Poke my Charlie, grab my side. She told me that I wasn't intelligent, she was right. Fire me, I don't give a shit, there are other jobs, it just takes months, to find them, secure them. I guess, I should've left a note, but, well… And I'm not throwing out any names, at this point. Toss me the low, inside, curve, again. Those shorts ... oh, ohhh. They were right, about what I was really looking at, through the windshield, on the (black out, go) windshield. Should I open up the mass of litter, old papers, now? Oh, wait, just a touch... the grimy, greasy, part, of the, "should we look." Yes, I've seen her, engaged, dammit. I suppose, saying nothing, at all, of substance, can have value, the merits lie, in how, nothing is said. Passionate, I was going to say blah, blah, but oh, coo-coo, tut, tut. Look at that characteristic, "chewing of the cud," behavior, that they continuously, engage in! Let's stain each other up, good, and proper, right, or wrong. Say, let's do it, with the aid of the manual, that I purchased, for fifteen dollars (that supposedly, contains hundreds of full color pictures). I can't hear you knocking at the door, with this cochlea, beside itself, and like a snail, hibernating, inside-out. Now, I will venture into the (describe it) community, to talk, or attempt, to. There will be beer there, mixed drinks, cocktails. I forgot to ask Johnny, what he thought, of all this. Give us a reason to live. The old way of being, wasn’t working, the new one, did. It’s my responsibility to see to it, that the tapes are returned. The subject of alteration, was ourselves, all along. Memories, get cold, fast, like unattended coffee. This isn't going to be able to be stapled, right away, it's sort of at the quarter way, mark, but even that's, an overblown, wish list, party-line. Misanthropic, melancholy, so on, and so forth. The firebrand, was psychoactive. Yes, very, very, alienated. Let us reinvent the venereal diseases, push buttons on a jukebox, knowing full well, that we'll never hear the songs. Let's imitate those hanging out in the convenience store, parking lot. The older, and drunker, they were, the more willing they would be, to purchase minor’s, alcohol? A toast, to the thyroid, and pineal glands. Nowadays, we turn a greener shade, of yellow. I won’t be ruined. If the small, stress fractures, didn't hurt so much, I suppose, I wouldn't have wound up in the garage, with nothing left, at the moment of passing, than other people's memories. Don't die, before I say I love you, and don't leave your clothes out on the line, if it rains. Somehow, that is all I have to say, all I've ever meant, to say. Well, on to other words, sentences, and paragraphs! It seems to me, that things are never really, adequately... it seems that... ah, fuck it. One of the things that has been touched on, briefly studied, but hasn't been mined, and I think needs to the concept of attention. We used to leave our front door, wide open, hoping somebody, would stop by, nobody ever did, save for people, who lived there. We weren't exactly idealistic, but you could color us, along with those paint by number, bits, and pieces. Give us the nutrition facts, our own really fancy, pen, and pencil, sets, some paper, with sub-green, ink, on it, some fries? Yes, we'd like fries, with that! Don't give me Shakespeare, give me (bounce me) salmon, in a can! Now, I can feel his dying, let us get on, to cheerier subjects. I don't believe I'll ever turn back to that black swan/white swan, dichotomy, the tumble into fucking, and fondling. Some, pick, others, choose, but most, just fall in, and their partners are assigned, in some, "you're even, I'm odd," fashion. Turn it up so loud, that you can't help but to understand it, wallow in it, turn into it. These are the birds we've worshiped before, in the car, with a plastic Hail Mary, and talking about pedestals. This is the fright box, of what I have, versus, what I've had, or could have had. No, it isn't frightening; it happens a lot, and I put myself through it, all the time. The drunken evenings, how could I have forgotten, the drunken evenings (oh, too, too, well)? Bewail the debit, and credit, ledgers. You will get your (impress us) money’s worth, with this book, some meaty, type of substance. A long hair, waltzed across the page.
