The meaning, is usually the opposite, of what you thought it would be (was). We're all lighthouse, and alone. To call out, without a sound. The truth is in the margins. I weigh as much as this car, and rumble about, as loudly, the left side of my brain, is falling out of my head, and I'm in pain. There is beauty, to be sure, but the pace that is required to look, for it, much less, find it, makes the "aesthetic moment," superfluous. Wishes, dreams, Gemini's, and Libra's, and this is the result of writer's block, in front of you, right now. When I feel there is nothing to say, I force myself to write, endlessly. When the results say nothing, I re-double my efforts, and insist that my stupid, human, male, brain, spit out something. Something, may consist of cornflakes, overheard arguments, or even parts of itself, as I just mentioned. Just a bloody cyst, a removal, a growth, a problem, tumor. There are tumors in my head, the size of grapefruits, and no time, and nothing to write, or say, but I'm writing, and saying it. To just die, drift to the side, no consciousness, not knowing it was a stroke, that did you in. No wonder my hands shake constantly, no wonder I read books about schizophrenia, with rapt concentration. I use "automatic pencils," because there's no time to sharpen the other kind. I waste hours, days, months, years, but in different ways? Not better ways, just different; then I make vague plans, to get drunk, don't, wonder where all my friends have gone, where I have gone. All suppressed, cringing, cowering, "becoming." And then, gas, toilets, piss, in the toilet. Constantly smelling my fingers, fingering hams, running into people I used to know, and pretending not to see them, then, wondering why I did that. Regretting, very controllable, behavioral lapses. Looking at impossibility, thinking about buying, the crap at grocery store, check out islands. So desperate, and serious, about contradicting myself. A land mine, chiseled into our headplates, this is a solvent. Do you really want to know about my mental illness? What you will be, is, surprised. A carnivorous reader, who likes cheese, too. Live studio audiences, have fortitude, and nerve. This is some kind of, well... the green checkbook, that's been missing for months, the people at the bank, know I'm broke. This disgusting feeling of fatness, otherworldliness, the feeling of being absolutely, overwhelmed. Hey, doctor, listen here, there is no cure, no possible, or impossible, cure. Nothing, your job is make-believe, everybody's job, is make-believe. There is nothing to do, in more ways than one. Visualization, of the dance of death, is impossible, I can't let myself, see it. Still striving, for some manner of perfection. Success, is still the measuring thing, but the best people, are usually, the greatest failures. What's the worldwide fascination, with "cool, man"? Here come the drunken apes, the dream about hookers, dead people, graffiti, dangerous cars. Fears about being fired upon, listening to nothing, worrying about everything, scribbling, scribblers, scribbling across the page, like a discontented, and/or hyperactive, child. No guilt complexes here, some punching, scratching, buttering some kind of sweetbread, and eating it. Writing letters to people, who have no time to read them. I didn't have time to write them, but I did. Practice? Oh, come on. Need induced, anxiety, trying to prove the fact, that I still breathe, and forget to chew...whatever I did. We chewed on little, yellow, plastic beads. I have too many bad habits. The campfire provided some kind of false, and partial, warmth. How can you deny it? Our mouths, fell out. Flushed, discombobulated, thinking of an out, that doesn't involve a knife, or gun. We were harmed. Unlived ambitions, mangled thought trains, that, supposedly, can be diagnosed, and treated. Just be it! Thinking about money, pretty girls I'll never meet, movies, I'll never make. Wanting to check myself into the mental institution, for a psychiatric evaluation, I opted instead, to just drive by the hospital, a couple of times. Most people, did their homework. All through this, a constant, agonizing, worry. Fed up, phase, well… stay away from any, and all, tubes. This was supposed to be more. They walk around barefoot, I mean, this is… I’m getting even more strange.
