all borrowed materials, especially things you don't... shouldn't, ahh! There isn't any vomit, now, at one time, there was lots of vomit, and I'd write about it. When there isn't any vomit, presently at hand, how can I write about it? How did I ever become this weird thing, that I am? Now, there's a question, worth asking. I've seen my whole self, smeared across the page, and didn't like what I saw in the mirror, either. You called it a complex, I called it my propensity to stick my finger in my ass. Don't half-recite, half-sing, bloody sex acts, there are impressionable children, in the audience. I didn't mean to ruin the birthday cake, hidden woman inside, surprise party, escapade. Back to the fake plan, for lack of anything better to do. To affirm life, reality, etc., we find ourselves, affirming nothing, proving the existence of nothing! Yes, the somethingness, of nothingness, long lines at the department store. I've been tricked, too. My tongue is aimed at the imaginary target, but it's not liable to land there, anytime soon. Bodies being dragged, assertiveness training, completed; no escape, logically. I think that it was in italics, I think that that wasn’t a compliment, after all. It’s about what it’s like to be crazy, these days, when they don’t even believe, in crazy. I am a fugitive, hopelessly indebted, to Louis Pasteur. It gets so late, so fast. Words are not enough, have never been, will never be. It’s always a mad dash, at the end. This is the grip we fear, the vice, we're stuck in, and no quantity of black and white film, can get us out of this, down on all fours position, we're stuck in. When things go too far, and I start noticing the restroom graffiti, it's time to get out of town, for a while, a long while. What? No flip, flip, just, press? We need change, and cannot, at present, have any. It's like begging parents for candy, all over again... soon, soon, we hear. No heart was broken, but it would appear... the signs, symbols, hiding my dick behind my hand, when I forced to use the urinal, so that no one else can see that I piss through a hole. For many reasons I like to look across the floors, and on the walls, at my scribblings, and scratchings. I like to think the impossible, and not do anything. With my degree, they told me I could either write, or teach, well, I wrote. No acknowledgement, whatsoever, whenever she drives by. Sell me to a "farm," when I get old, like they do to the family pets. I have done some things, so nerdy, that I cannot repeat them, here. Make this, mean something. The two quit, in tandem, or got fired, on the same day, bless them. Sorry, this is not my station. I touch myself, when it’s safe to. Now, I kick at the half-full/half-empty, jacket. Dedicate this, to the acne years. I’m tripped out, and I don’t even know what that is, or, means. Everyone is asking me, where my new pants are. Everyone is asking about the incompleteness, in regards, college. People stop by, and/or, call, at very strange hours, under very unusual, circumstances. I will go to the furniture shop, for no other reason, than that it is a gigantic, furniture shop. I think I'm a gonna' call you, make a big issue, outta’ you. Flippidy, dippidy-do, my darling, flippidy, dippidy-do. When she finally answered the door, she was so blown out of her mind, on barbiturates, that I had allegedly transformed myself, into a twenty-sixth century ox, or lamb's hoof, thus, I am a hoof. Complete your education, they chant, as I half eat, half dribble, the breakfast, onto the table, onto the floor, and wherever the hell else. Oh, hi, what do they have? Rain. Let me lick at your boots (of some kind), and innocence, to open a floodgate, or two, unexpectedly, because you were never afraid. Neither was I, and I can't help thinking, that something, anything, should have happened, right there; right there, next to the miracle mop, and the postcard, of some Hindu Saint. Even back in the day, of just thinking about Portland, even in the days before governmental (oh, they forgot) interference, there were a few things, I wanted to believe. The pageant is over, it has run its course. Do not reassure us, we don’t need it. The lime green wall, matched the vomit on the floor. I went berserk, in what used to be the garage. We think we know so much, we know nothing.
I used to bitch about "not getting my due," now, time. Nerdy, nerdy, hail, hail. So I am not outward bound, and never have been, no one says good-bye, hello. Use your check, to block the airflow, escape maneuvers. I just didn't fit, something happened, or didn't happen, I don't know what I'm listening to. There is snot from a sneeze, all over the paper, now, and the book, the coupons, pens. This is the simple, stupid, mystery. Why do I think about, all the time, when I'm too chickenshit, and will always be, to do any such thing, as this? Fifteen dollars, is the going rate, has been, for years. This is corruption, pass me the hemlock, the secret's out. It's what you make of it, we're very lucky. It's moods, are like shadows, on a cloudy day, they're there, then, not there, can't be pointed to, clarified, exactly. Let's snake dance, somehow, across the room, let's take a drive, let's put a staple in it. These are the screams, before the shotgun goes off, this is the atmospheric, thing, we need, before the guillotine, goes down. Letters were written, and proper postage, was affixed. I quit, before I even started the damn job. Poems, are a rip-off, more than anything else. The dog pissed in my room, again, I can't think my way to a smaller waist size, or, really, anything, at all, for that matter. Nobody wants to have anything to do with you, if you aren't a doer, an achiever; nevermind the fact, that there's nothing to do, nothing to achieve. There are dinners to eat, beers to drink, cars to pass, or follow, there is nothing but shit, and it, stinks! Who underlined my name, and drew that wonderful, creative, design, below it? Blow me, Trixie, grade me down, hand me the aspic. You know what… fuck morning! So much, is still missing. Oh, we don't allow that kinda language, around here. I keep finding them, only to lose them, again, in other words, my backyard, is an ecosystem. This needs to be taped, the thing in my ear, not what I've written. I did have some kind of recording system, of one sort, or the other, at one time. Then, I walk out of the bathroom, with only a towel on. Slow, laborious, deliberation, on the nature of peanut butter, health, and longevity. This was once available, people could purchase this, people knew about this, then, more so, than now. They don't get it, no one expects them to. Where are those little, snap back, colored, rubber bands? Not that it would make any difference, but, I've got to unlearn; simply stop, going there, just sit, or run, around the block, or something. Twelve packs, empty cans, hello's, hugs, leave her alone, don't even look at her. Keep a sock in your pocket, preferably, a dirty one. Let it all fall down, let the staples, pull clear, don't listen, look, don't even try. Nobody will read this, anyway, so, I will write whatever I want. We binge, and purge, on what happens, in between. I hereby refuse, to take my medication. What's worth trying for? What's worth anything? Read your stupid, asinine, chicken soup book. My regrets still stand. Must fix what’s wrong with this, at once. Taste, style, these sorts of things, bumping in on people's little secrets. Sorry, I had to turn right, I fell asleep, thereby missing the marathon, or marathons, like a dry fuck, in a factory (husband/wife, life). Grease spots on concrete, no real focusing point... they're all assholes, let's ream each other. Forget about the ring around the posie bullshit, cry, baby, cry. If I'd continued the series, the way the series was progressing, I would have... ah, forget it. Things that happened a long time ago, namely, dead people's doodles, and drawings. My house, although I have a fuzzy idea... where did that green stain on the lamp come from? That was the draw, in all capital letters, that was why people flooded through the turnstiles, no one can take back, what was given away, forever. Wave, or don’t, nincompoop. Use your fork, you filthy animal. Whatever I am, it’s getting worse. Fling up some dust.
