165

We’ve got to compare notes, make it, by ourselves. Boredom, this is about, endless boredom. We saw the wet t-shirt contest, for the flabby. The scariest thing of all, is that I have gotten exactly, what I wanted. Toilet bowl aesthetics? Oh no, I've been tricked into this. And I can't very well go to the one-stop-shopping capital of the world, with alcohol on my breath, now, can I? There need to be fine things, to settle for? You are a lion. Wait for the car to warm up, for the storm, to blow over, for things to settle down, inside my head, especially. I'll have to go in the audiovisual room, where things are even funnier. Something terrible, happened to me, or, at least, that's the story that was passed around. Well, I'm here to tell you, that I came through the crisis-resolution-crisis phase, for the most part, unscathed. Oh, I was altered, to be sure, but as far as really losing, parts of my personality, no. It may look like it, but that's just because I don't have anything, to personally, prove, anymore. I have theories, to “prove," but as for me, I'm done; more, or less, complete, for better or for worse. Damn, you're right; I am just saying that. Anyway, I hate you (so deadly), so much, regret my false grins, and grails, my dashed hopes. Listen now, penises elongate, and turtle's necks, elongate, in almost the exact same way! Strained necks, and sprained penises, hippies, doin' all those drugs. And, so, now, I dream my little dreams, only later, to punctuate them. Studying the collected works of Empedocles, especially the sections on beans, being the cause of pregnancy. All of this, is bullshit, and I know it is, but I say it every so often, to keep from killing myself, or others, but, to be honest, I'm the easiest target. I am visibly, invisible, and make myself, known, but, only part way. I'm the Western definition of passivity, and inconsistency. They gave me an utterly meaningless, free consultation, over the phone. Do it, why look it up? No real problems, memories of funerals. Everybody matures, no one looks at that one, I know why, I know several reasons why, and some of them, are polar opposites, all of it, is my opinion/point of view. I write for myself, and want to publish it, for my own reasons. I dislike you, hate you, but that doesn't matter, because I'd give you the shirt off my back. Certain people, I want to destroy, but everyone knows people like that; the phoniest, of the phony, or the coolest, of the cool. But all I have to do in those situations, is sit back, and observe, because they are already in the process, of destroying themselves. Slowly, but surely, I notice the subtle changes, in your posture, where you sit, how you quickly turn away, your French twist haircuts. First, you will die. Second, I am watching you die, and you know this, on some quasi-instinctive level, and it, and I, make you very, very, nervous. You are a shit, not worth a toilet seat protector, that automatically flushes itself down. The difference? I know what I am, and am not, and you know neither, or, wouldn't dare think, of those things (I have a specific person in mind, as I write this, so, the general audience, need not be offended). However, I take offense to the back of your head, and your insistence to your friends, not only, that I pee sitting down, but, that I do so, out of a small hole, where my penis is supposed to be. I am so passive, so loving, and those “skills,” are so passe', that my violent swings in tempo, and mood, can force me to do much more, than shit, in the video bowling/alter ego, bowling alley basement, with the pine cones, in a suet sack/plastic poinsettia, without leaves. They were all lined up, in their wheelchairs. We’ve got yet another, problem. Stains, grease, food, hair; all over the formica table. “Razzle Dazzle,” must have taken hours, to carve into the wood. Call all of this, sexual tension. Rewrite what part, the born, to die epilogue? The "interconnected" profile, the Christ obsession? I kind of like the fudge puffs, I can engender in others, sometimes. My so called liaisons, were too solemn, not illicit enough, involved gun, and knife shows, all too often. I like to make people turn their backs, or go away, without having to ask them to. I’m staring at sadomasochistic, isosceles urns. Look into my eyes, say ‘excuse me,’ sue someone, something. Pure unconscious body language, but it works. And to say who's right, and who's wrong, is impossible. I'll get my revenge; in many senses, I already have. So, there was a totem pole Jesus, so what? Oh, I am so screwed up, no, I'm not! Nothing is wrong/ everything is wrong. Yes, and no, yin, and yang, maybe, and maybe not. All over the place, the answer is, both/ neither. They put new facades, on old strip malls, they change the name of the store, but not what they sell. I can't stand these constant interruptions, I don't like having to be somewhere, at any particular, time, or place. Those fuckers served me something worse than shit, on a dirty plate, so that I wouldn't come back. I stare at women, I frighten children. The floor is filthy, my hands are dirty, everything's on fire, and smells like sulfur. Thousands lost, need to translate into millions, gained. It takes centuries… It’s mad scientist’s, or more of the same. The road, is pure northwest, and it turns, and dives, and my brakes don't work, the belts are squealing. They won’t go wild, in the expected ways.