Cretin-like troubles, and allergic reactions, systems, procedures. I can't even sit. Smell me, stinking, bloating, ending. This is a nervous breakdown! I have become a thing, not of my own choosing. And all you had to offer me, was a part of a canned ham? I'm sitting in the middle, of a half-completed, project, three more, lie in front of me, and the ideas keep flooding the basement, of my brain. It snows around here, in fact, it's snowing, right now. I don't want, or need, any more formal study, I've formed my own school. The repetition of words, and the limits of my conversational ability, suitcase life, furnished rooms, at sixty dollars a week, coffee, beer, and pasta. Me, and my self-caused, anxiety, spilling in, and out, of bars, on Monday. If this day is survived, there will be another. These diseases, that I have described, or, will shortly, describe, have no known cure. There isn't any real pain, but there is a great deal of discomfort. Lookalikes of so, and so, sit where they are sure to be seen, and commented upon? It's like two separate albums. As far as, "finding people, like oneself," well, it's a waste of time, I need those books. So, I keep things that I may need in a jiffy, really close at hand. There's the number, that I needed, last week. Things are beginning to smell a whole lot better, around here. Soon, I'll pull the lights off the tree, and throw that, in the ditch, where it will be like the other corpses. Just a little bit more organizing, and I should be able to walk through the room, from end, to end, without hearing cracking noises, of broken things, under clothing. Something new, must come along, soon. They, or he, killed it, and threw it out, in the trash. Why are they refrigerated? Mr. “Could Have Been an Astronaut”? There is a realignment, going on. Our struggles, and travails, aren’t exactly, thrilling. Hail Mary, catch a cab. It’s been more than a month. Alcohol, ruined another Valentine’s day. Yes, a postcard, a repeated order, repeated chorus, expensive beer, expensive sex. Stop goofing around in the photo booth, this is serious business. The domed stadiums, are all the same. Help us strip the bullshit, out of life. When I said those words to her, I was very, unceremoniously, told to "go to hell," or "shut the fuck up," or some similar, pleasantry. No, and I mean, no. Please, let me like a corpse, lie in the ditch, losing pins, and needles, tarts, and turnovers. This is not right, i.e., this is wrong. Dragged past the pasta bucket, copy shop, over to a 24-hour, donut shop, where people will report the fact, that you were seen there, "looking disheveled, and despondent." The world is doomed, that's a given, just a matter of time. Why die with it, why try, why fuck? Why walk down to the store, or drive to the coffee shop? Why see what's going on around the corner from there, or across the street? Some people fall, so easily, through classical conditioning, and choice, into a "don't touch me, look at me, talk to me,” lifestyle, while all the time, bitching, and complaining, about their own circumstances. I don't notice the color of people's eyes, anymore, or, really, any details, those supposed hallmarks, of interpersonal, push, and shove. We've lost power here, and let me tell you, when it happens, it's an awful lot like dying, sudden, unpredictable, surprising, and unexpected for others, nothing, to you, just… and that's it. The police arrest people like you, all the time, just three, or four, drinks, and driving perfectly fine? Well, not according to the hand-held, blowhole, machine, you're going to jail. And it does ruin your life, it does end, a lot of things, it sure is a step beyond, "an unfortunate occurrence", that's for sure. I used to get angry, root for the (slug me) criminals, on all the cop-type, shows. Really, that's become my attitude, toward just about everything, but I digress. There was an utter silence, no cars rumbling past, no drive throughs, no screaming, lights on, walkers, just stone, cold, silence; and I like it like that, it's like that, now, too. My breathing, only, no electricity, toilet bowl still running, faucets dripping, dogs barking, then, nothing, but silence. It's like that hut they constructed, where the temperature became unbearable, it's like solitary confinement, and sitting in your own excrement- it is, in a strange way, reminiscent of, "slow, steady, thrusts." Sort of, see, the psychiatric disorder of my supposed “calling,” was seen, and recognized, for what it truly was, the voices, start low, but, slowly… EXPLODE, INTO A SHRIEK!! Often, we think, without thinking. They want me to snap, so, I’m not going to. Stay out of the movie houses.
