One, and two, and syphilis kicks! I write letters, the problem is that I mail them. To be interesting in thought, and thought, alone. We're all in the aquarium, asking for help, our lips are moving, but nobody can hear us. Chalk, I think I've already mentioned this. Art doesn't imitate life, it imitates the artist. Sometimes art motivates, an artist, but, not generally in a positive direction. The tadpoles at the bottom of the pool... so clear. For whatever reason, perhaps, no reason at all, but I think there was a natural succession, an order of sorts, by necessity, and for necessity. That's a concept to latch onto; necessity. I longed for (lunged?) her, perpetually. Breathing, eating, excreting waste, shelter, some clothing, and not much else. Yell out something that makes no sense. What? We get ignored, for so long. Movement, water, yeah, the rest is invented, made up, sold to us. Tell which, is which. We die, so slowly. You are probably right, because, I am definitely, wrong. Thinking can be the greatest friend/foe, the world has ever seen. Our imaginary friends, never leave us, we just disown them, for "real friends." They're usually more shadowy, than the imaginary variety, but no bother. All of the maybe so's, are answered in the negative, now, my breathing is labored, and I keep spinning, without asking too many why's, anymore. And, it's not that I'm content, because I'm not, and I'm not wise, or sage, or self actualized, either. I've turned into, what I’ve been planning on turning into, for years, and, of course, that's not good enough; then, the next incarnation isn't, and the next, and so on. These are not issues dealing with appearance, or my standing in the community, or, the system at large, I'm referring to thought patterns, ways of communicating, with myself, in my own head. Interests play a vital role in all of this, but primarily, it is a rather self-centered, and egotistical, form of child's play. To search inward, deeper, and deeper, beyond when it is discovered, that there's nothing there, beyond a screaming, primal, defiance, against nothing, itself... these forays into beyond, beyond. I'm not creaming you, with any discovery, just giving you a vocation. If you look, you can find me there; in the middle of nowhere. I have a problem with rich people, because I’m not one (jealousy). Open the envelope, smell whats inside. The butterfly becomes akin to the cocoon, again… Tell us what "the secret," is. Only in my dreams, do most things occur, boy, do I look terrible. It seems the more out, and out, rancid, that I smell, and appear, the more amorous of a little "push, pull, pop, wow," I become. No one sits too close, and they're not reading my mind, thank goodness, no. They're protecting their olfactory lobes, and I respect that. We have certain, unalienable rights, as you know. Look at that finger, look at this obviousness, listen to that shrill, high-pitched, whistle, that supposedly, only dogs can hear. Examining the present circumstances, packing the bags, boxes, trucks, or whatever. Leaving here, getting there, unpacking, starting over, worrying about our breath, and our flabby arm muscles, flabby everything. But, then, we can watch television, and see people whose arms, and everything, are not flabby, but, taut, like rope, or tighter. Perhaps you've seen them at the mall, and wanted to fuck them, very badly. Perhaps, you've thought about it, only to chase the thought away, because of flabby arms... perhaps , I'm unsure. To the truck stop, to the cranium circus, to the Arnold P. Mustere office center, yes, with an E, at the end. And huge radio towers, wide streets, for the tanks to rumble down, that dust, and the nauseating apartment complexes. Skinned, tattooed, by the page behind her. To look upon her, I cannot think of what I'm supposed to do, but only happiness, lawn chairs, and dedicated literature. She also possesses, solid arms. Solidity, hmmm…. anyhow, I'm going to attempt (for a while, anyway) to use perfection, as inspiration. She uses her books, for makeshift chairs, knows exactly what she's doing, how, and where... she's one of those, the kind you can tell, just by looking at. No, this is not more sex talk, from a filthy mouth, cigarette stench, shit finger.... No! I'm talking about what I see, and how I relate to it, without being a part of it. It might spoil it, to actually impart, to just imagine, and mull over, from afar, seems like quite enough, to me. To drive by her house, in an innocent, flirtatious way. Short wave collapse, over and out. Got to get back, into the pink. This is all a bunch of bullshit.