All of this shit, and all of these supposedly productive, seconds, minutes, hours. People are keeping their eyes peeled, around here, for new products, to buy. Murder, seems to be everybody's last, brave hope, last nerve, last option. And so many people are pushed, these days, to the very last, of the very last, that I'm surprised that there aren't more murders, crimes, knifings, bloodshed. The bubble machine, the pentagram, the half hour waits, the waiting room, that’s standing room only. We don't know who we are, we cut our own throats, we are violent, as you can see. Since I'm smack dab in the middle, of a formidable, writer's block, I'll write about that. So, there comes a time, where you've written everything you want to write, six different ways, and that is a limit, of sorts. So, writers block, is a common condition, where it is realized, that you can say, all you have to say, in six sentences, and you're required to write a three hundred and sixteen page, book. So, after the six sentences, or statements, you wanted to make, have been made, there is nothing else to say, and nothing else to do, but say the same thing, in a different way, until you can't do that anymore, because it's still redundant. To get beyond this conundrum, it's necessary to keep at it, or, all is for naught. So, writers use "filler," to accomplish their ends, if they don't, they give up any ideas they had, and go on, and write romance novels. Now, nothing of value is written, because the six sentences, the fundamental parts, of what you want to say, are said, by Rex Claytree, Sheriff of Roxington County, in some sloppy, silly, filler book, with a cover with a guy in a cowboy hat, near a cactus. I'd rather use deliberate nonsense, as a filler, than make the entire book, filler, by calling it a science fiction novel, or whatever. Nonsense, and absurdity, are, in a sense. Inventing cute, cuddly, characters, is less absurd, than "filling," with sentences such as, "cross the crag, and drop the dimes," or any other such thing. I mean, what am I supposed to do, write for the network? I just can't, I can't. You know what turns you on. Rest assured, they will be keeping an eye on you. If there was nobody left, to get there first (heavy). Well, where to go, now? Let's see... let's talk about this new thing. Well, why write about it, and not, do it? Hmm.... but this has to be subtle, oh, forget subtlety, already! The second section, is just like the first. Look whats underneath. Crown me! Peoples' names are on the marquee, and that might be their moment, where everything stands still. The little goodbyes, get to be as sad, as the big one’s. We were mutilated by the crush/the rush. Correct the clop, clipping, the CD, is skipping. They will get release, as they call it. The bridge is being reconstructed. The correction, the permanent cement, pretend person, sculpture. That, is part, and parcel, of this. Run into the charming. Should I throw out a few hello's? Nah, oh, the crust, give me the crust! Over there, in Greece, old men, just sitting in the windows, looking out. Day after day, apparently, seeing something? What do we see, outside our windows? Plastic buckets, concrete walls, billboards, coney islands, other peoples' apartments, busy streets, with dead opossum on them, power lines, plastic bags, leaves, cardboard boxes, with, or without, people inside, strip malls, convenience stores, the back alleys of grocery stores, drug stores, hardware stores, restaurants. What else? The heat index rises, slowly, as the barometer, falls. Well, lots of discordant, unappealing, nauseating, darkness. I’m sick of sitting around, hungover, on Sunday mornings, waiting for a policeman, to knock on the front door. And to think, the common conception, is that windows, let the light in. Get out the games! All I see is darkness, shining through. We’ve got the fear of a somatoform disorder. They built an artificial hill, to keep the homes, from looking at the back of the new shopping mall. They'd pile the bent pieces of steel, in the median, right in front of the metal statue, with the hole in its head. Don't tell me, there will be a delay, of course, this is expected. Next Tuesday, huh? Well, I'll stop by, the Tuesday after that, we’re "professionals.” The butcher kept cutting, and cutting, and cutting. I have to get something out of my system, and its extremely important, that I do so. Now, this is probably (most likely) not directed, at you. It's directed to certain people I've known, and, well, here it is: FUCK YOU! There.