The need for validation, of some kind. She posed for the wallet size photo I’m carrying, with tears in her eyes, a post delirium, glow. A new name, a new number, secret messages, in code. A popcorn can, full of empty bottles, drawers, with clothing. Flags, consecrated, or deconsecrated. What the fuck, have I done? Why am I only where I am, after working so hard, to get here? Where is that shit that I both want, and don't want? Get me out of the brown carpeted, house. Help me get my shit together, help me get my shit under control, I, too; miss it, them, the boxes, the feelings of expectation, or impossibility. In the kitchen, cooking other peoples' food, doing, planning... Where are my crutches? Food, and fun, with plastic playgrounds, no reading magazines, in the phone booth. Give me a/the, job. No bills posted, paid, mailed. Games, rhyming poems, old-fashioned, steak houses, crazy shit. This knit stocking cap, that I pretend, is a beret, I must write the score, must find the negatives, get the duplicate prints, made, tear off my skin, and find the skeleton, underneath. Wet cotton candy, on the sidewalk, wizards, broken mirrors, cheap, stuffed animals, freak shows. What I've done, is not enough! Too many copy shops, not enough filth. Three little, wooden, fishes, terry cloth fishes, talking fish. Fifteen, big and tall shops, failed experiments, regarding the landlord/tenant relationship. Talk about drugs, strange wind chimes, made out of layered, recycled, paper, other wind things. Ask yourself, what’s wrong with you? Nothing is ever going to “fall into place.” Scrawl into blood lust, don't let the juices, get on the floor. It has cost me thousands, many sacrifices, no reward, whatsoever. Raise a glass of cheer! Too kind, not kind enough, haunted sounds, explanations, exclamations. Well, I don’t know, nobody does. Oh, the extravaganza! Keep it up there. Some kind of sex, occurred, with passion. I said it, and meant it. Blow out the candle (you are dead). I can't think on my feet, and due to these hemorrhoids, can't sit down, either. The dead oak's, dead leaves, are rotting away, still, in the back yard. It's foreign bacteria culture, wet socks, taken off shoes, so vixen, and elf-like, hopping from bean bag, to wicker chair, and back again. You will wash your face, now. For the straight up nonsense, tune in tomorrow, same time, same channel. Wasted time, the years of writing, and nothing to show for it, except a rumpled body, and some semen stains. Years, and years, of talking about this stupid book, and there is no book. Incompetent people, who I've given my very reason for living, and watching them fumble for the ball, while I dribble, and dribble, and keep fixing things, straightening, making excuses, for not doing, not being. The meaningless¬ness, and ridiculousness, that I'm constantly harping about, is me, only me, I, myself, and my self-loathing, self-hatred, stupidity, idiocy, laziness. Talk, talk, talk, no action, no reality. My problems, my fears, my tremendous laziness, that I tried to make a virtue of, my bad handwriting, my obsessions about women, that I know I could never have. Drinking booze, quitting booze, going to jail, getting out, and worrying about whether, or not, I'd ever go to jail, again. Sick of myself, of you, it, the book, the walk, the room, the past, future, present. Stupid hours, choices, shitty jobs, pointless conversations, lusts, books, flushes. Belly dance your blubber, away. We know what we need, this isn’t it. The moonless nights, the cigarette, burning a hole in my favorite jacket, obnoxiousness, then, silence; that's what you can expect from me. Sleep is what’s, slowly, destroying me. I do purchase, I do jump off the cliff, I do worry, then, panic, then, worry some more. I do only "find my way around," without knowing where I am. There is no money, to pay the typist, there is no money for anyone, for anything, at all. Beat back, don’t slump down.