If we had more patience, and could pay better attention, we'd be fine. It looks nice backwards, and so do we. Get in a car, with an actual, living, human being. We just like to look, fantasize, imagine, etc. We arise, later and later, in the day. Now, I need to scream. How many years did we suppose it would take, just to buy, and wear, this black beret? I’ll live to regret it, in a way. This is the beginning of the confetti era. I fancy myself that way, or, as having those abilities, but really, I just scratch, and sniff. I want to be an islander, I want to go away. How is it possible to enjoy leisure, when you keep bumping into ex-girlfriends? Man, did I ever make a fool of myself. Posing questions, killing time, crossed off the list, thinking we've found a short cut, that's really a dead end. So, then I designed it this way, and am in the process of re-designing it. Just let external circumstances, allow me to get to work on time, and I'll be just fine. This is what life is!? Flinching away, as an instinctive activity, from any manner of, “what lies before us?” We could afford a mobile home, weekly groceries, anything beyond that, we get into trouble. Who filmed the crash? It sounds like the whole shit bang, is already reverberating, around the room. I see it as an unpredictable, la-la-la. For crying out loud, don't you look at her tits! The monkey walks in, carrying all sorts of wonderful, colored, toys. Four faces looking at me, but they aren't real. It seems that his, whatever it is, has a really good hold, on my scalp! There it is … hey! There is lint, or some other kind of fuzzy stuff, on the tape, so it won't sound quite the way I suppose, we want it to sound. These are the handles that we're supposed to hold, when traveling up, and down, stairs, but no one really needs to hold them, or does, really. Let's drink coffee, until our asses feel like ottoman couches. This living room is just like that one. Motor yonder, give up on living in poverty, learn how to diagram a sentence, use interesting verbs. Emerge from it, rectify your problems. Not where the tree was! Rejoice, I bought a new belt. Empty envelopes, empty bottles, page, after page, year, after year, gripping at imaginary lines. I can't smell the forty one cents. Let's cruise our asses up to the supermarket, buy stock in Arcadia, blow our noses. These boots cause blisters, dance, dance, dance. I could only say thank you, so, that's all I said. Sing along, check the negative, play, wadded/folded up, paper, football, with fingers, for goalposts. Balk. The dark side of the room, is emitting a hum, for the things I can't afford. Smell that shirt, then, question sweat gland declarations. To fuck, or not to fuck, is not even a question. It wasn't me, who wrote what I wrote, it wasn't me who would engage in deliberate nonsense. Get out the machine, see if it works the wonders, that it's supposed to work. I got my very own dummy, but there's a sad side to this. It's not a pen, it's the movement of the hand. Maybe I do spend too much time at home, or near home, of course, I don't have a home. I am the waiting, this is only waiting. I look down at the scars on my hands, but never take the time to count them. Crying is rare, for you, me... that guy over there. We play with mirrors, lights, false beliefs.. let them go, or they will let go, of us. They are all dead now (commenting on a photograph). I just figured out, that I piss a lot? Do not accept this flat, down, and out, position. Once I’m rich, I’ll recant, all of this. They don't look, I don't look, we glance, keep our heads moving. There is no, is no! Get out of the wake, the slipstream. What I want to have happen, will not. Scratch it. If I had anything to give, I’d give it. Feel my wounds. Everything is a scam, a rip off. The evil eye, lurch into oblivion, that she was talking about, trying to convey. Well, here comes smiley, there goes chuckles. To wake up with a bloody face, is better than to not wake up, at all. In, and out, that red door, for years, and years (long years, if it makes any difference). Howdy-doo, for the black pen, flip. More ingestion of something, or the other, more return calls, to make, only looking partially, flabbergasted. Inching closer, and closer, the casket's got my name on it! No, I don't really feel this way, well, most of the time I don't. Suck your own dick, boy. There is vomit in the wastepaper basket, yet again. Life is not fair, but we know why. Try to do more. Charge the mound. Monitor the post, and the pole.
Wobbly, wobbly, hams. Another boring six months. Slumped over the steering wheel, on account of 850 dollars? We can use this for scrap. Now is the time, for all good folks, to dive into their dirty laundry basket. Shit, perfect, that's what I am, lonesome. Amongst other things, but that stands out, that 1950's, lonesome thing. It's difficult to say, a lot of things, that's why I listen, observe, and report, not, do. Nothing feels like enough, but I've saved all of their letters. Correct the inadequacy, use the cereal box, use anything, everything, especially, background music. The plan was to make the tape, but we all know what happens, to plans. The work, and the other work, the hours of, O.K. Can the dry cleaners, get out the ground in dirt, innumerable splotches, of what's her name? Everything looked so good, in theory, but the theory, was anti-theory; so, on that alone, it was lame. But more than that, it was all a great, big, creative delusion. Well, at least it was creative, but in the process, countless days, weeks… of making a complete, and utter fool, of myself. Get down to the half¬way mark, then put a star there. Open up the paper bag, or throw it off the table, pick it up later, and throw it in the trash. Return all borrowed materials, especially things you don't... shouldn't, ahh! There isn't any vomit, now, at one time, there was lots of vomit, and I'd write about it. When there isn't any vomit, presently at hand, how can I write about it? How did I ever become this weird thing, that I am? Now, there's a question, worth asking. I've seen my whole self, smeared across the page, and didn't like what I saw in the mirror, either. You called it a complex, I called it my propensity to stick my finger in my ass. Don't half-recite, half-sing, bloody sex acts, there are impressionable children, in the audience. I didn't mean to ruin the birthday cake, hidden woman inside, surprise party, escapade. Back to the fake plan, for lack of anything better to do. To affirm life, reality, etc., we find ourselves, affirming nothing, proving the existence of nothing! Yes, the somethingness, of nothingness, long lines at the department store. I've been tricked, too. My tongue is aimed at the imaginary target, but it's not liable to land there, anytime soon. Bodies being dragged, assertiveness training, completed; no escape, logically. I think that it was in italics, I think that that wasn’t a compliment, after all. It’s about what it’s like to be crazy, these days, when they don’t even believe, in crazy. I am a fugitive, hopelessly indebted, to Louis Pasteur. It gets so late, so fast. Words are not enough, have never been, will never be. It’s always a mad dash, at the end. This is the grip we fear, the vice, we're stuck in, and no quantity of black and white film, can get us out of this, down on all fours position, we're stuck in. When things go too far, and I start noticing the restroom graffiti, it's time to get out of town, for a while, a long while. What? No flip, flip, just, press? We need change, and cannot, at present, have any. It's like begging parents for candy, all over again... soon, soon, we hear. No heart was broken, but it would appear... the signs, symbols, hiding my dick behind my hand, when I forced to use the urinal, so that no one else can see that I piss through a hole. For many reasons I like to look across the floors, and on the walls, at my scribblings, and scratchings. I like to think the impossible, and not do anything. With my degree, they told me I could either write, or teach, well, I wrote. No acknowledgement, whatsoever, whenever she drives by. Sell me to a "farm," when I get old, like they do to the family pets. I have done some things, so nerdy, that I cannot repeat them, here. Make this, mean something. The two quit, in tandem, or got fired, on the same day, bless them. Sorry, this is not my station. I touch myself, when it’s safe to. Now, I kick at the half-full/half-empty, jacket. Dedicate this, to the acne years. I’m tripped out, and I don’t even know what that is, or, means. Everyone is asking me, where my new pants are. Everyone is asking about the incompleteness, in regards, college. People stop by, and/or, call, at very strange hours, under very unusual, circumstances. I will go to the furniture shop, for no other reason, than that it is a gigantic, furniture shop. I think I'm a gonna' call you, make a big issue, outta’ you. Flippidy, dippidy-do, my darling, flippidy, dippidy-do. When she finally answered the door, she was so blown out of her mind, on barbiturates, that I had allegedly transformed myself, into a twenty-sixth century ox, or lamb's hoof, thus, I am a hoof. Complete your education, they chant, as I half eat, half dribble, the breakfast, onto the table, onto the floor, and wherever the hell else. Oh, hi, what do they have? Rain. Let me lick at your boots (of some kind), and innocence, to open a floodgate, or two, unexpectedly, because you were never afraid. Neither was I, and I can't help thinking, that something, anything, should have happened, right there; right there, next to the miracle mop, and the postcard, of some Hindu Saint. Even back in the day, of just thinking about Portland, even in the days before governmental (oh, they forgot) interference, there were a few things, I wanted to believe. The pageant is over, it has run its course. Do not reassure us, we don’t need it. The lime green wall, matched the vomit on the floor. I went berserk, in what used to be the garage. We think we know so much, we know nothing.