Pissed off, but with a smile on our faces. In a way, we all had our chance. The registrar, is waiting to hear from y'all. I am one, that society has cast off, that's why I, need to write. You know something, you may be able to tell, what, and who, people are, by just looking at them. Everybody can do this, does, do this, automatically, and they adjust themselves, accordingly, unconsciously. The reason we like, or dislike, someone, is because we're all mind readers, and we don't know we are, but that doesn't change anything, because we're all still doing it, basing all our interactions, on it. There are very few, if any, accidents. It isn’t worth it, but, it is. Forgive me, especially, for those things I didn’t even know I’d done. Blow me, like a cheap balloon. All our predictions, if we choose to make them, turn out to be, about 90%, accurate, and that's not too bad, at all. Can’t stop the tears, anymore. No talk of diamonds, or nose jobs, here. Think about this, why do you smile, and say hello, to some people, and not others? Keep out of (very young vaginas) extreme temparature. Something absolutely (this needs help) terrible/horrible, is going to happen, soon. Why do you ignore some people you know, or know, vaguely, and other times, with other people, be all friendly, and "goo-goo"? It’s peculiar, and I believe firmly, that there are strong reasons, behind this, that we're all unclear on. But, being unclear, doesn't confound the problem, maybe it isn't a problem, maybe it keeps us safe. Who knows, but this is the way it is, it's a phenomenon. Even weirder to explain, even though it, can be explained, is our inconsistency, and apparent, inability, to sustain in ourselves, any one way, of being. It's like we're all, at least six, different people. There are a couple of things I've been kicking around, for a while. See, I'm more of a practical, or pragmatic, philosopher, not even that I am, a philosopher, I think I called myself a (smock?) philosofluffer, and psychobabbler, but regardless, that's why I hated school. Are you familiar with the works of Tristan Tzara? The extreme craziness, and insanity, of everybody, cannot be undone, unwound, unredeemed. Her ass, was up. Just sit there, quietly and listen to peoples' stupidity, not everybody, but lots, and lots, of people. I’ve starred in two films, Focus on the Dipshit, and, The Vain Boy. Listen to the shit that they scream, and yell, and argue about, the antecedents, to actual fistfights, or, near fistfights. I mean, there’s no such thing, it would appear, in many different people, of a great many, necessary, coping skills. People hit, or want to hit, and they hate, and spend. Some people are so far removed, and so normal- that it is them, that are the abnormal, ones. Thus, the normal, are the anomalous, and anonymous, myself, included. One minute, people are happy, fine, content, the very next, they fly off the handle, and into a rage, about needing to get their hairbrush, or toothbrush, or razor, from the bathroom, that someone else is using. So, it would appear, that there are people, that no matter how hard we try, we just can't, get along with. These are people we hate. We bitch, and moan, because we are never surrounded, by people like ourselves, but by the vultures, and vampires, of everyday life. It's comical, how nothing ever works out, how much time we spend, with people we can't stand, and have absolutely nothing, in common with. And, if you're really unlucky... well, I think you know what I'm talking about. Being a "listener," is a curse, believe me. There are people that can listen, have a certain degree of empathy, and sit, and hear, and comprehend, an endless litany, and array, of nonsense, about peoples' neuroses, and missing card tables, family troubles, figurine collections, and so on. Let’s be post post, and tell everyone to fuck off! It’s getting a lot harder to keep track of. It can all be arranged.

