Neurons, and dendrites, atoms, axons, pathways, connections, trying to remember, and forget, everything there is. Did I already ask for two million? To face the facts of self-exploitation, throw out the envelopes I've so faithfully, preserved. I searched, sniffed and scratched, but must conclude, that liberation, emancipation, and freedom, are myths, generated in a deterministic system. I'm gonna’ fuck you, evenly, and other quotes, misquotes, and words to live by. Fuck ups, mistakes, errors; last chance, only chance. No immunity, no shit? Sunny day at the slaughterhouse, contemplating another wasted year. Tonight, orchestra hall, halitosis, or no halitosis! All junkies have their reasons, run away, kids, run away. Light your candle, purple, or not purple, and blow it out. Yes, it means something, but, so what? We do what we do, and that is all, no explanation is needed, no one asks, and none is (answer, etc.) forthcoming, if one were to ask. Everyday is the same, depending on where you live, the weather will be, however the weather is. There will be radio stations, television channels, there will be telephones, and electricity, wherever you go. There will be novels, magazines, and coffee, peanut butter, and it doesn't matter where you go, or where you are, because, its the same (it's the same). And you better stir the rice, or you aren’t going to eat tonight, and we all know, that everybody needs to eat. I could out filth, bark, and growl, you. We can systematically, engage in experiments, with oversensory stimulation, or passively go through a day, and achieve the same end result. See her, jerking him, off? We can live it, and breathe it, or, we can write about it. Everything will get worse. A whole shit mound of trouble, awaits me. We can make faces, use hand gestures, hold it in, or let it out... we can fake it, to make it, or just fake it, or just make it. We can also ignore it, want no one, need nothing. An inquiry of animal understanding. A treatise on a humanitarian view, of fucking. They say that everybody needs somebody, wants somebody, they say lots of things, and they express what I cannot say, so articulately, and clearly, without moans, or exasperated noises. It's very easy, very easy, to get people to leave you alone, it's very hard, to meet anyone, talk to anyone, be anything, become anything. There’s nothing to be, nothing to become, well, not that matters, not that's worthwhile. If you're smart, have skills, your smarts, and skills, are probably superfluous to your job, commute, home life, bar life, sex life. The small slivers, that come into play, on a daily basis, the non-declarative, open-ended, conclusions, or decisions, nervous little laughs, fake tears, fake this, fake that. Thinking, is a gift you give to yourself, and it's rare, believe me. If you think, it helps to write it down. There is all kinds of unheeded advice, to listen to, and ask for. But there are also certain needs, and if you need, to do it, you need to do it, and let nothing, and no one, get in your way. Don't take showers, don't wash your hair, or brush your teeth, sink into depression, or rise into elation. Don't talk to cute boys, or pretty girls, don't piss, eat, shit, ask, tell, remember, forget. Just do, do, do, something will happen. Laugh if you will, but I’ve already blown all of my chances. Something will happen, because nothing, is just an idea, anything that happens, is something , not nothing. The quality of what happens, is what we should be concerning ourselves with, but those things have a tendency to take care of themselves, and fall into an order, a syndrome, a sort of a basket. Refuse to be undone. The tar pit, was our end.