175
It's another Wednesday. I saw you in the grocery store, and remembered your swagger, quite well. And all that was seen, could've been predicted, and was, once upon a time. No calls to make, no work to do, nothing left, to avert, avoid, or destroy. There is only, paper, there are only, pens, and if I buy a machine, to take the place of those things, then, that, will exist, as well. I do not exist, I subsist, too late, too late. To be so pretty, at one time, things change, get crossed out, the best years of our lives, are looked back upon, as being the most horrible of all, because they gave us all those false perceptions, hopes, false everything. For a while, we think that things will get better, later, too late, let's just say that... let's leave the whole thing, left unsaid. The simple wants, and needs, that we have, and the wrong ways, that we go about, satisfying them. Our own personal retributions, reading lists, escape mechanisms, of one kind or the other. Right on the cusp of, “ready to leave town.” No, I doubt that emotion, will ever take place. And true, while saying, that I have no emotions, I'm being led around, on their leash, instead of things, possibly, being the other way around. To willingly, go through the religious strip search, again, only to see, that everyone is still naked, and shitting. To go through these creative shifts of perspective, only because, everyone is not yet, dead. It's only that I can't sit on a couch with them, anymore. Our bases, foundations, are all made of sand. When left, we usually leave, soon after that, and I don't want to, but know how dream-like, and false, all these layers of concrete, really are. It's true, that the majority of an atom, is empty space, then, we run out of words, to describe it, but essentially, the universe in an act of pretending, and we could very well, consider ourselves authors, of the whole thing, but, I can't see why I would have created a world, such as this one, although, at this point, I should shut up. There are plenty of cardboard boxes, enough for all of us. I am the grey, in between, I am the false grail, the dashed hope. There is no such thing as automatic writing, it may very well be the most difficult, and unnatural, activity, that there is, to engage in. Can I live with this? I'm the kid that flunked algebra, and did a lot of other, very strange things. They never quite believe you, when you change your name. Keep your life, away from mine. The moss on the tree, vines, all over everything. Final thrusts, don’t remind noone, of, nuthin’. What was the name of that book, again? Substance! If the sky were to fall, it would at least be something, very interesting, to see, much more so, than the car wash, stoplight, burger joints, and early 1970's, office buildings. We don't notice, nobody notices, I don't notice, the poet (supposed). That's not my belt, it's time the body is on the examining slab. This is the background, doo-wop, to get you through the day, as the ambulance, pulls up, slowly, to the retirement home, and the hearse, peels in, to the funeral home, parking lot. They all gouge us, gauge us, tell us stories, that don't matter, and some, that do; but you have to read between the lines, to find them. We park our cars, then, put quarters in the meter, walk to where we're going, which is nowhere, we need to be. Sidewalk love, give me my antacids The way to save a life, is to take one? Line me up for the execution, no, I don't need a cigarette, I've smoked a lifetime full, already. To keep things in cigar boxes, to line up three meaningless jars, and place them on a shelf, to crawl to the bathroom. There is blood on my hands, there is blood in my eye, and all over the floor, I want to give it all away, and wander off. The market value on what I possess, isn't really, too high. There's no haggling, there is no questioning, there is no higher education, no prostitute, worth the price of the fuck. There isn't very much, at all, we know this, but it doesn't stop us, from looking into display cases. Talking, drinking our lives away, nothing stops us, and nothing really starts us, either. My dreams, tell me I’m doing something, very (laugh, if you wish) wrong. We need more wood. Invent your own baseball (this is your brain, on reptile). Tulies must be noticed during the two weeks a year, that they are here.
Enjoying my dried up pen? It hurts my internal organs, to move. Most people combat ennui, with drugs, or with consumption, of one sort, or the other. Cough, cough, coughing my way, to an early grave. Complete, (1,000 pages?) incomplete; not failure, really, just an average, of averages, a puff, and then gone. Hey, then, I'm dancing around the raised platform, and remembering all those non-conversations, non-this's, and non-that’s. My troubles are rather squeaky, fraudulent, because I'm full, of should'ves, and maybe, some of those should'ves, were could'ves. It (will happen) doesn't sound so good, but it did keep me alive, today. Fuck life, and more importantly, fuck me, and I don't mean with genitalia, mister! I should write screenplays, soap commercials, billboards, porno novels. I've got to get away from my own creepy, crawly, mush, at least long enough, to see some different sidestreets, highways, states, even, faces. Where we are now, is so sickening, so wrong, so destructive... we met at the restaurant, on I-94, on June 14. We'll have a great, big, insane, party, right there, in the former, parking lot. Now, I'm picking my nose, and eating the accumulated deposits, hey, they are my, deposits. Projects, the kind that we envisioned, well, they were like flushings. I see the trains rumbling West, I can hear, the delineation, two dollars, two hundred, full page ads, in newspapers. Back to the dime store, when there were such things. Back to being incorrigible; wish derailment, lost, and found, gloves, stenches, boots, characterizations, sicknesses. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for reading this, if you hate it, love it, or something else, entirely. That's the reason I've been given, to stop. It was a clandestine meeting, in a cake shop, that went nowhere. That, and the innumerable stains, new aerosol sprays, nobody camps in the little woods, tonight. A new kind of pressure, to make me think that there is a life worth living, to get caught up, lost in, forgotten in. The conditioning, started early, when none of us were paying attention. We’re trapped, there is no way out. Seventeen, and irresistable. Read it aloud, now. If you could only see me, and how ridiculous I look. Anyway, well, should I write, or not? None of this is going anywhere, and I'm not, there's no muse, no solution. She attempted to sabotage my work. Nothing pleasant, is happening. The entire thing, was re-done. Maybe she’s still alive. Too many years of doing nothing, catches up to us. I'm stuck, again, I've doublecrossed myself. Retain certain tones. Search high, and low, near, and far, long, and hard. I’m not sorry. Yeah, well, you don’t have to live with my face. Digestive enzymes, that have been diluted, and pissed, have ruined my ability, to will anything, including, getting up, and walking across the room. It's almost a given, it's already, almost, happened. This no longer works, helps, proves. Where's the clip¬board? As far as problems, that I have, and writing about them, I can't see how anybody could, give a shit. When the ego dies, we die, and there is usually, not going to be anybody around, to observe, and report, on the phenomenon, for us. As I've said many times, my miserable life, and circumstances, are not only, my responsibility, but my fault, entirely. Everything that I call "it," or "them," or "you," is really, me! It's called projection, anyway, it also means, that this book, is entirely, about myself, or facets of, myself. Three to… 3.5. Waiting on death, impatiently, it seems, that people like me, don't last too long. To "solve," oh, how could I have been so blind? Me, oh, my, yes, I should be attempting to "solve," these difficulties... gracious! It's the teeth dream, garage antecedent, waking up late, still here, I'm still, right here. There is always food, everywhere you look, it's, food, food, food! More than anyone could ever possibly use, on every avenue, every street corner, off the interstate, in Kansas, even. They wouldn’t believe the truth, if they heard it. Anyway, I guess the crux of this paragraph, is that I've stopped living, and once you've done that, it's only a matter of time, and there’s not a lot to write about, if you don't give a shit. My egg ain’t nothin’, for you, Timey! A thick piece of skin, is on the floor, right now. Shatter the myth, of the “good schools.” Oh, we’re like cattle, alright!