To write this, or anything, is difficult, because there's so much to write, that, to encompass it, on a page, with meaningless words, is to convey, the wordless. We all have to work to do, and we all loan money, and, "help out," more than we can afford to. There are limits, but we cross them, all the time, and sure, there will be some anger, definite lack, wonderment, exhaustion. The money chase, and being drawn into it, forced into it. Winter solstice, sunburn, roundness, incomprehensibility, and failure. What is literature, anyway? Back to square one, and work your way back up. "The way." Well, hurrah, there it is, what I'm always talking about, proof positive, that I'm an asshole, a self-centered squeeze, so incomplete, and backwards, wrong, and rude. I don't mean to do it, and don't know where it comes from, I mean, I am impatient (more than most), but there is this slow, steady, build up, and then, the voice raises several octaves, and it's, "no, no, NO." I regret it, immediately afterwards, guilt, trying to make amends. It seems, amends, can never be made, apparently, my explanation of "the NO," is articulate enough, that the point is clearly made. The seeds are in between your teeth. Go get what you deserve. Also, I don't say no, very often. Do you still believe (already, post ovulation) that one thing leads (get it, now) to another? Find out what went wrong. It causes a great many, thoughts. The money's gone, the checks have bounced, I have no money, and didn't buy anything, don't need anything, and don't care. Deny what you just postulated. It’ll never be, quite right. Arrest me, because I'm four hundred in the red, or whatever the hell, it could be worse, and I've been saying that for ten years, and it gets worse, exponentially, every single year. I've never been hungry, or thirsty, a day in my life, I've been fat, I think I'm fat now, I've been broke, in debt, unable to pay, kind of destitute, you know, getting five dollars of gas, in pennies, etc. I've been unemployed, often, I lose jobs, and can't get another. There always seems to be a box of rice around, to eat, there always seems to be enough for cigarettes, and coffee. Hey, lame brain, grab your bag, it’s a twist party! You need to have a family, in order to have a family business? The dog, most dogs, chew off the end of the bone, first, the roundish part. Goodnight, and I don't know why I wrote that, it's five o'clock, and I'm wide awake. People need to keep in mind, that traffic is always bad, it always, takes a half hour, forty-five minutes. The burner isn't working, I've realized some kind of "you can go no further," moment, where I spit out the pretzels, and say, "that's enough." I’m not quite ready for your sins, again. The obsession gets worse, at, and in equal proportion, to, our avoidance behaviors, both of which, increase, substantially, with time. There are a lot of things wrong with me, and in that sense, I do mirror, "the world," and am affected by America, Reagan, coffee shops, everything else. You, yeah, you, get disruptive. I feel fifteen, in fact, I'm fixated, at fifteen, and don't know why. Well, some shit went down, there were some really bad years, but, no different than what everyone else goes through. We want a better world, but we’re all working independently, for our own selfish aims. I just got rattled, and hit, really hard, by it, I guess. Try to stand above it. Perhaps, we should… The things that excite me, aren't exciting things, in the least. We hang around in front of funeral homes, cemeteries. It's drives to get stamps, letters to old roommates, pulling the books off the shelves, and stacking them on the floor, reading, writing, smoking cigarettes, drinking, small, and old fashioned, diners, crappy cars, Fall, Halloween, lamps. The hip, are unchanging, swank, sure, wearing the right clothes, and with the right glasses, even though they don't need glasses. People, at record stores, and bars, and beauty salons. They don't work, they show off their feathers, and faces, and strut. They have the air of superiority, they have their disdainful glances. Next time, I won’t be so lenient. Being real, doesn’t pay off. The odds of my “making it,” are very slim.