Must remember to take out the garbage! There are last stops, last chances, there is pressure, futility, desperation, resignation. There is, and are, a lot of things. There are probably at least sixteen things, going around in your head, and outside of your body, right now. You can change everything, immediately, by just a snap of the finger, or a wave of the wand, and I mean that figuratively, not literally. Well, there's either one dollar, or two dollars, on the floor, right now, then, memories of middle school, just throwing wadded up, wet money, into this room. All kinds of ideas, about what the future, would, or could, look like. The future, of course, will never happen. It only takes one key to operate the ignition, doors, trunk, and glove box. Newspapers have lots of words in them, I won't comment on the value, of these words, because you have a good idea where I stand. I wish that I still had that weird shit I was writing, in that smoke-free bar, that served black angus beef, in the middle of that town I couldn't, and still can't, believe, I lived anyplace, near. It was written, to make it look like I was doing some kind of sociological study, it was an attempt to "make it look like," I had a reason to be there, that I was "doing" something, this is very funny, and very sad, anyway, I threw out the "notes," or mailed them to somebody. Could you imagine the fucked up shit, scribbled on those pages? Trying to make it look like, I was some kind of scientist, in a crowded bar, full of cute girls? Well, this is as good a proof, as any, that I've been through some awfully difficult times. I mean, what the hell? Sitting there, observing? Observe the invisible era/aura, the end of all our hopes, dreams, and conduits. It just wasn’t our show, baby. Play the inkblot, “looks like” game, with your shit stains. When will I have the glory, the millions? Never, I will live a short life, of destitution. You betrayed me, bastard. Just like that corn cob slut, I see all the time, there will be bitter pills to swallow, more failure, after you think that there can't possibly be any more. The Polish credit union, closed. Shut that off, for now, shut that off. There will be temptation. We are too easily sated, complete, silenced, entertained. Art is jurisprudence. Please tell me the hollowed out, and dead, look, is in, this year. Squeeze his little loins. It’s all about money, every goddamn thing. Look at the large paper cup, held together with glue, and recall the glue that you purchased, and show how that led you, straight into Hell on Earth. I got so fed up, that in a rage, I threw the antique accordian. No welcome mats, everybody cleaned the room, stood in the way. Either they will, or they won't, did, or didn't. The empty office buildings, crowded nursing homes, and hospitals, busy flower shops, and funeral homes. The pedophiles shame, and salesman's lack of security, surety, sincerity. Pessimism, oh, yes, pessimism, as I overhear guys, telling gals, that they've just met, that they have condoms in the car. My way of becoming one with the car, crossing my legs, not making eye contact, reacting. It smells like shaving cream there, insecticide, here. And no one is any more, or less, important, than anyone else, people act like they're drunk, these days, to get laid. Fondling each other, doesn't end there. Life is so profound... never mind. Let's discuss the price of fresh produce, how we're going to get more clients, who's going to do the marketing, and advertising, how much it will cost, and can we afford it? Let's talk about new shoes, pants, perfume, and other products. Let's buy toilet paper, canned vegetables. So much pressure! The venom is still leaking out of her chapped, and chaffed, vagina. There are no city limits, anymore. A short struggle ensued, tea was served. None of this, matters.
Dharma/drama, zen/pen, agony, anxiety. Holes in socks, cause uncomfortable toe experiences, and certain tones of voice, can really activate the human sex drive. And I'm proud of the people, who are doing what they have always known, they had to do. And I applaud you, shit, I'll even pull out the handkerchief, and do some interpretive dancing, to the tones of wind chimes. I like the smell of fingernails, I observe and report, on changes in status. During the strike, during the aid raid, around the time of Nero, in the middle of the night. Let's relax, and draw pictures of snails, not actually eat them. Let's eat paper, that doesn't contain droplets of chemicals, let's… eschew chemicals, and build a new world order, founded on anarchy, and hate. Let's drink, until the world spins off its axis, plows into Venus, and renders us all down, to pure, unadulterated, void. How many times can we tap our feet, to the same song? How many celebrity photographs, should we be forced to observe? The ladder is covered with a thin, semi coat of paint, in six different colors. The scratching, and noise, is designed to incite, to instill in our children, the values of violence, sex obsession, hero worship, fast food, going out of business sales. No one cares, not about that, either, or you. We all pretend to care, we pretend that we have missions, friends, things to do, we walk, or run, around in circles. We try to hide the fact, that we just can't ask, "for here or to go," one more, goddamn time. There are no such things, as angels, devils, subliminal messages, etc. Hours, days, weeks, years, for nothing. The name of the film, is Red Light District. Fling the blooming chocolates. This is a smell I cannot place, it's coming from somewhere on my person, but I can't tell where it's coming from, or what it is. What now? Well, late again. Born late, and from then on, well, you know the story. If I have to hear that egocentric, mighty mite song, that self aggrandizing, harangue, one more time, I'm going to smash my clock. One of my aims, at this stage, is to get to the level of economic self-sufficiency, where radios are no longer a necessity. When I wake up, I don't really wake up, it's like a slow return from the dead; and that beeping, buzzing, ringing, seems to scream, cry out, moan; you must go to work, and you must be on time, and a thousand other, musts. I do pick, and choose, through some of the musts, there are low priority musts, and high ones... and I don't give a