No consciousness, gravity drops, bones. Integrity/integration, be your own, you. I see it, can afford it, but can't buy it. Take my place, I've died, you see, and if you can't take my place, keep in mind, that I took somebody else's place, and I didn't have a say in the matter. There is nothing metaphysical, or cosmic, about what I just said, or will. The solid oak cupboards, are open, the part of the radio is on, right now, the part I never use. I see the paper carrot, and don’t know what to do with it, or where to display it. I've removed all of the sex talk, because there's no such thing as sex. People must be sitting around, just thinking, these days. The scraps of tin foil, and (steam the fat off) cellophane, are on the floor, the chanting, is going on, I can't open the books, I've already read them, why revisit old planets, with charred landscapes, and reactions to them, as relevant as mine, or, less so? Cross out everything, and start over again. Well, there's that, or this, I'd rather have that, even though, I know better. There are more outs, in that, than this, and this, is not good. This is really bad, so I will work for that, I will have that! My only motivation, for pursuing that, is to get away from this, that, is all. So, I'll get to work, fool a few people, get my arms around the tree, stick my finger somewhere, it probably doesn't belong, then shake a few hands. I'll do what you've done. We all ache. Turn me on, to the turquoise car, I've got a new model, in mind. There is a me, that I like, but I haven't been there, yet. It's a teleological thing, it's involving a lot more waiting, than I thought it would. It's a long off, distant, future, way off in the distance, if I get there, I'll let you know, if I don't, you never will. I don't hear, I’m beside myself, I sit there, drinking too quickly, and that music, sucks, making me think they should've left the words, alone. This is the way we tremble. To get one's kicks, is not the same, these days. Abandoned industrial zones, stage names, blocking, what’s in the punch bowl, usually, and precision. Back to the graveyard phase, the six thousand pound, pumpkin, the whole insipid game, the screwed shit, backwards. The inspirational, whatever it was. The wind blows in through the window, there are no souls. I've said all that I want to say, I've rolled in enough ditches, dove in some others, I flipped the switches. Let me open the foot locker, let me sit here, all alone, maybe, I should get my own place, and slowly, die. Be above it, over, and beyond it. Leave some cookies out, for the dead. I smell it on you! Blank dress, the blank, blank. Do it, on the lawn. Four holes, in a small, piece of cardboard, the thrill is really, really, gone. We experienced that, “get up and go feeling,” when it was impossible, and we were unable, to go, anywhere. Into the land of big cars, second hand stores. 1970-2013. All you need, is what? Refusal, shuts down the oil tank, mechanism. There is no point, but, do it! Sliding, seeing the rip-off, shit stink, of everything around us. Let me out, I've got to get out, I don't need to sit here, and write, with the vaguer, than vague, hope, that someday, sometime, you will read it. These years, these stupid people, shouting, back and forth. There are no tents, in my backyard, fences, either. Wednesday, there are people, and animals, in the house. I saw it all, as shi-shi, talk about the noises, and the tendon, torn, the small, chewed up, pieces of plastic, that I must have spit across the room. We could work in this pizza joint, we could scrub the tables. The sickness, is a basted chicken, the two-way lie, the slaps across the face, nothing is possible, or impossible, real, or unreal. Let me in on your green, worldview/dream. Let me out of this cold, tangled, heap. Get that jazz-like noise, out of my ears. I, too, can sit like a pear, I can rake the cigarette butts, out of the front yard crevices. Night, is no better than day, the difference is, or isn't, how many different voices you hear, in your head. As far as it goes, I've overstepped my bounds, that's the way it is, and then I sneeze (and I could've been, too). Let’s talk/let’s fuck. Move forward, sideways, if need be. We’re all on our way to the bottom of the well.
Enjoying my dried up pen? It hurts my internal organs, to move. Most people combat ennui, with drugs, or with consumption, of one sort, or the other. Cough, cough, coughing my way, to an early grave. Complete, (1,000 pages?) incomplete; not failure, really, just an average, of averages, a puff, and then gone. Hey, then, I'm dancing around the raised platform, and remembering all those non-conversations, non-this's, and non-that’s. My troubles are rather squeaky, fraudulent, because I'm full, of should'ves, and maybe, some of those should'ves, were could'ves. It (will happen) doesn't sound so good, but it did keep me alive, today. Fuck life, and more importantly, fuck me, and I don't mean with genitalia, mister! I should write screenplays, soap commercials, billboards, porno novels. I've got to get away from my own creepy, crawly, mush, at least long enough, to see some different sidestreets, highways, states, even, faces. Where we are now, is so sickening, so wrong, so destructive... we met at the restaurant, on I-94, on June 14. We'll have a great, big, insane, party, right there, in the former, parking lot. Now, I'm picking my nose, and eating the accumulated deposits, hey, they are my, deposits. Projects, the kind that we envisioned, well, they were like flushings. I see the trains rumbling West, I can hear, the delineation, two dollars, two hundred, full page ads, in newspapers. Back to the dime store, when there were such things. Back to being incorrigible; wish derailment, lost, and found, gloves, stenches, boots, characterizations, sicknesses. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for reading this, if you hate it, love it, or something else, entirely. That's the reason I've been given, to stop. It was a clandestine meeting, in a cake shop, that went nowhere. That, and the innumerable stains, new aerosol sprays, nobody camps in the little woods, tonight. A new kind of pressure, to make me think that there is a life worth living, to get caught up, lost in, forgotten in. The conditioning, started early, when none of us were paying attention. We’re trapped, there is no way out. Seventeen, and irresistable. Read it aloud, now. If you could only see me, and how ridiculous I look. Anyway, well, should I write, or not? None of this is going anywhere, and I'm not, there's no muse, no solution. She attempted to sabotage my work. Nothing pleasant, is happening. The entire thing, was re-done. Maybe she’s still alive. Too many years of doing nothing, catches up to us. I'm stuck, again, I've doublecrossed myself. Retain certain tones. Search high, and low, near, and far, long, and hard. I’m not sorry. Yeah, well, you don’t have to live with my face. Digestive enzymes, that have been diluted, and pissed, have ruined my ability, to will anything, including, getting up, and walking across the room. It's almost a given, it's already, almost, happened. This no longer works, helps, proves. Where's the clip¬board? As far as problems, that I have, and writing about them, I can't see how anybody could, give a shit. When the ego dies, we die, and there is usually, not going to be anybody around, to observe, and report, on the phenomenon, for us. As I've said many times, my miserable life, and circumstances, are not only, my responsibility, but my fault, entirely. Everything that I call "it," or "them," or "you," is really, me! It's called projection, anyway, it also means, that this book, is entirely, about myself, or facets of, myself. Three to… 3.5. Waiting on death, impatiently, it seems, that people like me, don't last too long. To "solve," oh, how could I have been so blind? Me, oh, my, yes, I should be attempting to "solve," these difficulties... gracious! It's the teeth dream, garage antecedent, waking up late, still here, I'm still, right here. There is always food, everywhere you look, it's, food, food, food! More than anyone could ever possibly use, on every avenue, every street corner, off the interstate, in Kansas, even. They wouldn’t believe the truth, if they heard it. Anyway, I guess the crux of this paragraph, is that I've stopped living, and once you've done that, it's only a matter of time, and there’s not a lot to write about, if you don't give a shit. My egg ain’t nothin’, for you, Timey! A thick piece of skin, is on the floor, right now. Shatter the myth, of the “good schools.” Oh, we’re like cattle, alright!