Smear on dandelion, to see if you like butter. Weirdos, from dysfunctional homes. Rodents, men, plans in shambles. Knock down the floral arrangements. There's the pea & cheese soup. So everything's wonderful, now, everything's fine. There's the Alpacuna minus Vicuna, wherever it's from, and whatever that means. To be slowly reintegrated, into the regimen, the smell on your fingers. No regret, no guilt, just the way things are. Horrible howling, dead ends, aren't even dead ends, they're "viable career options." The frog croaked serenely. The law sucks all the instinct out of us. It was there, then, it was out? Yes, they're called, options. Oh, this confounded, shit heap, world. I feel so stymied, so blocked, stopped. Don’t smear your ass all over me! The toilet doesn't flush, either. The words and the flow, are not present. We’re melting into the thing, we seek a purpose. Just piles of shit, different colors, and consistencies. Weak excuses, for half-assed attempts; excuses. Time, is no time, forever. Boom, shakka, boom, rabbit. Skip the damn appointment. We want the thing, anyway. Bloodless, spent, old Abe's wooden teeth, or was it the other guy? Croatoan (carved in a tree). I needed her to be my sex addict, alter ego. The Swissinger elves, are still chirping, and clucking. 32% butter, arms. We’re aware, but not enough. The cat sniffs the cheese, people swinging, talking, or sitting alone, saying nothing. Silence, no money. The dull, boring, stifling, ache of, “it’s over, it's over." Help me warn you, this is nothing you should see. Failure, failure, paper, and letters, just differently arranged. Kitchen, laundry basket, blood, equals sanguine? I scrape the explanations off the middle age era, woodcuts. Crazy-o, Dairy-o, Cherry-o. Parades of legs, leggs, eggs, fuck it all, everything. Oh, sorry, um, love me. Acedecholine eye, number one stump, rubber arm, stump, rubber arm. The face down, in the throw rug, knee deep in sawdust, on the circus sideshow floor. Koochie, koochie, koo, coo, cool. Abe is still in prison, no one's sure when, or if, he's getting out. Ann refuses to take her medication, even though she squats over the sink, and cums, water running, drip, drip, dripping, naked, smiling, etc. The boot steps on the shoes. Sequestered, demanded to perform. Louie, in the background. Exocytosis, on the blade of a knife, augmented evolution. This is the squirm through life, they were talking about. This is a lot like you. This is the plastic toy, where you press the base, and the animal collapses, see it collapse. A lot like you, me, her. "It", the last scapegoat of the educated types, before the luck runs out, the pants fall off. There is the wooden animal, there is the milk crate, full of photographs, more about them later. For now, we turn our attention to more pressing matters. Namely, the unpopularity of strawberry milkshakes, these days. Take off those glasses, Slim. Leaping, with blue jeans. Headstand, dynamite, out of sight, and upside down. Darling, pour the milk, please don't ask why I need my milk poured for me. Here come the cosmonauts, drunk, leaning in, looking through the windows, and in the trunks of cars, for contraband. The chiseled off nozzle, make it look like a dead bird, umbrella skeleton. Turn me like the three year itch, that came, and went. Make me feel like a pink balloon, being inflated, then, deflated. Let me be your elephant, and X-rated, disco chair. Telephone me, tie me up with the cord, and ravage me, rape me. Call me a man-boy, call me a sissy, call me a girl. Please, don't do any of this, leave me alone. Lunachick chimp, puff n' stuff pimp. Slut using hamburger, go to the trailer, re-visit the bone dry, counting, prairie, Dixieland, white veal trick, on cereal boxes. Reconstitute the undeveloped, undermine them, draw them with big heads, and small bodies. Given dry cake, other food, taken away. There are these background noises, that we all appreciate, or did. Give us back our lemons. New wave, mod, culture. No one's around to hear her cries, nowadays. This is for mass consumption. Of course, "the masses" [sic], don't ordinarily consume, they nibble, leave most of it on the plate. Butter smeared, bagels on the shelves, with teeth marks. Well, now, there's nothing, see how valuable tape recorders, are? Sort of an undifferentiated, anger, seething, swearing. Cars just drifting into the way, with heads, but no one even sees the heads. Sick, wet, delirious, grey slop, and tar, colored black, all along the side of the road. Right hand aching, and frozen. Top and bottom are full. Another coat picked out of the lost and found, more car problems, no time. Woke up, for the first time, in a long time, drenched in my own urine. Didn't change, just went through the day, as if everything was fine. It, this, them, you, hello! Want to see a schizophrenic, hear one? Check this out, or the last one, if it exists. Whichever comes out first, or, 365 days, wasted. Theories, laid to waste. Too much room in the margins, numb fingers, did I mention the numb fingers, numb life? We will break through the restraints! The light off the streaked windshield, was overwhelming. They claimed I had a thought disorder. Oh, anyway, people with flags, waving us on, piles of dirt, being (it’s all lost) shoved around, by huge machines, surrounded by books I have, or have not, read, or written, with my dominatrix, I am, oh, so, obedient. Pissed at no one in particular, but pissed. The ridiculous sounds, strident voices, shitty songs, you pretend to like, coming on the radio, for the seven thousandth time. And the faces of celebrities in magazines, people giving each other blowjobs, in the ladies room. The piss in the pants, hungover, sick of myself, and the rest. My best ideas, won’t work. Is it really so daunting a prospect, really, so difficult? What about the ketchup on the back porch, defrosted steaks? The next day's sickening morning, at that place. Arguments for solipsism, on matchbook covers. Loud, loud voices, going on, and on, about nothing. Nothing helps, eases the way, makes sense. Post offices... radio shows, featuring people who are very concerned, about either, their standing in the sexual community, or "catching" cervical cancer, by oral sex, or whatever it was... filthy, cardboard, 'wipe your feet' mats. Stumbling back there, the revolting spectacle. Old people, forgotten, Del-Mar apartments, a thought about fucking, every 5.2 seconds, errands. Thinking nonsense, about coughs, replacing friendship. So sick of it, but can't, you know. Fake Manchester accents, reunions, too late. Answering the phone, or not answering the phone, never for me (thank goodness). Pulled up pants, to knees, vogue-type models, scrubbing the tables down. Can't communicate, any of this. Just pounding the steering wheel, another red light, another red light! Even when they're green, the 'waiting as if, red.' Stalled cars in the right lane, with "Young Country," bumper stickers (of course). Dogs, barking, barking, barking. Whatever, showmanship, acting, comedy, perfect tits. Screaming inappropriately, on I-375. Left, over there in the corner, near the comic shop, beauty salon. Submarine sandwich, all over the floor, no excitement, happiness; everything, fundamentally flawed. Paper gum wrappers, cigarette butts, streaking yellow, sick ass stains, across the snow. Joyless, standing in line, trying not to look disgusted, but, oh, so very. Here ye, hear ye, what have I done wrong? The el train, brought back false memories.
