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The undertaker, is all out of formaldehyde, we'll use wax, instead. Wax, and wane, tarnish, what you couldn't (varnish?) do. Sneak peeks, at pretty faces. It's true that, "you can say everything is like that," true this, false, this true... Insanity, is not following the rules anymore, being unaware that you're not following them, or even that there are rules, really; to be followed? You know the rules, about proper, office building, drone behavior, or how to cook, or serve, a hamburger, on a plastic tray, without anyone knowing that you're thinking, while you do so? About someone, or someplace, something, very, very, else. Passion, is an unwarranted reaction, to nothingness, attempting to engage, what is unengageable. The third paragraph, can't just throw pharmacy receipts in... yet. Was it ashes, to dust, or the pen, out of ink? Either way, it means the same thing. The chewed up gum on the clock radio, looks exactly like an abortion, with a gigantic hard-on. Yes, everything is meaningless, books, piled on the side of the highway. All this vomit in the room, death, slowly jerking me off, while I think about girls, or women, whose names, I don't even know, enjoying themselves a little bit more, than they would, in actuality. I don't know, there is no clothing in the room, I don't exist. Don't fuck me with that scissors, hey, I'm looking for "attention." YOO-HOO, two YOO-HOO's. The statement of account, reads zero, zero, zero; and I use it as a bookmark. What was I thinking about, suburban life? Well, it wasn't complimentary, that's for sure. The sporks were used, to eat products, stuck in cardboard boxes. Spinning in circles, down hills, broken legs, and arms, imply, carelessness. Made up words, greenish cover, with orange, stupid. Just a few squirts, into some orifice, blind, or not looking, just squirt, squirt, damp, loose... pointless. Stolen hat on the floor, did you quit, or get fired? What's the difference? Same old sickening signs, on the sides of sickening buildings. Marijuana, did a dance, which resembled a ballet. Do the can-can, like some kind of street sweeping, dust kicking, something, or the other. Absent, absent, vacant, checked out, gone. Certify these inquiries, damn you! Don’t be confused! There she is, on TV, talking about her addictions, attempts, hospital stays, her former career as a penny and dime, prostitute, she’s much better now. Fine, oh, sure... back out into traffic jams, color by number, wish fulfillment, rock and roll, type fantasies. Not wasting a minute, misdiagnosed, as paranoid, blitzing in to the second floor apartment, talking nonsense, on purpose. I can almost smell it now, taste it now; it's been years, mind you! I don't know what they were on, or what they were selling, or what was playing on the stereo. Surrender to the rock bottom. The orange tree was quite a talker. Just a few perfect moments, even though they were backassed, and asswards, ho! Another year, ends. They're the people you don't think about, everyday, the people you never consciously, remember. Years are gone, and I can't believe it. Crumpled up cigarette packs, nicotine eye, the egotist series of photographs, some sketches, drawings. So what, if I'm a trained ape, and can do the goose step, drool on the paper? Broke, fucked up. There they are, Mz. America's. I am Frank, that is all. So little, so very little, to look at. Her, sure, but she's not yours. The 90's: no comment. All I wanted to do, was dance, and instead, had to deal with their hand signals, winks; so, here we have the supposed end, of philosophy, with dog eared pages. To see it, hear it, and disagree, not just to disagree, but because this, and that, can't be the way they're supposed to be. Half a look, half a slut, waking up, oh yeah, waking up (but, never sleeping). Scratching our asses, and necks, from one hornets nest, to the other. The last rites, have come, and gone. Don’t let her get used to cars, she’ll jump one. Hours and hours, of herbs and spices. Swell into a forlorn place. Ibid: blank expression, aloof. This is like an enema, that we self-administer. Very blank, bland, cheesy, buttery, no-feeling, types of feelings. Hello, dead girl, I could have/would have, how 'bout you? There's the gravesite, giant tree trunk, also collapsed; the whole story of a story, coming to an end. Collared green, red caramel, in an empty cup. Songs, songs, then, out of nowhere; giant antelopes. Why? How about a swim? The approach, some mouth behavior, blending in, blending in. The cross, 27, hand job, express, west, grunt, puffed out, grim. The mental landscapes, were all soiled spots, of anguish. Testing laps, testing worm slides. The smear of what we've done. The telltale ego, tin foil stars, old, and unsure yet, "grainy"; made up on our own. Axio-foot in, double crap shoot, invisible, but yellow, very sexy, yes, I agree, that most of what I write, is a lot of bitching, and squealing. Belt tightening, in more than one way. I babbled a lot about normal life, and normal people, normal things, but I couldn't follow through; it's an extremely passive pursuit, this. Needs wouldn't seem to dictate any sort of response, whatsoever, save for, mere habit. It's my theory, that we only remain alive, for the sake of habit. Sure, there's a final day, hour, minute, but you may, or may not, be aware of it. So, it is an infinite now, of sorts, that we live, and breathe, and have our being in; we better like it. There's not much to like, or much to have, nothing to need, but