No consciousness, gravity drops, bones. Integrity/integration, be your own, you. I see it, can afford it, but can't buy it. Take my place, I've died, you see, and if you can't take my place, keep in mind, that I took somebody else's place, and I didn't have a say in the matter. There is nothing metaphysical, or cosmic, about what I just said, or will. The solid oak cupboards, are open, the part of the radio is on, right now, the part I never use. I see the paper carrot, and don’t know what to do with it, or where to display it. I've removed all of the sex talk, because there's no such thing as sex. People must be sitting around, just thinking, these days. The scraps of tin foil, and (steam the fat off) cellophane, are on the floor, the chanting, is going on, I can't open the books, I've already read them, why revisit old planets, with charred landscapes, and reactions to them, as relevant as mine, or, less so? Cross out everything, and start over again. Well, there's that, or this, I'd rather have that, even though, I know better. There are more outs, in that, than this, and this, is not good. This is really bad, so I will work for that, I will have that! My only motivation, for pursuing that, is to get away from this, that, is all. So, I'll get to work, fool a few people, get my arms around the tree, stick my finger somewhere, it probably doesn't belong, then shake a few hands. I'll do what you've done. We all ache. Turn me on, to the turquoise car, I've got a new model, in mind. There is a me, that I like, but I haven't been there, yet. It's a teleological thing, it's involving a lot more waiting, than I thought it would. It's a long off, distant, future, way off in the distance, if I get there, I'll let you know, if I don't, you never will. I don't hear, I’m beside myself, I sit there, drinking too quickly, and that music, sucks, making me think they should've left the words, alone. This is the way we tremble. To get one's kicks, is not the same, these days. Abandoned industrial zones, stage names, blocking, what’s in the punch bowl, usually, and precision. Back to the graveyard phase, the six thousand pound, pumpkin, the whole insipid game, the screwed shit, backwards. The inspirational, whatever it was. The wind blows in through the window, there are no souls. I've said all that I want to say, I've rolled in enough ditches, dove in some others, I flipped the switches. Let me open the foot locker, let me sit here, all alone, maybe, I should get my own place, and slowly, die. Be above it, over, and beyond it. Leave some cookies out, for the dead. I smell it on you! Blank dress, the blank, blank. Do it, on the lawn. Four holes, in a small, piece of cardboard, the thrill is really, really, gone. We experienced that, “get up and go feeling,” when it was impossible, and we were unable, to go, anywhere. Into the land of big cars, second hand stores. 1970-2013. All you need, is what? Refusal, shuts down the oil tank, mechanism. There is no point, but, do it! Sliding, seeing the rip-off, shit stink, of everything around us. Let me out, I've got to get out, I don't need to sit here, and write, with the vaguer, than vague, hope, that someday, sometime, you will read it. These years, these stupid people, shouting, back and forth. There are no tents, in my backyard, fences, either. Wednesday, there are people, and animals, in the house. I saw it all, as shi-shi, talk about the noises, and the tendon, torn, the small, chewed up, pieces of plastic, that I must have spit across the room. We could work in this pizza joint, we could scrub the tables. The sickness, is a basted chicken, the two-way lie, the slaps across the face, nothing is possible, or impossible, real, or unreal. Let me in on your green, worldview/dream. Let me out of this cold, tangled, heap. Get that jazz-like noise, out of my ears. I, too, can sit like a pear, I can rake the cigarette butts, out of the front yard crevices. Night, is no better than day, the difference is, or isn't, how many different voices you hear, in your head. As far as it goes, I've overstepped my bounds, that's the way it is, and then I sneeze (and I could've been, too). Let’s talk/let’s fuck. Move forward, sideways, if need be. We’re all on our way to the bottom of the well.
174
Poke my Charlie, grab my side. She told me that I wasn't intelligent, she was right. Fire me, I don't give a shit, there are other jobs, it just takes months, to find them, secure them. I guess, I should've left a note, but, well… And I'm not throwing out any names, at this point. Toss me the low, inside, curve, again. Those shorts ... oh, ohhh. They were right, about what I was really looking at, through the windshield, on the (black out, go) windshield. Should I open up the mass of litter, old papers, now? Oh, wait, just a touch... the grimy, greasy, part, of the, "should we look." Yes, I've seen her, engaged, dammit. I suppose, saying nothing, at all, of substance, can have value, the merits lie, in how, nothing is said. Passionate, I was going to say blah, blah, but oh, coo-coo, tut, tut. Look at that characteristic, "chewing of the cud," behavior, that they continuously, engage in! Let's stain each other up, good, and proper, right, or wrong. Say, let's do it, with the aid of the manual, that I purchased, for fifteen dollars (that supposedly, contains hundreds of full color pictures). I can't hear you knocking at the door, with this cochlea, beside itself, and like a snail, hibernating, inside-out. Now, I will venture into the (describe it) community, to talk, or attempt, to. There will be beer there, mixed drinks, cocktails. I forgot to ask Johnny, what he thought, of all this. Give us a reason to live. The old way of being, wasn’t working, the new one, did. It’s my responsibility to see to it, that the tapes are returned. The subject of alteration, was ourselves, all along. Memories, get cold, fast, like unattended coffee. This isn't going to be able to be stapled, right away, it's sort of at the quarter way, mark, but even that's, an overblown, wish list, party-line. Misanthropic, melancholy, so on, and so forth. The firebrand, was psychoactive. Yes, very, very, alienated. Let us reinvent the venereal diseases, push buttons on a jukebox, knowing full well, that we'll never hear the songs. Let's imitate those hanging out in the convenience store, parking lot. The older, and drunker, they were, the more willing they would be, to purchase minor’s, alcohol? A toast, to the thyroid, and pineal glands. Nowadays, we turn a greener shade, of yellow. I won’t be ruined. If the small, stress fractures, didn't hurt so much, I suppose, I wouldn't have wound up in the garage, with nothing left, at the moment of passing, than other people's memories. Don't die, before I say I love you, and don't leave your clothes out on the line, if it rains. Somehow, that is all I have to say, all I've ever meant, to say. Well, on to other words, sentences, and paragraphs! It seems to me, that things are never really, adequately... it seems that... ah, fuck it. One of the things that has been touched on, briefly studied, but hasn't been mined, and I think needs to the concept of attention. We used to leave our front door, wide open, hoping somebody, would stop by, nobody ever did, save for people, who lived there. We weren't exactly idealistic, but you could color us, along with those paint by number, bits, and pieces. Give us the nutrition facts, our own really fancy, pen, and pencil, sets, some paper, with sub-green, ink, on it, some fries? Yes, we'd like fries, with that! Don't give me Shakespeare, give me (bounce me) salmon, in a can! Now, I can feel his dying, let us get on, to cheerier subjects. I don't believe I'll ever turn back to that black swan/white swan, dichotomy, the tumble into fucking, and fondling. Some, pick, others, choose, but most, just fall in, and their partners are assigned, in some, "you're even, I'm odd," fashion. Turn it up so loud, that you can't help but to understand it, wallow in it, turn into it. These are the birds we've worshiped before, in the car, with a plastic Hail Mary, and talking about pedestals. This is the fright box, of what I have, versus, what I've had, or could have had. No, it isn't frightening; it happens a lot, and I put myself through it, all the time. The drunken evenings, how could I have forgotten, the drunken evenings (oh, too, too, well)? Bewail the debit, and credit, ledgers. You will get your (impress us) money’s worth, with this book, some meaty, type of substance. A long hair, waltzed across the page.