Fireflies, in glass jars, are what we are. If everything is "rationalized away," then, what is ever learned? It would really be in my best interests, to just stop bitching, and start living, but I see no possible life, to be worthwhile. They insisted that butterflies, received, at least, a footnote. The noise coming out of the bathroom alone, right now, is so overwhelming, to render me practically, impotent. This is not exactly, what I’d counted on. The air, half scraping, half bumping, across the bottom of the tub, radio playing, sickening commercials, about stereo companies, splashing water, loud. If you're insane, stay the fuck away from me. Two people like this, in the same room, could drop some bombs on Minnesota, the likes of which, the world has never seen. Who are you? What is the coast guard, searching for? So, more of the common denominator, Geiger counter stuff, less of this. What do I think I am? Uncooked. The sound of snack foods, dropping to the floor. Yes, so what? But, then again, there they are. Not really... what's that smell? What the hell is wrong with me? The collapsing of the trachea, is an emphysemic, nightmare. The initial goal, was to put everything in this book, simply, and directly, that’ll have to wait until the next one. So, the silence is unbuttoned. Not even James Dean, really looked like the James Dean, on the postage stamps. My dream of being out in the side yard, and sucking my own dick? Or, the recurring one, about losing my wisdom (?) teeth. Midnight zombie walks, to the peanut butter jar, making excuses. This is the hardest part, an impossible (yes, six!) prospect. So, what about failure? Put the corpse in the truck, piss in the toilet, with the seat down (mumbling), pour the chocolate all over her ass, his ass; lick it up, and off, enjoy it. The taste of sponge, in the mouth, shampoo, soap, naked. We looked through her garage. Avoid drunk people, listen to the story? Cross your legs, in a vague attempt, to confuse your vas deferens, into another argument for epiphenomenalism. The movie idea, has been postponed. Try a mellotron. Feeling the one way, robbing the pencil drawer, round up the clowns, cooked, dead animal, sandwiches, maybe with au jus, maybe not with au jus, stuck in my head, with ass finger. We won’t let it happen to us. Put me into the nuthouse, because I pissed all over your swing set. I'm fully aware, of how juvenile all this is, but when you're terrified, and angry, in equal measures, there’s a tendency to regress, or, at least, for me, there is. Ten days, and I'm already nauseous. The drive, for lack of a better word, to slam the door back, collapsing the cup, the wall, putting a hole in it. If it was a Japanese reference, it was so vague, and unclear, as to make the statement (if it was a statement), meaningless. I still don't like myself, or you, very much, I love you, but don't like you, can't stand you. Not even a wave, and a smile, anymore, just eyes, and third eyes, imaginations. What to write? What to do? Dare I think about sex, the car crash? Pizzas falling to the floor (lukewarm), swear words? Turn that shit off, turn the other faucet on, and admit, for the first time that there might not be a faucet, anymore, because I don't care any longer. Hey, punch first, then ask. Absolutely insane, and absolutely absurd, so, let's bounce, I don't care who you are, c'mon. What? You're not bored out of your head, yet? Well, it won't be long. Not only has it all been said before, or at least, thought before, I've, said it all before, thought it all before. I mean, it's for all practical purposes, over, yet, I remain, like the leftover bits, and pieces, of some mathematical problem. To keep looking, and feeling, like some obnoxious, sex-crazed, extra, from the movie, Reefer Blowout? No, thank you. I can't believe it, it really never ends. Everyday, all the insignificant wrong turns, or standing here, standing there. The impossibility, of a good time, meandering, wandering, wallowing, boredom. It’s the uncertainty, that bothers us the most. Spell correctly, or suffer the consequences. The attack on me, was too vicious. The pasta was thrown against the wall.