damn, about any of them. I do not want to work, not because of laziness, but because it feels like punching in, is like signing my own death notice/warrant. I hate most people, and things (guilt, versus defiance). We are a fucked up species, indeed. It’s almost, near the end. Forgive us for what we’ll do, when confronted by what we’re unable to resist. Kechunk, and for eight hours, not being yourself, in any sense, whatsoever. The abuse went beyond cruelty, I’ve got the scars to prove it. This is that song that I was going to put in my movie, even though music was going to be accidental/incidental, in our films, not even an afterthought, no soundtracks. See what I think about? Making films, writing masterpieces, it used to be playing centerfield, for the big league team, or was it, catcher? I would, and could, never kill anyone, I know I write in a pretty warped fashion, demented, even, but, in actuality, I've studied ethics, more than any other subject, and I've done my studying. The problem is, that no form of ethics, really exists in the world, it can’t be (wrong!) applied, it doesn’t matter. Nothing can beat the smell of fresh fertilizer, in the air. I think it was in italics, do not write on this page. Poems? Oh, shit, no, sorry, I've got no time for poems. And the classics, more yarn... all pathetic, pathetic, stretches, things that I'm afraid to say, what I'll leave behind. I hope you enjoy my jacket, thief, or thieves. The stink, my shaking hand, death in the cradle, on a Dean Martin, haircut intuition. Shave me, they shriek, lose me, quarter me, tie me up, and leave me in the room. Waiting for excitement , the going away party, question marks, and numb fingers, toes, other extremities. Throwing up fluid, not food; not nauseous, or feeling a little queasy, but really throwing up, on the side of the road, while I curse myself, for buying that coffee. Cursing myself, for a whole host of things, that I've done, not done, should, or shouldn't have. Separation is impossible, I feel so violated, and gone, unprepared for rehearsal, and shocked. Usually not, although, shell-shocked, that would be appropriate. This is the dreaded slow down, the time, not, where I question my worth, and all that shit. Get the answer, and either live with it, or quite literally, don't. Then, I look down at my hands, and they are children’s hands. I feel the pain in my lower back, and it's an elderly pain. I walk the dog, and my mood improves, I kiss a girl, and she lets me. The world, simply is, and all the rest, what we assign to it, is only our interpretation. This one’s for Jimmy and Tutu, for real. Just like at the dairy, always. No one to cry to, can't cry, do, but only in extreme conditions, where my head is tilted, at a funny angle. I can't begin to express, what I'm going through, right now, depersonalization, is part of it, only part. To "seek help," pay someone, to "listen," any attempted escape, anything, really. I woke up surprised, honestly surprised, again, to see another morning, and what a morning it was! And the day, will be like yesterday, though, I'll do different things, and generally, go about things, differently. I'll cope, or try to cope, and will change my mind, a lot. All of the usual concerns, I'll take note of, the fantasies of fleeing, and going somewhere, will occur... all that will occur, will occur, and not a heck of a lot else. This cursed life, was it the mirror I shattered, really? The drunken, forgotten, rides home, really bad signs, ignoring all those, going ahead, stupidly, despite the consequences. Real mental illness, begins, and ends, with this, with me, with what I've done, or not done. Don’t leave your life up to anyone else. There is a particular type of pressure, that nobody ever talks about. Every day, my grip, and hold, on reality, gets weaker, all the time, things are getting darker, and darker, while I despise the sun, more, and more. This drifting thing, that I'm doing, these supposed debaucheries, these half-plans, half this, and that. All the "unfinished business," that I imagine needs to be taken care of, so what? Doesn't really (what?) enter my stream of consciousness, well, not until lately. For a long time, it was this frantic burst of activity, these "experiences," now, it's a dry, scentless, fart, oozing out of the asshole. It can't be much more, and I can't walk away from it, from this, from anything. Fire me, I can't stand waiting, for it to happen, when it's sure to happen, sooner, or later.. do it, now, the suspense, is what’s killing me. The sky is blue, and the trees, are all twisted, and tangled up into the adjacent ones. It’s all absurd, so, be absurd, get your damn moneys worth. The total, net, take? My worst, bad dreams, have now been realized. The carpeting contains dirt, the shower contains, germs, I contain diseases, or could. The trouble is that none of us can understand, understate, undersell, dance limply. We all float around the sides of buildings, only talking about things, we have in common. Even in Church, she would rub herself. You were my leprous lover, before it all, fell off. Not personally, have in common, like projects, land contracts, those sorts of things. Look at my leg, what a strange, strange, thing, it is, I noticed, yesterday, for the first time, my knees don't have any hair on them that I'd never noticed before. I can't imagine much, very far ahead... there's that noise, again, that loud, ear splitting, noise. My neck has been unhinged, and I've been scrubbed clean, but it doesn't help. I'm very cold, in more ways than one, I observe the sticks in the backyard, and they are all, so different. Squirrels all look the same, like identical twins, bounding across the snow, I envy them, their playfulness. I threw away my cigarette, and it just missed the pole. It doesn't do me any good, to worry, it will happen, has already happened, is happening. The crux of the matter, has been torn to shreds, it's too late, and I really, really, don't care, anymore. There were all kinds of options, and possibilities, and I don't know when, or how, it happened, but they've all gone away. I think I've gone away, in a relative sense, I do believe, I'm dead (it’s now been substantiated). You can finish this today, get it done, c’mon, it isn’t all that difficult. Life sucks, and goes on.