To the end, from this point, forward, I add in the preface, epilogue... tragedy, bones, on tin, tin, on foil, flowers on graves. Help me tear my face off, help give me some reason, to go on living, or don't. They were supposed to be mixer types, I can see why screaming, goes on, the snow layer on the car, people going out to some bar, or party, friend's house. Keep the flowers, just burn what shell remains, and throw it into the Kalamazoo, or Titabawasee. Don't, under any circumstances, let them talk you into buying an urn! Dust, and dust imagery, the long walks, when I thought something was not only, going on, but the future would be bright, and sunny, and kind of, "leg showing, sexy." So many phases, and experiments, of mine, have backfired, so horribly, abysmally, that I’m disinclined, to ever try anything new, or different, again. I don't even have the turtle thing, side of the cottage, sheepskin, nail. I am slowly, growing a tail, I am doing the dog paddle, through the Harlan swamp. Shut up, Junkie! You, with your rambling, supposedly, illuminating, dementia, stop sucking my ear, punching my leg, talking about, or in, such a way, as.... I've just snapped! The good-bye hugs, that we never thought were real. Lying on the floor, smelling, reeking, of smoke, and spilled beer, too late, to either, start, or stop now, I broke my promise, vow, benediction, I lie on the floor. Sometimes, this is all that can be done. Wait a while, train whistles, now, another generation, will, "just have to wait." There isn't anything worth waiting for.... Where is she? I'm not a genie, or genius, or fairy, or anything, I don't look like him, or sound like him, or act like her. I can't describe the cup, because it's a weakness I have. I've suffered so many embarrassments, and whew- woo’d, so inappropriately. Make the face. I can't trust in anything, no credit, no Supreme Court ruling. Sniffle into the ejaculatory. No party, no theatrical bullshit, there is much more required. Sulk, over by the grain elevator. The spark that kindles the flame, lights the cigarette. Knock out the twitch box. You cannot stop now. I make too many promises, and recite too many oaths, to the air. Laugh if you will, but it is my sole intention, to become a saint. What will happen? No war, no piece, no peace, no spine. Ah, shit, guilty! Squeal then, scream, take the museum. You’d better re-check a few things. Lasso indifference, pump it, pump it. It's burning into agony, now, like a tattoo. Where do the raccoons go? Floodlights, blown out brains, and a flintlock pistol, still in his hand. Rigor Mortis, happens before death, sometimes, even though I like the order, peace, and quiet. Time to listen, time to be preoccupied. The lakeside drive in, then, the fancy dive, dive , you chicken shit, dive! The time to influence, and to be influenced, has come, and gone. It's down to the work, now (work, or die). You can't burn the candle, in two different ways, entirely, for two years, two months, two hours... you made your choice, now, die with it. Things are not right, so, I write. What used to be an impressive sight, is only an excuse to further action, now. Who tinkled on the seat? This isn't on, or off. Shut up, you lunatic, you're causing screams, lunges, screams, lunges! Corn on the cob, peeled, and discarded, the car, is abandoned, the factory, is used as a giant, storage shed. This past week, didn't happen, as much as I wanted it to. The only discovery that was made, was a big one, a negative one, that I'd been denying, for a long time. It took all my energy, this week, just to deal with this horrible, grisly, discovery, the long denial. Bloody nose, I like the colors, and the sounds, as well. I do need professional help, or, so I've been told, anyway. The sound of feet, slamming, and slapping, clomping, on the wooden floor, to the sound of Greco-Roman, music. The first shit, the frozen phase, supposedly, the missing, the indecipherable, foreign languages. The code, the coda, the cola, the life; the mood, being set, the volume, up, the decorations. I never thought those photos would get around, I don't know why I took the job, I don't know anything, at all. The pain has gone on, for too many years, soon, it will be over. We’re all being neutralized. The instructions were so simple, of course, they fucked it up. Then, I threw my pants in the trash. Ride the schism!
