167

Existentialists, and nihilists, are just puppet’s, wearing all black. Do not suffer yourself to be imposed upon, by this. Bones in the glove box. Last chance for sloppy seconds. They waltzed in, with heads, like pylons, holding chocolate Ben Franklin's, to amuse you, let you down. Piece of metal, with hole inside. Well, it is a work of genius, but it crosses over the breech and spills out, into insanity. Screw you, and your water metaphors. I will walk on water, in order to show you, what low tide, and a few well placed mirrors, and ropes, with pulleys, can do. My composing skills, are stellar, the electronic toilet, was used outdoors, someone confided something, to me. I will infect you, with what I have, and though, it won't kill you, can make you stranger, a little bit dirty, a little divine? Kicking syphilitic, at the void, with carnival sounds, in the background, and frogs, flying through the air. What was she singing, something about pretty colors? Lost, lost, lost, and it's becoming upsetting, again. To be a two bit thief, people are bound to start asking questions, putting me on the spot, getting accusatory, and suspicious, again. Heaven is a ham, held aloft, just look at it, with the juices oozing (why, oozing?). My heart is broken, has been so, for a long time, and I don't care, haven't really ever, cared. Me, and my hopeless romanticism, and glorification of bygone eras, dead people, or, people who have moved, far, far, away. I feel as if I were melting onto this page, and showing off my expertise in wind surfing. The abyss is not long, or really, that difficult, just endless, and all hopes are dashed, upon its mere summoning. Nail me in the head, because I regret the things I've said. No fame lit her fire, no soft, and smooth, caresses. Burning vowels, burning adjectives, and conjunctive verbs, made up words? What are you talking about? Hurry up, and who are these people? What am I doing, not only here, and now, but specifically, what am I doing? I pick at my scabs, and eat them, I enjoy ketchup on my cottage cheese, I like liquids, who are you tear jerking? What's the cost to me? How can I return this jacket, and get mine back? This is all so embarrassing, and it's embarrassing, how embarrassing it is. Like, why do I feel the need to do it? And how could I even think about publishing this, letting people read this? But I do, and it's all a part of this twisted, sordid, plan, that I have. This is not an autobiography, these are unused ad jingles. Is this the “slowing down” that the old folks used to talk about? Warn the renegades, nobody gives a shit. We all face it, eventually, in one way, or the other. Fifty cents, lint, civil war button, more, now. The dead thing was on the side of the road. It was supposed to be as exciting as finding an Indian arrowhead, in your own backyard. That book is a great place to set my sandwich. I'm forgetting how to chew, and swallow, wipe my ass, this is how it happens, slow, and deliberate, like a yawn. To say that I'm subversive, or dangerous, is a lie; I used to think I was, for awhile. A spineless waif, I'd believe these things, mind you. I was nowhere, now, I sit here, in my room, and eat cheese product, on wheat bread, and start regretting things. All over again, it's regret, regret, regret. What is to be found, that is so difficult? I don't think it is, anymore, there isn't enough time for difficulty. I can't seem to hold my shit in my ass, anymore. People talk about being "emotionally affected", well, I say, good! Isn't that better than the wool over your eyes, pants down, and all that? They say I could have, I say I should have, I can't remember who I saw, or who was there, but I can make a pretty good guess. This is the last stop, ladies, and gentlemen, because I'm getting off, and no, this bus doesn't exist, when I'm not looking at it, in it. Throwing up in the fake car. I'm screwed up, and can't afford to improve. Let me die, alone, and in peace, when no one... what's going on with the leg of my pants? It's frayed, fine, but it's billowing outward, they are like three liter bellbottoms, but they're not bellbottoms, oh, how strange! So tired, oh, so tired, sooo tired... THEN, SLEEP! I don't have time for this endless whining, sleep, you stupid asshole! The hair on the page… 'THE HAIR ON THE PAGE', what does that mean? Chop, chop, ha, ha, now, I am God, again, and you, be damned (hoo, hoo, hee, hee!). Well, I could challenge your authority, yes, but you will be left at the altar, with egg on your face. I can do anything I want, be anyone I want, have all, be all, maybe/doubtful, everything/anything, even now! I can get up, wipe my ass, go down to the curb, and get the trashcans, because the garbage men have come, and gone. This one, singular, event, has changed my life, forever, the garbage men have come, and gone, and left the empty trash cans at the curb. My financial state, is not good, you are my only hope at salvation. You can’t find a closet big enough for a true freak, to hide in. Reeling on Ritalin, and happy, happy. Too self absorbed, to realize anything. We’ve got to get out of the syrup. The old way of everything, was better. It isn’t a vanilla crisp, that’s for damn