there are a few stolen moments, here, and there, that make it look like, it's done on purpose. Then, you get caught up in one defense mechanism, or the other, and start pretending, ordering your environment, according to a fantasy world of your choosing; it's all bullshit, you realize this, too late, fall into a spiral of depression, anguish; start all over again. There isn't room, or a place, for any of this. We're the high grade, pretenders, with out of control, sex drives. Saving tears, in tiny paper cups. The terrific, beige connotations, snail drippings; still. Once again, no pens, I'll use a pencil, a “fancy" pencil, but a pencil, nonetheless. Well, another night of dreamless sleep, probably more endless errands, and bullshit, that keeps me away from writing, to look forward to, today. I’m sure, that I’ll become embroiled in some investigation. Don’t dramatize the lace in the bedroom curtains. I rushed off towards the barn, sweeping. Not anymore, see? Most of us, don’t want to do much of anything. Feel fat, hair tangled, into almost dreadlocks, I don't smell good, but can't stand nudity, even if, no one's looking. I’ve been as drunk as you are, now, a couple of times. It annoys me, to see people, thinking something's happening, but I don't say anything. It's just, to enjoy, like, some concert, movie... enjoy them? Well, different strokes, anyways, it's one dollar, for a 5 oz. water? Unfortunately, I wasn't able to finish the last idea, shit! It really needed to be finished, to give myself a little edge, of the bleakness, that lies outside my window. To just take reality, and warp it, a touch, in order to make what amounts to a never- neverland, seem like it could have been possible. So, it's everything, except what happened. Usually, what really happened, is more humorous, but I don't go out seeking humor, very often. C'mon, we all know, what we go out seeking, and it isn't, "normal sentences", either. What's it been, months? Certain people are the only things that make life truly near, impossible. I'm reminded of that stuff that girl wrote, about running around highways, naked, etc... good stuff, for the most part. What would you do, if you were the only one to survive some plague, or holocaust? As for me, I'd steal everything, and anything, and live in a sleeping bag, in the pine forest. Now, you can't fit much in a sleeping bag, an inflatable woman? Probably, but a good one. My sole possession, is going to have four orifices, maybe with "love grip hands." I feel like climbing the ladder, and breaking some glass. Yesterday, I thought that way, today, this way. They put cameras in the eyes of that wooden scarecrow, with a shirt on! You can find me in my tomb, I’m a fat, greasy, whore. Last check at this location, things are looking pretty meager, Dinky. Searching for whatever, in the wrong places. Half happy, every day; just because I have a car. Always a job, everything gone, gas stations, then, mistakes, character flaws, inabilities, nuances. Long drives, for hours, having it "all figured out," only to have it miserably fade, the moment you're required to go to the drugstore. Permanent busy, busy, bullshit, until every red light, will drive you absolutely insane, so insane, that you scare yourself. And all I want to do, is write the twenty-first century's version, of War and Peace, but they want me to write obituaries, or ad copy, for some Canadian soap company. I'm obsessed with coats, and jackets, of all kinds. I do live in a dream world, there. Why? Because this one's, not good enough. Every single place I look, everything I've ever done; nothing real, human. The years of reading? Nothing to live by, no words to grab, really jump on, and use. And this floaty, incandescent “knowledge," that I've acquired, has in no way, made me better able to handle, anything. Take my word for it, or don't, I'd rather you didn't. But me, I'm no smarter, in any way, that the "world,” will recognize. Not that I would ever want to be world renowned, just that, what is required, to even squeak by, is just that. All of my supporters, have given up on me. So, I drive around, used to walk around, I don't drink much, or often (alcohol, that is), don't take drugs, swear, a lot. Stop placing foreign objects, into your ass. I don't really get angry, well, I expel gases, but that's all they are, gasses, which can't be felt. Strychnine, can be felt, and I've copped a feel, of my share, I'm hopelessly detached, and half happy (sheer pleasure). How did a backrub, become two kids, and a thirty year mortgage? All the ladies in the paintings, had one tit hanging out. Yes, I am very ugly. Tune into the original version, where one year, becomes twenty. Experience the nose bleed, make it understand itself. The trace of onions on your fingers, fully, or partly, digested, and spinning around in the bowl. Why inquire into subjects as obtuse, as knowledge? Or any "thing," that is not really a thing, at all? I'm thinking about such profound things, as how to lose ten pounds, without believing anyone, or anything, that supposedly, “tells" me, how to lose ten pounds. Yes, I've lost all of it, it fades, goes away, does not apply... nothing of "value," that we've learned. We eat our ice cream in the winter. Disciples attacked the monks. Dig me up someday, and bring me back to life (when technology makes such a thing, possible). Before we even know we’re here, we’re all gone. The social structure, carefully avoids incidents, of such nature; "it would disrupt the status quo," they caterwaul. It takes five