What ever happened to Adonis? I can see those yellow circles, in the shower, and I don't know what they are, or mean. I don't know what anything is, or means. I say hello, and good-bye, to people I have to say those things to, and no one else. No one looks, and I don't want them to. What is money? What is transcendentalism? What is orange? Why was that guy handing out candy, or olives? This labored effort, that it takes, to just sit here, the desperation calls, I'm not at home. Here, there, or anywhere, but that's a separate issue. As far as fear, well, it's gone now, there is nothing to be afraid of, or back away from. There’s nothing to go to, or strive for, either. My mouth is so dry, this thirst is insatiable, and not for alcohol, per se, but for anything. Well, I'm not a liar, because I don't know anyone, to say anything to, I'm sure if I knew people, there would be dozens of wonderful lies, to tell. Living is a lie. To scratch your bloodied nose, with the back of your hand, to be reminded of the scars, and thefts, and sicknesses, cancers. There are bugs flying around in my face, and I can't figure out why they would want to do that, to me. I believe, that at some future point (today), that I'm going to go into the bathroom, and get violently ill. I am violently ill, that's probably, the only violence within me. There's that bug again! Let me remember what I was trying to say, or do, these elaborate schemes, that I had concocted. This is not enough, there must be more to life, than this... I've looked, trust me. All the greeting cards in the world, can't change a thing. I write books, there is nothing literary, or poetic, about it, I say hi, to some people, sometimes. Things can be easy, but aren't, very often. The stories that you hear, are probably true, and there probably isn't any bedrock, beneath them, truth, of them. I can't stand to look at my own stoned face. The planets revolve, and oscillate, between themselves. Stars are born, and stars die, and we shouldn't even be looking out there, in the first place. Oh, I was in my prime, then, say, I could sit on kegs, and go woo-hoo, with the best of them (the keg dried up, me with it). You must have taken off your pants, or something. When the floater stroked his velvet pen, over his sacred parchment, how many of us wanted to punch his face? My head is full of ex-addresses. She asked where the flame went, when we blew it out, I answered, Maine. The greatest of the great, are also marionettes. The climb up the stairs, and to the hall, the acts I'd put on. The woebegone cruises, that I would avert, or undergo. The smell of the town, and the idea that I liked that smell, better than this one, or that one. The town smelled like a used bookstore, and the hand lettering, was done by an artiste. Yes, with an "E", I added that. No exquisite backyards, to pass through. I have to do it, nobody else can, or, will. Self doubt, doesn’t just, go away. When I close my eyes, I can see an invisible woman, sitting Indian-style, I don't know what she's holding in her hands, or even if, she's holding something in her hands. Make up some kind of a life for yourselves, don’t let them do it. Here, we have belts, and freedoms, that don't exist, over there. It’s like my arms! I must solve these issues, now, and yes, they must be, solved. We’re fine, they are not. I would stumble up to people, weave, stink, fall down on their front stoop. Inherited genes, other kinds of genes, that sort of appear, independent of (help me) parentage. A lost icon, a monument, a conclusion, that is conclusively, forgotten. A steam roller, and the lady waving us around it, the crossing guard, the walk upstairs, the guy who would carry up the groceries, if he was home. The cracked egg, head, drop kick, liver disease. Let me light myself on fire, no, I don't need any help. There is nothing to complain about, because I got my wish, I don't like it, now, but, I got my wish. I gotta’ go out, now, and buy a new one, and yeah, I'm upset (but then again, it's my fault). Everything in my life, is my fault, I know this, am aware of it, dislike it, too. I can't believe that I believe, what I do. And all these thoughts about being, "tortured", when I'm only torturing myself. My farts smell so terrible, my shit burns it's way out of my asshole, I'm dying, and don't care. You're dying, and I don't care, I've stopped caring, which is to say, that I did, care, yes, up until recently. One of my problems, was thinking I had problems. The smell of corpses, takes some getting used to. The complex, has run its cycle, I’m shattered, splintered, but somehow, more whole. Tick tock, our lives go, by, and away. Be a scapegoat, a doormat, a codependent.