It crawled from Vine Street. Nothing left to figure out, except, how to cope. A left turn, into the mayhem. Another attempt, without any idea more grandiose, than that. Financial ruin, happens, nowadays, before there's anything to, ruin, it's like being raised, before the foundation is laid, to be collapsed, like a styrofoam cup. Loony, hopped up people, in Bay City, wearing halos, and doing things, like, fish, bake pies. Lost, in whatever town this is. There’s one. Who is he, how does this, have to do, with anything, else? Moral messages, deep, human, longing, the smell of strawberries, and vanilla, another useless day. No functions, are functioning, nothing spilled, or wiped up, no necks, or flower stems, video games. Just stumbling along, avoiding the Monday, football people. Looking through the drawers, looking for things that perhaps, I've misplaced, or forgotten about. Failure to achieve computer (they took our lives) competency, cash out logs, observations. Best friends, skip the state, or country, people drive, in the right lane. We explore, in the video store, record store, whatever store, nothing to watch, listen to, look at. Here comes trouble, in a (hotel?) waltzing, stumbling, bleeding, stinking mob, of overachievement. Let's step on the daffodils, and stomp on the telephones, and mailboxes. We destroyed everything, that had anything to do with, what we we're waiting for. The entire seeping, energetic, encapsulated, NOW. Around, and around, and around I drive, looking at the exact same chain link fences, convenience stores, fast food franchises. I see, and don't, just drive, and think, then, forget what I thought. I was a drinker, stopped, for the most part, I was a student, with ambition, for nothing. All stripped, ah, and my favorite carnivorous reading. For nothing, at all, this is another screwy thing, everything we do, is for nothing. Turn it into something else! As much as I despise my life, I hang onto it, like a snail on a wet pole. We go loony, one by one. Topic one, is mushroom, and onion. Salute a fellow. Topic two, is pepper spray, and bacteria. We all find out, eventually. Interpret it, at once. It's not now, anymore. Here it is, and it doesn't matter, whether, or not, I "accept" it, it's what sells, and what sells, is crap, and most of the people, who don't consume, would agree with me. Even though we're all looking at the same billboard, for months on end, sickening. We look, some buy, most, don't. Let's resurrect, our own, dead selves. I am only responding, to stimuli, in my immediate environment, also, the "corner of the eye," stimuli, which keeps things interesting. Yee-Haw, feeling so ruined, so, indecent. To write, and write, and it's never good enough, to look, and see the bored, yet content. I wonder how, but, not too deeply, I'm not faking, but I can't tell if I'm wholly authentic, either. I'm trying really hard, I guess, I mean, I hear the kazoos, and horns. I hear my own name being called, and can't believe some of the near disasters, and 70's remakes. This is the shit, or shit. Wizardry of Phenobarbital, turning the screens, inside a part? What were we saying? Oh yeah, pool tables, with liquefied cue balls, and all the rest. Chalking graffiti, that, of course, will wash off. Constant reminders, that my life and thought processes, are, "not quite right." Hmm... yes, and no, maybe a little more, yes. Tumble into the politburo, blowing kisses, and talking about the wonder of the westerly winds, and Kaopecpoop, or whatever it's called. I called myself Christ, and I meant it, now, leave me alone; or write letters, do this, because I don't believe in real, physical, people, I believe in what I see, of course. Let's play slap the sick, the waif-like. We are absorbed, into a distant, forlorn, black space. I refuse to be suckered into, the love lie. Life sucks, we might as well, fuck (these people, are in no less difficult, a predicament). Collide, collide, collude, condense, Clyde. Now, the dishwasher, won’t work. Yeah, add sugar. Drink the fake (she cheated me out of something) coffee. I am justifiably, upset. Do you know what it’s like, to be absolutely, destroyed? That’s your big day, huh? As for point/counterpoint, and being able to effectively, argue, either side of an issue, yes, I've got those skills. It’s perpetual car accident-type, fear. I have hundreds of ineffective skills, that never will, come into use. Too depressed to bake? Go to the center, stay there. I’ve been almost done, with this book, for years, now. Then, I visit a half a dingo, on Whistle Stop Road, and get some false sense of community, and order. We’re sure of one thing, and that’s, being unsure. Then, my hand starts to hurt, and my mind, starts to wander, and I wonder, why I'm not already, a billionaire. What else? The car flips, oh, boy. It's best not to get caught wearing women's underwear, but, at that point, it's too late for intensive, impatient, psychotherapy. Once again, I feel the need to groin myself, reach in, and down. No reason in particular, just feel like scraping. I've already lost this game, because I refused to play, and don't tell me this sentence, doesn't make sense. From now on, no sense, can, be made. This hurricane, cyclone, this cold, steel, thing, cannot endure, much longer. This precarious balance, bullshit, about genius, versus insanity, my drawing of a see-saw, with the words, desperation, and futility, on the two ends, or sides, seats, whatever they're called. I don't listen into peoples' conversations, but only because of, an odd respect, for them. Sure, I probably wouldn't be interested, but I'm not them. I'm me, God, and yes, you're God, too, only you, don't know it yet. Once everyone realizes that they are God, this world will seem very, very, crowded. So, all over the world, we memorize names, dates, streets, words... we forget to remember. My paintings look like puke, in a paper bag. As the warranties expire, the appliances, break down. A virus was discovered. Shoeboxes, full of memories. Death is taxing enough, taxes; the other stimuli, that we endure as a constant, seems to pale, in comparison. Hello, let's get this show on the road, let's get phone calls out, to the four corners, and let's receive collect calls, from Alaska. Let's go out, get drunk, drive home, and not regret it. Let's use rubbers, or not use them, and still ejaculate (male, or female, boy, or girl), or, let's keep line dancing, and groove spooning, in the parking lot. Let's get out hay bales, from the trunks of cars, and the cabs of pick-up trucks, take the lint out of our own hair, and feign satisfaction, for things such as bi-weekly pay, hairspray, and margarine. Let's throw out the pens, that have run out of ink. Let's go to the beet fields, and do what we set out to do there, in the first place. Time to look at the faces, and plagiarize. This could be incoming napalm, or, our side, running in the opposite direction. There are these perspectives, but I still don't feel up to the challenge, or sexy enough, I feel fat, and I don't know if I am, or not. I claim not to be able to feel, but I feel all sorts of things, too many things, to count. I feel the cattle prod, of being, first, and foremost, it's always a challenge enough, to just open the gate in the morning, remember my name tag, turn off the hall lights. And in the end, it won't matter, but that's not the point. We move, then, we can't move, and we may, or may not, know how it happened. To move, shave, shit, shower, walk, breathe, fart, eat, cook, clean; and then, with no warning, not be able to.. forever, black, silent, cold, forever? Yes! No solution? No! So, we must forge existence, with the end in sight? I guess, I’m the uninvited guest, that makes everybody nervous (for now). It’s not there, yet. There is no way, that we’ll survive.