sure. How, then, can I explain my situation? The opinions expressed in this book, are the author’s, not whoever ends up publishing this shit. Whine, like a helpless moron. I don't have anything, because I lost it. Not a whole hell of a lot, makes too much sense, does it (anywhere)? I can feel my pulse at my temples, and there is this compression, and it effects the way that my right hand, works. How can we make this, valid? There is a crossing over, regarding this thing, that people tried to show us. We had to catch butterflies, not merely go out with the net, and the glass jar, with holes cut in the top. I kept saying, "why, why, why", like some speechless, nymphomaniac, on acid. Let me just come over to your house, and we'll talk all this out; the plot to overthrow you, the whole thing. Too much time, to stare up at the ceiling, look out through the blinds, listen to the birds. The slow, pensive, steps I take, how long it took me, to learn how to ride a bike, I can see my thumb, now. I do want this mood, or these moods, to pass, fade away; in a sense, I'm only writing it, so that it will go away. I think it works, but I'm not sure. I get vile, vengeful, depressed, sorrowful, but look forward to the day, these things can be looked back upon, as a phase, a sacrilege. I am lazy, and know it. Laziness, is probably my greatest gift, the door is always slamming, and people are always pissed off at me. I don't raise a finger, drink all night, drive home, do nothing, say nothing, maybe take to the back... these innumerable, failures. Why would anyone, want to take me out to lunch, or even look at me? I'm an absolute mess. Clouded, more drunk, sober, than at any other time. Nurse your wounds, in seclusion. This must be worth the money you spent. They will try to drive me out of town, but I will not leave. It’s not all in here, this whole thing, just didn’t work out. They took my hat, and ran with it. That look, on my face, like a lamb, being marched off to slaughter. My stupidity, proved every time I open my mouth. Confess to it now, before they figure it out. I'm sorry, but it's never enough, and always, too late. I am very easily replaceable. This is like the ghetto. Don’t let go of even one day, not now, not ever! I'm a complainer, seemingly, only happy, when there is something to bitch about, so, I make such events, take place. I endure, and suffer, every kind of ill, that I can inflict upon myself. What set him off, this time? What's the matter with him, now? And of course, nobody asks these questions, because, nobody cares, and I don't care, but only like to appear as if I do. The books are bought, and paid for, but lie unread, I'm an unread, dusty, old book, on the shelf, that is never pulled down. Life is for the most part, boring, or maybe, it’s just me. Excerpt this? We played with our toys, for too long. The "pain of the poet," is really only a marked inability, to get laid. I don't mean, or believe, anything that I've ever read, or written. To figure this out, and that out, it seems in all my years, I've figured nothing out. No math problem, solved, no language barrier, explored, crossed, divided. What a terrible, terrible, thing that I've done, here. This blase' insanity, and inanity. Let me think for a minute, prepare, get my brain, and hands, ready, for relaxation mode, apologize again, stand up, and change my pants. Guilt? No, stupidity, is more on the mark. In a way, we're all stupid, but if you know x, is the case, and continue to do x, over, and over, again, as I have, you are really, really, stupid. Well, I suppose, I should be getting ready... or just write my way into, or out of, oblivion, which way? The thought experiments, the campus arguments, revolving on end, my peepshow mentality, and OMAHA, OMAHA. Then, sitting on the thing alongside the couch, the choo-choo. Pleasant day, depression lifts, more, or less, anonymous, but all of this, is fine with me. Lately, these noises I make, these laughing noises, unexplainable, and the cat is meowing. Please, I'm so sorry, please... these are the results. I couldn't have seriously stumbled around there, as long as I did. All the crossed out parts, things that were so succinct, then. I'm off, open the door, and crumble out the back forty, hi-ho, and poo-poo. Into the corn, we go! Please be rougher, with the light fingertip caresses, what was I talking about? This is the guilt, there were women there, oh, my, oh, oh, my. Crust me, downy. Muff-puff, log toy play set, with plastic Jesus pen. Here we go, kind of. This is an arbitrary decision, these are the celery stalks, that we are intending to boil, when our moods improve. Don't box me into this fake rock business. I've got to go all the way back there, sullen, and despondent, crawling back in there, the morning after... oh. Crying, moaning, screaming, in somebody else’s house? Then, I'm on an escalator, and I did pour coffee, but stopped pouring coffee. The general public, is glittering, at the hobnob box. What the is-is, hey, hey, hey. Go to the house, laugh at crunching moments, leave the breakfast cereal, out of here. No lust, my gadget has fizzled out. The armed forces, need fodder. I’m the first sex addict, who doesn’t fuck.