years to get started. You can win, you must. Here is an idea for the ages; say, let's chase money (which is ephemeral, and always eludes us), until the day we die! Yes, let's chase money, everywhere she roams, and never catch her, die, because we tried to catch her. Let's rearrange the books in the bookcase, again, half of which, we've never read. Let's lie to ourselves, and say (they don’t care) that we've read them, or that we "have the general idea." Or better, "know where the author is coming from," thus, to actually read, is superfluous. Let's never work, and kill ourselves, in as many different ways that we can, a day, many times, and in many ways. Sometimes, with our own index fingers, in our asses, sometimes, not. Let's gain weight, until to even make the first step, to lose any of it, sends us into a spiraling, spinning, futile, and clinical, depression (or, let's become farmers). Doctor, help me, I can’t stop thinking about sex. I don’t remember if she wore contacts, or not. No, not quite queer, a fag. Put your foot in the circle. Looking good backwards, and upside-down. It can't seem to be mined, or even explored, this human situation. Like, where to go from here? Unmailed, unmined, too much. Here we go, but we don't know where. What seven porno movies, that an intellect created (what intellect?)? Leaving messages on answering machines, not seeing friends for months, peoples' un-productivity. Things look one way, and slide, the other. The one on the list of titles, and prices, that mattered, is still in some pile. The crap, and filler, is digested, stored, for future use. Island life, is an answer, one amongst many, but who's counting? Now, life is to be measured against some very lofty goals, if it is to be lived, at all. Eating food in a restaurant, alone, sustains life, but that's not the life I'm talking about. The embarrassments of situations, fears, not only taking root, but used as the guides, of/for, behavior. People in caskets, driving them around? Long airport terminals, hugs, fantasies, some kind of new communication device. Drag them into the house, let them intermingle, let them control you. What (it’s not good enough) enjoyment, is to be found? What does money buy? I'm stretching into a real nothingness, right now, I look, and see that I need shoelaces, but cannot bring myself to go to a store, and buy them. Various odors are always present, or, very close. No one will ever read this. This disorder surrounding me, seems to have a calming effect; it's as if the (almost there) inside, and outside, finally match up, perfectly. I mean, piles of garbage, clean, and filthy, clothing, empty cans, one pile, containing all of these things, at once. Not even piles of individual things, scattered, no, huge piles, that contain everything. Sleeping bag, with wadded up papers, old school shit, boxes, that are empty, plastic dolls, and toys, vomit, dementia praecox. I had to ask if the coffee was real, to show you what kind of shape, I was in. We griped, constantly. Well, what do you expect? I don't expect anything. But, to present things, and then see them sink, before they've even had a chance to float.... commercials are always playing in the background. Television is designed to destroy us all. I quit my job, why go into the song, and dance, of why? I quit my job, let's try dealing with facts, for a while, I don't remember why I was screaming, or what I was screaming, but I was driving around, and screaming, something. Now I'm content, and fed, and everything is profoundly boring, this, included. Let's invent our own plague, and infect ourselves. Fathers, and mothers, and infants, all walking the streets, or being pushed in some ambulatory cage, or the other. The hospitals, with their death smells... hospitals aren't scary, because of ghosts, but, because of the lack, of ghosts, miracles, Jesus tunnel sighting, all that, all those lies, that are best sellers, for thirty-two years, running. Painful, horrible, lies, and everyone figures it out, too late; we do, all figure it out, however, too late. Stop sticking pickaxes in my neck. Huh? I don't know. Falling, falling, falling; la, la, la. Then, the up tempo number! I am always sick, in one way, or the other. It isn’t funny what happens, at all. If you don’t do it, nobody will. I don’t give a shit, but I act like I do. No wonder she stinks, look how full of shit, she is. They are writing me out of the show, sometime next season. Those with beautiful eyes, are never trusted. I have no control of myself, anymore. Just sitting there, trying to fit into the game, and become a pawn, at least. I tried to make it easy for them, in a good way. I am so angry, so often, that I’m surprised, I’m not on death row. Save it, destroy it. I, in no way, authored this. Life, usually withholds it’s bountiful pleasures, from us. With a grilled cheese, fries, and a coffee, in front of you. Averting everybody's glances, and becoming, "grandiose," again. Yup, insane, again… insane, because unable, again! Unable, to do anything, anything at all, to change anything, or stop anything, will anything, become anything. Etcetera. Does it bounce around well, in your head? It’s got to be longer. Yes, all this, begins, and ends, in this lonely, grey room. Caress your pussy, without a care in the world. An ontological suit, made of question marks, rather than houndshouth, patterns? I guess, I don’t get it, yet (still). We’re mentally, on to the theatre, now. She has such good… The kite’s got entangled, way up there. Fall, off towards the side.