Thinking about how hard this life is; spitting in each other's faces, is not worth kinetic force. They all look like you. Classless, society jokes, I've blamed "the world," or the "social structure," for years, and the truth is, it's all bullshit. I am my only problem, and only weakness, I am my own, fundamental flaw, I am the fakest, most phony, and partial, person, you'll ever meet, in your life, and I've never once, attempted to change. Ego defenses, don't work, because, I have no ego, I am one of the walking dead, I am the ghost in the machine. I can't do very much right, at all, I say vile, ridiculous, or disgusting, things, when I choose to talk. This low self- esteem, self-image, thing, has been going on within me, for twenty years. We’re going through the hurting. I’m off the drugs, baby (take me back). All of us are damaged, some, worse than others. The pores in my skin, look like strange tattoo’s. Just wait, until you find out the truth, behind the diseases you have. We accept too much, that we shouldn’t. I’m still a nihilistic Dadaist. Eat your pie. It's why I read, and it's why I write, and why I'm still here. We’re like sunshine, we’re impartial. Break the codes of insanity. They were only putting us on. Squirt it wherever you see fit. During certain critical passages, critical, self-development, moments; I've pissed, beyond unconsciousness. We’re all hunted, haunted, so on, and so forth. I'm someone who sits in the restaurant, directly across from you, that you don’t see. I see you, but that's beside the point. I've scratched, and abandoned, gotten drunk, I've done anything, and everything, within my limited power, to avoid myself, and/or lose myself, and it hasn't worked. Show no remorse, feel no guilt, it was just something, another you, did. We’re in the thick of the concrete, like Taiwan, on a Wednesday. I'm so stuck in habit, and ritual, compulsion, that I can't answer your phone, I will not answer it. I am just sitting here, listening to the endless, beep, beep, beep, and digesting my food. I am staring at a paper, and the paper is white, with marks on it. Does any of this matter (probably not), is it all in vain? This is what happens, if you don’t do well in school. Jump into disregard. The questions under consideration? I'm asking for help, even in my dreams. I've admitted, in several different forums, that I'm an egotistical, asshole, and it's true. I've admitted that I'm ugly, or average, in appearance. I've admitted that I'm insane, but have somehow, up until now, gotten away with it. I'd like to admit to you, crimes I've committed, but the statute of limitations, hasn't run out, yet. I cannot function, in this society, that beeping, is not helping matters. I hear voices, or did, today, rather, for the first time (I think). The voice just said, “hello," but, once initial, pleasantries are exchanged, I'm sure, more is to come. I'm a noisy digester, there is mustard in my hair, and my fingers, from last night, or a couple of nights ago. I'm overweight, oversensitive, of all the cowards, I'm the greatest, of all frightened, shits, frozen in a can, I stink, the most. And, since I know so many things, in theory, and fail to act, fail to attempt, I am probably one of the stupidest people, you've ever met. I don't make many mistakes, because I'm never doing anything, thus, no mistakes are possible. I talk, and talk, and talk, and talk about nothing, make some grandiose, delusionary, plans, and then, sit down on my fat ass, and never attempt a thing. I'm on no medication, because I have this theory, I have hundreds of theories, they're never, “set into place." Which is to say, I never test them, try them out. I still stare out the window, and daydream, exactly like I would, in second grade, I haven't changed. Perhaps, I should write that, a second time.