Cretin-like troubles, and allergic reactions, systems, procedures. I can't even sit. Smell me, stinking, bloating, ending. This is a nervous breakdown! I have become a thing, not of my own choosing. And all you had to offer me, was a part of a canned ham? I'm sitting in the middle, of a half-completed, project, three more, lie in front of me, and the ideas keep flooding the basement, of my brain. It snows around here, in fact, it's snowing, right now. I don't want, or need, any more formal study, I've formed my own school. The repetition of words, and the limits of my conversational ability, suitcase life, furnished rooms, at sixty dollars a week, coffee, beer, and pasta. Me, and my self-caused, anxiety, spilling in, and out, of bars, on Monday. If this day is survived, there will be another. These diseases, that I have described, or, will shortly, describe, have no known cure. There isn't any real pain, but there is a great deal of discomfort. Lookalikes of so, and so, sit where they are sure to be seen, and commented upon? It's like two separate albums. As far as, "finding people, like oneself," well, it's a waste of time, I need those books. So, I keep things that I may need in a jiffy, really close at hand. There's the number, that I needed, last week. Things are beginning to smell a whole lot better, around here. Soon, I'll pull the lights off the tree, and throw that, in the ditch, where it will be like the other corpses. Just a little bit more organizing, and I should be able to walk through the room, from end, to end, without hearing cracking noises, of broken things, under clothing. Something new, must come along, soon. They, or he, killed it, and threw it out, in the trash. Why are they refrigerated? Mr. “Could Have Been an Astronaut”? There is a realignment, going on. Our struggles, and travails, aren’t exactly, thrilling. Hail Mary, catch a cab. It’s been more than a month. Alcohol, ruined another Valentine’s day. Yes, a postcard, a repeated order, repeated chorus, expensive beer, expensive sex. Stop goofing around in the photo booth, this is serious business. The domed stadiums, are all the same. Help us strip the bullshit, out of life. When I said those words to her, I was very, unceremoniously, told to "go to hell," or "shut the fuck up," or some similar, pleasantry. No, and I mean, no. Please, let me like a corpse, lie in the ditch, losing pins, and needles, tarts, and turnovers. This is not right, i.e., this is wrong. Dragged past the pasta bucket, copy shop, over to a 24-hour, donut shop, where people will report the fact, that you were seen there, "looking disheveled, and despondent." The world is doomed, that's a given, just a matter of time. Why die with it, why try, why fuck? Why walk down to the store, or drive to the coffee shop? Why see what's going on around the corner from there, or across the street? Some people fall, so easily, through classical conditioning, and choice, into a "don't touch me, look at me, talk to me,” lifestyle, while all the time, bitching, and complaining, about their own circumstances. I don't notice the color of people's eyes, anymore, or, really, any details, those supposed hallmarks, of interpersonal, push, and shove. We've lost power here, and let me tell you, when it happens, it's an awful lot like dying, sudden, unpredictable, surprising, and unexpected for others, nothing, to you, just… and that's it. The police arrest people like you, all the time, just three, or four, drinks, and driving perfectly fine? Well, not according to the hand-held, blowhole, machine, you're going to jail. And it does ruin your life, it does end, a lot of things, it sure is a step beyond, "an unfortunate occurrence", that's for sure. I used to get angry, root for the (slug me) criminals, on all the cop-type, shows. Really, that's become my attitude, toward just about everything, but I digress. There was an utter silence, no cars rumbling past, no drive throughs, no screaming, lights on, walkers, just stone, cold, silence; and I like it like that, it's like that, now, too. My breathing, only, no electricity, toilet bowl still running, faucets dripping, dogs barking, then, nothing, but silence. It's like that hut they constructed, where the temperature became unbearable, it's like solitary confinement, and sitting in your own excrement- it is, in a strange way, reminiscent of, "slow, steady, thrusts." Sort of, see, the psychiatric disorder of my supposed “calling,” was seen, and recognized, for what it truly was, the voices, start low, but, slowly… EXPLODE, INTO A SHRIEK!! Often, we think, without thinking. They want me to snap, so, I’m not going to. Stay out of the movie houses.
The need for validation, of some kind. She posed for the wallet size photo I’m carrying, with tears in her eyes, a post delirium, glow. A new name, a new number, secret messages, in code. A popcorn can, full of empty bottles, drawers, with clothing. Flags, consecrated, or deconsecrated. What the fuck, have I done? Why am I only where I am, after working so hard, to get here? Where is that shit that I both want, and don't want? Get me out of the brown carpeted, house. Help me get my shit together, help me get my shit under control, I, too; miss it, them, the boxes, the feelings of expectation, or impossibility. In the kitchen, cooking other peoples' food, doing, planning... Where are my crutches? Food, and fun, with plastic playgrounds, no reading magazines, in the phone booth. Give me a/the, job. No bills posted, paid, mailed. Games, rhyming poems, old-fashioned, steak houses, crazy shit. This knit stocking cap, that I pretend, is a beret, I must write the score, must find the negatives, get the duplicate prints, made, tear off my skin, and find the skeleton, underneath. Wet cotton candy, on the sidewalk, wizards, broken mirrors, cheap, stuffed animals, freak shows. What I've done, is not enough! Too many copy shops, not enough filth. Three little, wooden, fishes, terry cloth fishes, talking fish. Fifteen, big and tall shops, failed experiments, regarding the landlord/tenant relationship. Talk about drugs, strange wind chimes, made out of layered, recycled, paper, other wind things. Ask yourself, what’s wrong with you? Nothing is ever going to “fall into place.” Scrawl into blood lust, don't let the juices, get on the floor. It has cost me thousands, many sacrifices, no reward, whatsoever. Raise a glass of cheer! Too kind, not kind enough, haunted sounds, explanations, exclamations. Well, I don’t know, nobody does. Oh, the extravaganza! Keep it up there. Some kind of sex, occurred, with passion. I said it, and meant it. Blow out the candle (you are dead). I can't think on my feet, and due to these hemorrhoids, can't sit down, either. The dead oak's, dead leaves, are rotting away, still, in the back yard. It's foreign bacteria culture, wet socks, taken off shoes, so vixen, and elf-like, hopping from bean bag, to wicker chair, and back again. You will wash your face, now. For the straight up nonsense, tune in tomorrow, same time, same channel. Wasted time, the years of writing, and nothing to show for it, except a rumpled body, and some semen stains. Years, and years, of talking about this stupid book, and there is no book. Incompetent people, who I've given my very reason for living, and watching them fumble for the ball, while I dribble, and dribble, and keep fixing things, straightening, making excuses, for not doing, not being. The meaningless¬ness, and ridiculousness, that I'm constantly harping about, is me, only me, I, myself, and my self-loathing, self-hatred, stupidity, idiocy, laziness. Talk, talk, talk, no action, no reality. My problems, my fears, my tremendous laziness, that I tried to make a virtue of, my bad handwriting, my obsessions about women, that I know I could never have. Drinking booze, quitting booze, going to jail, getting out, and worrying about whether, or not, I'd ever go to jail, again. Sick of myself, of you, it, the book, the walk, the room, the past, future, present. Stupid hours, choices, shitty jobs, pointless conversations, lusts, books, flushes. Belly dance your blubber, away. We know what we need, this isn’t it. The moonless nights, the cigarette, burning a hole in my favorite jacket, obnoxiousness, then, silence; that's what you can expect from me. Sleep is what’s, slowly, destroying me. I do purchase, I do jump off the cliff, I do worry, then, panic, then, worry some more. I do only "find my way around," without knowing where I am. There is no money, to pay the typist, there is no money for anyone, for anything, at all. Beat back, don’t slump down.