Really bad foot odor; discomfort. Door knob associations, for the socially maladjusted. I was on a one way street, to the late club. Lots of chitter chatter, thank you. No, I won't come in, and go the other way, only to look around in the basement. All in the car, ended up north. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one... no further than this. This is the march to the camps, I'm only trying to capture my immediate experience. The years, getting caught popping zits, in the rearview mirror. The chalk vibe, loose, and 'oh yeah' happenings. This is not the other, sometimes, I get to thinking, this should be more like the other. Who? Oh shit, I'm only filling up space, commenting. To be honest, I am filling up the page, with letters, and words, that can really only matter to me. The crate, the song, sitting in the wrong spot, for a long time, melting the ice on the clip, with my body temperature, alone. I haven't, and don't need to, talk about energy conversion, brain states, or states of the union. The ink pen in my pocket, is not my ink pen. Once we get well, we want to be sick again. I fired the weapon! I wrote all over things, that I shouldn’t have written all over, and threw them onto the floor, behind me, upsetting everyone. We’re all so damn, unused. How can I pick up the phone, and be expected to call, in this state I'm in? Get on with it! Fink out, another morning. Try to get on a more normal schedule. Brush your teeth, more often. Nothing is more rancid, than hot tomatoes, that were crisp, and fresh, now, wet, and steamed, on a cheese sandwich. Let me cover up my tracks, forget what I shouldn't have done, color canvasses, with orange colors, odd. Bare women’s feet, upon the dashboard, are too much of a good thing. The last time, was years ago, I had an experience, called up the seminary, and put in my resignation/application. Fundless, enlightened, brooding, slowly, at the side. So, its imperative, that I go all out, with a screwdriver, but I don't have a screwdriver, or at least, not the kind that is required. I tried to help, but dropped the tray, looked around in somebody's refrigerator. Caught, again, and again, and called on it, reminded, crying, eyes avoided. Feces, 32 lbs.? Over, and over me, drive left, right, different streets, or the same streets. Fold everything, drive. Open the windows, so upset, spray, spray... all around. Let's get our shit back, I just want my shit back, please. The hillbilly girl, sure knew her way around a backseat (um…). Think in a different way, altogether. I just stumbled away. Success is a myth, a lie. There is an entire, imaginary, baseball team, in my head! Falling. I, quite simply, forget to talk. This "craziness," business, used to be funny, but, of late, it's becoming quite tragic. No shifters, then, dropping the drinks into the sink. What did happen... the whole 'one end of the room, to the other' thing, for one. I just made my way through the crowd, panic, desperation. This is a laugh track, for the damned, this is some sort of wish, fish, or wild game. On a rack, with a pencil sticking out of it. Should I go to the movie, or be in the movie? Tut, tut, groin me, slabs, and slabs. Gotta' get back over there, where they spell everything wrong, use bad grammar. Type me. Elephant-like loins, worry about the cars, zits popping, cars, zit popping. A sleepy eye, really, some sort of sliver, say, I can see, to remove it. Look at those rear ends, bouncing up, and down, on these imaginary tricycles, I looked, sniffed even. Lobbed off, sent out in the mail. The mystery bulges, "hey, get out." People can do whatever they want. I sat there alone, drinking beer, after beer, after beer. Let me just collapse. Repeating it in my "mind", repeating it, looking at boots, no boots worth owning. Let me go into the coffee shops, look around, go to the bathroom, flush, go out, look around, look strange, leave (my coat and jacket). How... shit, I'm on the escalator. More hotels, another wake up call. The cut up methodology, is all over Butch, in the cataclysmic, there's the mind brew, paste, and tear; I tore, and maybe that wasn't the greatest thing to do. There I was, arriving late (hit, put down), asking, trying to 'make the switch.' Shocked, and bewildered, doesn’t even describe what I went through, back there. Most of our best friends died in the war, anyone, everyone. So, it’s baffling, bewildering, confusing, ridiculous, what isn’t? The difference between last night, and today, is the 'truck, loaded with toys.' The unemployment rate rose, three and one tenths of a point, in limited trading. Help me get out of this tossed away, "stand