It's another Wednesday. I saw you in the grocery store, and remembered your swagger, quite well. And all that was seen, could've been predicted, and was, once upon a time. No calls to make, no work to do, nothing left, to avert, avoid, or destroy. There is only, paper, there are only, pens, and if I buy a machine, to take the place of those things, then, that, will exist, as well. I do not exist, I subsist, too late, too late. To be so pretty, at one time, things change, get crossed out, the best years of our lives, are looked back upon, as being the most horrible of all, because they gave us all those false perceptions, hopes, false everything. For a while, we think that things will get better, later, too late, let's just say that... let's leave the whole thing, left unsaid. The simple wants, and needs, that we have, and the wrong ways, that we go about, satisfying them. Our own personal retributions, reading lists, escape mechanisms, of one kind or the other. Right on the cusp of, “ready to leave town.” No, I doubt that emotion, will ever take place. And true, while saying, that I have no emotions, I'm being led around, on their leash, instead of things, possibly, being the other way around. To willingly, go through the religious strip search, again, only to see, that everyone is still naked, and shitting. To go through these creative shifts of perspective, only because, everyone is not yet, dead. It's only that I can't sit on a couch with them, anymore. Our bases, foundations, are all made of sand. When left, we usually leave, soon after that, and I don't want to, but know how dream-like, and false, all these layers of concrete, really are. It's true, that the majority of an atom, is empty space, then, we run out of words, to describe it, but essentially, the universe in an act of pretending, and we could very well, consider ourselves authors, of the whole thing, but, I can't see why I would have created a world, such as this one, although, at this point, I should shut up. There are plenty of cardboard boxes, enough for all of us. I am the grey, in between, I am the false grail, the dashed hope. There is no such thing as automatic writing, it may very well be the most difficult, and unnatural, activity, that there is, to engage in. Can I live with this? I'm the kid that flunked algebra, and did a lot of other, very strange things. They never quite believe you, when you change your name. Keep your life, away from mine. The moss on the tree, vines, all over everything. Final thrusts, don’t remind noone, of, nuthin’. What was the name of that book, again? Substance! If the sky were to fall, it would at least be something, very interesting, to see, much more so, than the car wash, stoplight, burger joints, and early 1970's, office buildings. We don't notice, nobody notices, I don't notice, the poet (supposed). That's not my belt, it's time the body is on the examining slab. This is the background, doo-wop, to get you through the day, as the ambulance, pulls up, slowly, to the retirement home, and the hearse, peels in, to the funeral home, parking lot. They all gouge us, gauge us, tell us stories, that don't matter, and some, that do; but you have to read between the lines, to find them. We park our cars, then, put quarters in the meter, walk to where we're going, which is nowhere, we need to be. Sidewalk love, give me my antacids The way to save a life, is to take one? Line me up for the execution, no, I don't need a cigarette, I've smoked a lifetime full, already. To keep things in cigar boxes, to line up three meaningless jars, and place them on a shelf, to crawl to the bathroom. There is blood on my hands, there is blood in my eye, and all over the floor, I want to give it all away, and wander off. The market value on what I possess, isn't really, too high. There's no haggling, there is no questioning, there is no higher education, no prostitute, worth the price of the fuck. There isn't very much, at all, we know this, but it doesn't stop us, from looking into display cases. Talking, drinking our lives away, nothing stops us, and nothing really starts us, either. My dreams, tell me I’m doing something, very (laugh, if you wish) wrong. We need more wood. Invent your own baseball (this is your brain, on reptile). Tulies must be noticed during the two weeks a year, that they are here.
Enjoying my dried up pen? It hurts my internal organs, to move. Most people combat ennui, with drugs, or with consumption, of one sort, or the other. Cough, cough, coughing my way, to an early grave. Complete, (1,000 pages?) incomplete; not failure, really, just an average, of averages, a puff, and then gone. Hey, then, I'm dancing around the raised platform, and remembering all those non-conversations, non-this's, and non-that’s. My troubles are rather squeaky, fraudulent, because I'm full, of should'ves, and maybe, some of those should'ves, were could'ves. It (will happen) doesn't sound so good, but it did keep me alive, today. Fuck life, and more importantly, fuck me, and I don't mean with genitalia, mister! I should write screenplays, soap commercials, billboards, porno novels. I've got to get away from my own creepy, crawly, mush, at least long enough, to see some different sidestreets, highways, states, even, faces. Where we are now, is so sickening, so wrong, so destructive... we met at the restaurant, on I-94, on June 14. We'll have a great, big, insane, party, right there, in the former, parking lot. Now, I'm picking my nose, and eating the accumulated deposits, hey, they are my, deposits. Projects, the kind that we envisioned, well, they were like flushings. I see the trains rumbling West, I can hear, the delineation, two dollars, two hundred, full page ads, in newspapers. Back to the dime store, when there were such things. Back to being incorrigible; wish derailment, lost, and found, gloves, stenches, boots, characterizations, sicknesses. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for reading this, if you hate it, love it, or something else, entirely. That's the reason I've been given, to stop. It was a clandestine meeting, in a cake shop, that went nowhere. That, and the innumerable stains, new aerosol sprays, nobody camps in the little woods, tonight. A new kind of pressure, to make me think that there is a life worth living, to get caught up, lost in, forgotten in. The conditioning, started early, when none of us were paying attention. We’re trapped, there is no way out. Seventeen, and irresistable. Read it aloud, now. If you could only see me, and how ridiculous I look. Anyway, well, should I write, or not? None of this is going anywhere, and I'm not, there's no muse, no solution. She attempted to sabotage my work. Nothing pleasant, is happening. The entire thing, was re-done. Maybe she’s still alive. Too many years of doing nothing, catches up to us. I'm stuck, again, I've doublecrossed myself. Retain certain tones. Search high, and low, near, and far, long, and hard. I’m not sorry. Yeah, well, you don’t have to live with my face. Digestive enzymes, that have been diluted, and pissed, have ruined my ability, to will anything, including, getting up, and walking across the room. It's almost a given, it's already, almost, happened. This no longer works, helps, proves. Where's the clip¬board? As far as problems, that I have, and writing about them, I can't see how anybody could, give a shit. When the ego dies, we die, and there is usually, not going to be anybody around, to observe, and report, on the phenomenon, for us. As I've said many times, my miserable life, and circumstances, are not only, my responsibility, but my fault, entirely. Everything that I call "it," or "them," or "you," is really, me! It's called projection, anyway, it also means, that this book, is entirely, about myself, or facets of, myself. Three to… 3.5. Waiting on death, impatiently, it seems, that people like me, don't last too long. To "solve," oh, how could I have been so blind? Me, oh, my, yes, I should be attempting to "solve," these difficulties... gracious! It's the teeth dream, garage antecedent, waking up late, still here, I'm still, right here. There is always food, everywhere you look, it's, food, food, food! More than anyone could ever possibly use, on every avenue, every street corner, off the interstate, in Kansas, even. They wouldn’t believe the truth, if they heard it. Anyway, I guess the crux of this paragraph, is that I've stopped living, and once you've done that, it's only a matter of time, and there’s not a lot to write about, if you don't give a shit. My egg ain’t nothin’, for you, Timey! A thick piece of skin, is on the floor, right now. Shatter the myth, of the “good schools.” Oh, we’re like cattle, alright!
No consciousness, gravity drops, bones. Integrity/integration, be your own, you. I see it, can afford it, but can't buy it. Take my place, I've died, you see, and if you can't take my place, keep in mind, that I took somebody else's place, and I didn't have a say in the matter. There is nothing metaphysical, or cosmic, about what I just said, or will. The solid oak cupboards, are open, the part of the radio is on, right now, the part I never use. I see the paper carrot, and don’t know what to do with it, or where to display it. I've removed all of the sex talk, because there's no such thing as sex. People must be sitting around, just thinking, these days. The scraps of tin foil, and (steam the fat off) cellophane, are on the floor, the chanting, is going on, I can't open the books, I've already read them, why revisit old planets, with charred landscapes, and reactions to them, as relevant as mine, or, less so? Cross out everything, and start over again. Well, there's that, or this, I'd rather have that, even though, I know better. There are more outs, in that, than this, and this, is not good. This is really bad, so I will work for that, I will have that! My only motivation, for pursuing that, is to get away from this, that, is all. So, I'll get to work, fool a few people, get my arms around the tree, stick my finger somewhere, it probably doesn't belong, then shake a few hands. I'll do what you've done. We all ache. Turn me on, to the turquoise car, I've got a new model, in mind. There is a me, that I like, but I haven't been there, yet. It's a teleological thing, it's involving a lot more waiting, than I thought it would. It's a long off, distant, future, way off in the distance, if I get there, I'll let you know, if I don't, you never will. I don't hear, I’m beside myself, I sit there, drinking too quickly, and that music, sucks, making me think they should've left the words, alone. This is the way we tremble. To get one's kicks, is not the same, these days. Abandoned industrial zones, stage names, blocking, what’s in the punch bowl, usually, and precision. Back to the graveyard phase, the six thousand pound, pumpkin, the whole insipid game, the screwed shit, backwards. The inspirational, whatever it was. The wind blows in through the window, there are no souls. I've said all that I want to say, I've rolled in enough ditches, dove in some others, I flipped the switches. Let me open the foot locker, let me sit here, all alone, maybe, I should get my own place, and slowly, die. Be above it, over, and beyond it. Leave some cookies out, for the dead. I smell it on you! Blank dress, the blank, blank. Do it, on the lawn. Four holes, in a small, piece of cardboard, the thrill is really, really, gone. We experienced that, “get up and go feeling,” when it was impossible, and we were unable, to go, anywhere. Into the land of big cars, second hand stores. 1970-2013. All you need, is what? Refusal, shuts down the oil tank, mechanism. There is no point, but, do it! Sliding, seeing the rip-off, shit stink, of everything around us. Let me out, I've got to get out, I don't need to sit here, and write, with the vaguer, than vague, hope, that someday, sometime, you will read it. These years, these stupid people, shouting, back and forth. There are no tents, in my backyard, fences, either. Wednesday, there are people, and animals, in the house. I saw it all, as shi-shi, talk about the noises, and the tendon, torn, the small, chewed up, pieces of plastic, that I must have spit across the room. We could work in this pizza joint, we could scrub the tables. The sickness, is a basted chicken, the two-way lie, the slaps across the face, nothing is possible, or impossible, real, or unreal. Let me in on your green, worldview/dream. Let me out of this cold, tangled, heap. Get that jazz-like noise, out of my ears. I, too, can sit like a pear, I can rake the cigarette butts, out of the front yard crevices. Night, is no better than day, the difference is, or isn't, how many different voices you hear, in your head. As far as it goes, I've overstepped my bounds, that's the way it is, and then I sneeze (and I could've been, too). Let’s talk/let’s fuck. Move forward, sideways, if need be. We’re all on our way to the bottom of the well.