To the end, from this point, forward, I add in the preface, epilogue... tragedy, bones, on tin, tin, on foil, flowers on graves. Help me tear my face off, help give me some reason, to go on living, or don't. They were supposed to be mixer types, I can see why screaming, goes on, the snow layer on the car, people going out to some bar, or party, friend's house. Keep the flowers, just burn what shell remains, and throw it into the Kalamazoo, or Titabawasee. Don't, under any circumstances, let them talk you into buying an urn! Dust, and dust imagery, the long walks, when I thought something was not only, going on, but the future would be bright, and sunny, and kind of, "leg showing, sexy." So many phases, and experiments, of mine, have backfired, so horribly, abysmally, that I’m disinclined, to ever try anything new, or different, again. I don't even have the turtle thing, side of the cottage, sheepskin, nail. I am slowly, growing a tail, I am doing the dog paddle, through the Harlan swamp. Shut up, Junkie! You, with your rambling, supposedly, illuminating, dementia, stop sucking my ear, punching my leg, talking about, or in, such a way, as.... I've just snapped! The good-bye hugs, that we never thought were real. Lying on the floor, smelling, reeking, of smoke, and spilled beer, too late, to either, start, or stop now, I broke my promise, vow, benediction, I lie on the floor. Sometimes, this is all that can be done. Wait a while, train whistles, now, another generation, will, "just have to wait." There isn't anything worth waiting for.... Where is she? I'm not a genie, or genius, or fairy, or anything, I don't look like him, or sound like him, or act like her. I can't describe the cup, because it's a weakness I have. I've suffered so many embarrassments, and whew- woo’d, so inappropriately. Make the face. I can't trust in anything, no credit, no Supreme Court ruling. Sniffle into the ejaculatory. No party, no theatrical bullshit, there is much more required. Sulk, over by the grain elevator. The spark that kindles the flame, lights the cigarette. Knock out the twitch box. You cannot stop now. I make too many promises, and recite too many oaths, to the air. Laugh if you will, but it is my sole intention, to become a saint. What will happen? No war, no piece, no peace, no spine. Ah, shit, guilty! Squeal then, scream, take the museum. You’d better re-check a few things. Lasso indifference, pump it, pump it. It's burning into agony, now, like a tattoo. Where do the raccoons go? Floodlights, blown out brains, and a flintlock pistol, still in his hand. Rigor Mortis, happens before death, sometimes, even though I like the order, peace, and quiet. Time to listen, time to be preoccupied. The lakeside drive in, then, the fancy dive, dive , you chicken shit, dive! The time to influence, and to be influenced, has come, and gone. It's down to the work, now (work, or die). You can't burn the candle, in two different ways, entirely, for two years, two months, two hours... you made your choice, now, die with it. Things are not right, so, I write. What used to be an impressive sight, is only an excuse to further action, now. Who tinkled on the seat? This isn't on, or off. Shut up, you lunatic, you're causing screams, lunges, screams, lunges! Corn on the cob, peeled, and discarded, the car, is abandoned, the factory, is used as a giant, storage shed. This past week, didn't happen, as much as I wanted it to. The only discovery that was made, was a big one, a negative one, that I'd been denying, for a long time. It took all my energy, this week, just to deal with this horrible, grisly, discovery, the long denial. Bloody nose, I like the colors, and the sounds, as well. I do need professional help, or, so I've been told, anyway. The sound of feet, slamming, and slapping, clomping, on the wooden floor, to the sound of Greco-Roman, music. The first shit, the frozen phase, supposedly, the missing, the indecipherable, foreign languages. The code, the coda, the cola, the life; the mood, being set, the volume, up, the decorations. I never thought those photos would get around, I don't know why I took the job, I don't know anything, at all. The pain has gone on, for too many years, soon, it will be over. We’re all being neutralized. The instructions were so simple, of course, they fucked it up. Then, I threw my pants in the trash. Ride the schism!
Cretin-like troubles, and allergic reactions, systems, procedures. I can't even sit. Smell me, stinking, bloating, ending. This is a nervous breakdown! I have become a thing, not of my own choosing. And all you had to offer me, was a part of a canned ham? I'm sitting in the middle, of a half-completed, project, three more, lie in front of me, and the ideas keep flooding the basement, of my brain. It snows around here, in fact, it's snowing, right now. I don't want, or need, any more formal study, I've formed my own school. The repetition of words, and the limits of my conversational ability, suitcase life, furnished rooms, at sixty dollars a week, coffee, beer, and pasta. Me, and my self-caused, anxiety, spilling in, and out, of bars, on Monday. If this day is survived, there will be another. These diseases, that I have described, or, will shortly, describe, have no known cure. There isn't any real pain, but there is a great deal of discomfort. Lookalikes of so, and so, sit where they are sure to be seen, and commented upon? It's like two separate albums. As far as, "finding people, like oneself," well, it's a waste of time, I need those books. So, I keep things that I may need in a jiffy, really close at hand. There's the number, that I needed, last week. Things are beginning to smell a whole lot better, around here. Soon, I'll pull the lights off the tree, and throw that, in the ditch, where it will be like the other corpses. Just a little bit more organizing, and I should be able to walk through the room, from end, to end, without hearing cracking noises, of broken things, under clothing. Something new, must come along, soon. They, or he, killed it, and threw it out, in the trash. Why are they refrigerated? Mr. “Could Have Been an Astronaut”? There is a realignment, going on. Our struggles, and travails, aren’t exactly, thrilling. Hail Mary, catch a cab. It’s been more than a month. Alcohol, ruined another Valentine’s day. Yes, a postcard, a repeated order, repeated chorus, expensive beer, expensive sex. Stop goofing around in the photo booth, this is serious business. The domed stadiums, are all the same. Help us strip the bullshit, out of life. When I said those words to her, I was very, unceremoniously, told to "go to hell," or "shut the fuck up," or some similar, pleasantry. No, and I mean, no. Please, let me like a corpse, lie in the ditch, losing pins, and needles, tarts, and turnovers. This is not right, i.e., this is wrong. Dragged past the pasta bucket, copy shop, over to a 24-hour, donut shop, where people will report the fact, that you were seen there, "looking disheveled, and despondent." The world is doomed, that's a given, just a matter of time. Why die with it, why try, why fuck? Why walk down to the store, or drive to the coffee shop? Why see what's going on around the corner from there, or across the street? Some people fall, so easily, through classical conditioning, and choice, into a "don't touch me, look at me, talk to me,” lifestyle, while all the time, bitching, and complaining, about their own circumstances. I don't notice the color of people's eyes, anymore, or, really, any details, those supposed hallmarks, of interpersonal, push, and shove. We've lost power here, and let me tell you, when it happens, it's an awful lot like dying, sudden, unpredictable, surprising, and unexpected for others, nothing, to you, just… and that's it. The police arrest people like you, all the time, just three, or four, drinks, and driving perfectly fine? Well, not according to the hand-held, blowhole, machine, you're going to jail. And it does ruin your life, it does end, a lot of things, it sure is a step beyond, "an unfortunate occurrence", that's for sure. I used to get angry, root for the (slug me) criminals, on all the cop-type, shows. Really, that's become my attitude, toward just about everything, but I digress. There was an utter silence, no cars rumbling past, no drive throughs, no screaming, lights on, walkers, just stone, cold, silence; and I like it like that, it's like that, now, too. My breathing, only, no electricity, toilet bowl still running, faucets dripping, dogs barking, then, nothing, but silence. It's like that hut they constructed, where the temperature became unbearable, it's like solitary confinement, and sitting in your own excrement- it is, in a strange way, reminiscent of, "slow, steady, thrusts." Sort of, see, the psychiatric disorder of my supposed “calling,” was seen, and recognized, for what it truly was, the voices, start low, but, slowly… EXPLODE, INTO A SHRIEK!! Often, we think, without thinking. They want me to snap, so, I’m not going to. Stay out of the movie houses.