in the alley in awe," thing, that I'm doing. She wasn't there, I had quit, been replaced. Tapes in tape players, rap music, people going on, about not being able to be heard. Did they curse me, those miserable screws? Shit, I forgot the load, the donuts, the pans. Let me in on this jive, lunch counter, innuendo. Enthusiasm, correct, last evening, now, back to the bridle, wondering about precipitation, not really, though. Be (slightly) crude, a little bit Italian. How dare you reject me. Psychiatric help, for me? Fixated, on chaos mathematics! She only asked me about gasoline, and I proceeded to tell her, what I was really feeling, letting out a torrent of emotionalism, that I didn't know I possessed, anymore. Lights, camera, and action, was called out, but not one thing happened. Holy Egypt, no, it’s like rape. I was very confrontational, throwing the cross, and blowing hot wax into one of their faces. It was one of the most uninterpretable one's, I've ever had, and I don't want to forget it, of course, most of it (dialogue, and such, which was exceptionally clear), is gone. It’s a quadruple helix! "Try not to cry," people crying, the cross throwing, "I like you guys," "you don't know us, just met us." The candle incident, with purple wax, the red one, falling to the floor. The sickening death, of kind of a goofy one, very vigorous, healthy, confrontation, people long dead, walking around. There were several perspectives, chairs, unknown locations, and very personal ones, young people wasted, I think he was beheaded, or something, just terrible. My stake in it, I know, and don't know, and don't think I want to... but, do! The thing hitting that women in the back of the head, the disruption, the apology, and acceptance thereof. This is all screwy, but really happened, in my head, with guard down, and whatnot, and I was fighting, challenging, unafraid to stand up for my beliefs. We've all got to stop yelling, and making so much noise, and certain tragedies, cannot be handled, just cannot. We become someone else, in periods of deep suffering, someone else, that is not thinking about detached, psychological theory, but face to face, with sheer terror, unending neck, to scratch, scars, that are 11/8 inches deep, wailing, crying, knowing why, and not being able to stop, or be consoled. It's not a test of our character's fortitude, it's beyond that, into very large pieces being taken out of our pie, and the only defense is forced forgetfulness, of crucial, unforgettable people, places or things. Who said mesquite? Nothing is absolute, except nothing. I'm gonna' seduce you, by falling down in your kitchen! No more terror, fears are only there, to be confronted, and dispelled, and dispelled, they are, the moment they're dragged out of the dark recesses, damp places, and thrown out into the sun, to dry up, and disappear. There was a pressure, a "performer's complex," every time we were around each other. There didn't need to be, because we were looking at ourselves in each other. Parts that we liked very much, had lost, never had, or were stolen. Why I said, what I said, and did, what I did, I’ll never know. Why I am the way I am, I don't really know, except for vague chaos theories, specifics, et.al. There was no real challenge posed, I won the showdown, was given something to walk away with, something to think about. We all were, and we deal with it, in our own ways. We're all the goofy guy, all of us would throw the stick, and break the rules, go about things in our own ways, and we do it, all the time. I don’t hold out much hope. It’s frozen food, and make believe, for me, now. Everything's fine, o.k., our stomachs settle down, our moods flip, flip, flip, then rest, on an o.k., even pleasant, state of filtered attention, relaxed reaction, more self esteem, at least, to take the garbage cans back to the side of the house. Poets have to eat, endowments no longer exist, and so what? We understand the struggle for survival, oh, too well, and now, its time to prove it, in actuality, to ourselves. We just need to calm down, a lot, for as long as possible. We need to rest, and not have expectations that are impossibly high, lofty, and beautiful. We’re animals, our intelligence is overrated. Sometimes, I can do this, sometimes, I can't, and it a dice roll, either way. Chance is the number one determinant in life. Now, I think about that one, because I believe it's true. There are other determinants, but none so all persuading, so determinant of ourselves, our behavior, our characters, our fates, destinies, nose hairs. If you look closely, all parades are solemn. Wash your filthy face!