The need for validation, of some kind. She posed for the wallet size photo I’m carrying, with tears in her eyes, a post delirium, glow. A new name, a new number, secret messages, in code. A popcorn can, full of empty bottles, drawers, with clothing. Flags, consecrated, or deconsecrated. What the fuck, have I done? Why am I only where I am, after working so hard, to get here? Where is that shit that I both want, and don't want? Get me out of the brown carpeted, house. Help me get my shit together, help me get my shit under control, I, too; miss it, them, the boxes, the feelings of expectation, or impossibility. In the kitchen, cooking other peoples' food, doing, planning... Where are my crutches? Food, and fun, with plastic playgrounds, no reading magazines, in the phone booth. Give me a/the, job. No bills posted, paid, mailed. Games, rhyming poems, old-fashioned, steak houses, crazy shit. This knit stocking cap, that I pretend, is a beret, I must write the score, must find the negatives, get the duplicate prints, made, tear off my skin, and find the skeleton, underneath. Wet cotton candy, on the sidewalk, wizards, broken mirrors, cheap, stuffed animals, freak shows. What I've done, is not enough! Too many copy shops, not enough filth. Three little, wooden, fishes, terry cloth fishes, talking fish. Fifteen, big and tall shops, failed experiments, regarding the landlord/tenant relationship. Talk about drugs, strange wind chimes, made out of layered, recycled, paper, other wind things. Ask yourself, what’s wrong with you? Nothing is ever going to “fall into place.” Scrawl into blood lust, don't let the juices, get on the floor. It has cost me thousands, many sacrifices, no reward, whatsoever. Raise a glass of cheer! Too kind, not kind enough, haunted sounds, explanations, exclamations. Well, I don’t know, nobody does. Oh, the extravaganza! Keep it up there. Some kind of sex, occurred, with passion. I said it, and meant it. Blow out the candle (you are dead). I can't think on my feet, and due to these hemorrhoids, can't sit down, either. The dead oak's, dead leaves, are rotting away, still, in the back yard. It's foreign bacteria culture, wet socks, taken off shoes, so vixen, and elf-like, hopping from bean bag, to wicker chair, and back again. You will wash your face, now. For the straight up nonsense, tune in tomorrow, same time, same channel. Wasted time, the years of writing, and nothing to show for it, except a rumpled body, and some semen stains. Years, and years, of talking about this stupid book, and there is no book. Incompetent people, who I've given my very reason for living, and watching them fumble for the ball, while I dribble, and dribble, and keep fixing things, straightening, making excuses, for not doing, not being. The meaningless¬ness, and ridiculousness, that I'm constantly harping about, is me, only me, I, myself, and my self-loathing, self-hatred, stupidity, idiocy, laziness. Talk, talk, talk, no action, no reality. My problems, my fears, my tremendous laziness, that I tried to make a virtue of, my bad handwriting, my obsessions about women, that I know I could never have. Drinking booze, quitting booze, going to jail, getting out, and worrying about whether, or not, I'd ever go to jail, again. Sick of myself, of you, it, the book, the walk, the room, the past, future, present. Stupid hours, choices, shitty jobs, pointless conversations, lusts, books, flushes. Belly dance your blubber, away. We know what we need, this isn’t it. The moonless nights, the cigarette, burning a hole in my favorite jacket, obnoxiousness, then, silence; that's what you can expect from me. Sleep is what’s, slowly, destroying me. I do purchase, I do jump off the cliff, I do worry, then, panic, then, worry some more. I do only "find my way around," without knowing where I am. There is no money, to pay the typist, there is no money for anyone, for anything, at all. Beat back, don’t slump down.
To the end, from this point, forward, I add in the preface, epilogue... tragedy, bones, on tin, tin, on foil, flowers on graves. Help me tear my face off, help give me some reason, to go on living, or don't. They were supposed to be mixer types, I can see why screaming, goes on, the snow layer on the car, people going out to some bar, or party, friend's house. Keep the flowers, just burn what shell remains, and throw it into the Kalamazoo, or Titabawasee. Don't, under any circumstances, let them talk you into buying an urn! Dust, and dust imagery, the long walks, when I thought something was not only, going on, but the future would be bright, and sunny, and kind of, "leg showing, sexy." So many phases, and experiments, of mine, have backfired, so horribly, abysmally, that I’m disinclined, to ever try anything new, or different, again. I don't even have the turtle thing, side of the cottage, sheepskin, nail. I am slowly, growing a tail, I am doing the dog paddle, through the Harlan swamp. Shut up, Junkie! You, with your rambling, supposedly, illuminating, dementia, stop sucking my ear, punching my leg, talking about, or in, such a way, as.... I've just snapped! The good-bye hugs, that we never thought were real. Lying on the floor, smelling, reeking, of smoke, and spilled beer, too late, to either, start, or stop now, I broke my promise, vow, benediction, I lie on the floor. Sometimes, this is all that can be done. Wait a while, train whistles, now, another generation, will, "just have to wait." There isn't anything worth waiting for.... Where is she? I'm not a genie, or genius, or fairy, or anything, I don't look like him, or sound like him, or act like her. I can't describe the cup, because it's a weakness I have. I've suffered so many embarrassments, and whew- woo’d, so inappropriately. Make the face. I can't trust in anything, no credit, no Supreme Court ruling. Sniffle into the ejaculatory. No party, no theatrical bullshit, there is much more required. Sulk, over by the grain elevator. The spark that kindles the flame, lights the cigarette. Knock out the twitch box. You cannot stop now. I make too many promises, and recite too many oaths, to the air. Laugh if you will, but it is my sole intention, to become a saint. What will happen? No war, no piece, no peace, no spine. Ah, shit, guilty! Squeal then, scream, take the museum. You’d better re-check a few things. Lasso indifference, pump it, pump it. It's burning into agony, now, like a tattoo. Where do the raccoons go? Floodlights, blown out brains, and a flintlock pistol, still in his hand. Rigor Mortis, happens before death, sometimes, even though I like the order, peace, and quiet. Time to listen, time to be preoccupied. The lakeside drive in, then, the fancy dive, dive , you chicken shit, dive! The time to influence, and to be influenced, has come, and gone. It's down to the work, now (work, or die). You can't burn the candle, in two different ways, entirely, for two years, two months, two hours... you made your choice, now, die with it. Things are not right, so, I write. What used to be an impressive sight, is only an excuse to further action, now. Who tinkled on the seat? This isn't on, or off. Shut up, you lunatic, you're causing screams, lunges, screams, lunges! Corn on the cob, peeled, and discarded, the car, is abandoned, the factory, is used as a giant, storage shed. This past week, didn't happen, as much as I wanted it to. The only discovery that was made, was a big one, a negative one, that I'd been denying, for a long time. It took all my energy, this week, just to deal with this horrible, grisly, discovery, the long denial. Bloody nose, I like the colors, and the sounds, as well. I do need professional help, or, so I've been told, anyway. The sound of feet, slamming, and slapping, clomping, on the wooden floor, to the sound of Greco-Roman, music. The first shit, the frozen phase, supposedly, the missing, the indecipherable, foreign languages. The code, the coda, the cola, the life; the mood, being set, the volume, up, the decorations. I never thought those photos would get around, I don't know why I took the job, I don't know anything, at all. The pain has gone on, for too many years, soon, it will be over. We’re all being neutralized. The instructions were so simple, of course, they fucked it up. Then, I threw my pants in the trash. Ride the schism!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)