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I thought it had been a long time, since I'd lived a lie. I don't particularly like, anything, I'm not scared of anything, either. I used to talk about fear, but never, was I really afraid, of anything. As far as blockage, or what's blocking... who cares? Something, either is, or isn't. Is today, a good day, to write, to live, die? It wasn't quite that, now, I can't remember what it was, but I'll come back around to it. To be translated, to be emancipated. That stupid, question, sexless day, sexless self. To see the haircut, that stands for, well, nothing. Just another face, another one of those. Look through the glass, into the room, and at the objects, within the room. When you can't take it anymore, drive to the store, to forget for a while. To escape from the folded up pieces of paper. The cigarette got caught in the flip-top box, and snapped in half. The cans, any cans, are easy to open. Thank you for the compliment, if that's what it was. Don't make me go, I'm sick of it all, the mocking, that goes on, without words even being exchanged. You are your true self, when you are alone, you are a lot of different things. There are no choices, chances, I dreamt, that I had a new hat on. Make me be the color blue, and drop all illusions, allusions, once, and for all. The beginning of the end, is this, I can't, there is no help to be had, asked for. There are no love locks, there are no things to desire, look at, frown upon. The oceans are polluted, the ozone holes, are (the cyst?) opening, and for what, we do not care. I like carnival music, I like warm pop, I like these things I have, thus far, avoided. Few people are, but I don't care, if they can, do it, do. I'm not here to be guru-like, inspiration. Less than zero, all the time, out of room. Desist! There is nothing around, but the hens, clucking, looking pretty, bye. We don’t want to go with the flow. Keep the cubbyhole closed, invent new games, watch your wrists. When I bathe, I use shampoo. I can't reach, the promise that I broke to myself, is what will probably be the thing to kill me, or, rather, what will cause me, to kill myself. Shock, is a damn near impossible, thing to instill. I have an empty paper bag on my nightstand, with three numbers written on it. Cream of some kind, filled the sidecar. We can do anything we want, but do, very little. There is so little freedom, as is, don’t lose it. There are two lives, and you can't very well give up one, to have more of the other. You’d better get that photographic memory, of yours, developed, quick, smart ass. I want your money, not all of it, just part. Lap, nap, impartiality, it was always someone else, that they had their eyes on. Has the lightning stopped, yet? Am I still, nervous? Ah, yes, we have indeed, undone ourselves. The serotonin, has me thinking, I’m in an airborne glider. I don't pretend to be anything, but, boring, except for the things I write. Oh, it’s rinky dink, all right. The lucky, don’t pity, the unlucky. We call him, Moodrow, Moodrow, Dali. I can't say, the things I write, or write, the things I say. The core, the most important part of the book, is lost in translation. This is what is, or was, could be, or could not.... I don't know. To say the least, I’m desperate, for a hit. You are abusive, and hollow, but, with a surprise, inside. The ache, of this perpetual torment, and despair. Let's stand in line, go in, try to find a seat in the back, so that noone will see us (not that anyone would want to). Let's finish one thing this week, despite all the time constraints, deceptions, feeling of being trapped in. Let's die with spoons in our hands, and overweight (let's not, and say we did). There are three large books, on the floor of the room, and rotting food. Oh, this implosion, this crumbling into a heap... dance the chicken. We've invented this new way to flounder, to speed up the demise, we are not quite, what we thought we were. Scratch that, let's do that scream from the rooftops, exercise in futility, at least, until the police tell us to get the fuck down. This is the kind of shit that we are used to, these things go on. It's only half of the story, so don't put me in the index, under; the guy who crawled out of the rain pipe. Listen to this one. It's been put into somebody else's, hands, it's someone else's, livelihood, someone else's, honor, and glory, someone else's profits. To sit, and listen, to people, or nonentities, tell us what to do; good, bad, happy, sad. Arcade games, blood clots, panaceas, propagated mischief. Are we happy? Let this be a legendary flush, down, out, of the bowl. Almost all of my days, are gone. Fit it in, anywhere.
I used to bitch about "not getting my due," now, time. Nerdy, nerdy, hail, hail. So I am not outward bound, and never have been, no one says good-bye, hello. Use your check, to block the airflow, escape maneuvers. I just didn't fit, something happened, or didn't happen, I don't know what I'm listening to. There is snot from a sneeze, all over the paper, now, and the book, the coupons, pens. This is the simple, stupid, mystery. Why do I think about, all the time, when I'm too chickenshit, and will always be, to do any such thing, as this? Fifteen dollars, is the going rate, has been, for years. This is corruption, pass me the hemlock, the secret's out. It's what you make of it, we're very lucky. It's moods, are like shadows, on a cloudy day, they're there, then, not there, can't be pointed to, clarified, exactly. Let's snake dance, somehow, across the room, let's take a drive, let's put a staple in it. These are the screams, before the shotgun goes off, this is the atmospheric, thing, we need, before the guillotine, goes down. Letters were written, and proper postage, was affixed. I quit, before I even started the damn job. Poems, are a rip-off, more than anything else. The dog pissed in my room, again, I can't think my way to a smaller waist size, or, really, anything, at all, for that matter. Nobody wants to have anything to do with you, if you aren't a doer, an achiever; nevermind the fact, that there's nothing to do, nothing to achieve. There are dinners to eat, beers to drink, cars to pass, or follow, there is nothing but shit, and it, stinks! Who underlined my name, and drew that wonderful, creative, design, below it? Blow me, Trixie, grade me down, hand me the aspic. You know what… fuck morning! So much, is still missing. Oh, we don't allow that kinda language, around here. I keep finding them, only to lose them, again, in other words, my backyard, is an ecosystem. This needs to be taped, the thing in my ear, not what I've written. I did have some kind of recording system, of one sort, or the other, at one time. Then, I walk out of the bathroom, with only a towel on. Slow, laborious, deliberation, on the nature of peanut butter, health, and longevity. This was once available, people could purchase this, people knew about this, then, more so, than now. They don't get it, no one expects them to. Where are those little, snap back, colored, rubber bands? Not that it would make any difference, but, I've got to unlearn; simply stop, going there, just sit, or run, around the block, or something. Twelve packs, empty cans, hello's, hugs, leave her alone, don't even look at her. Keep a sock in your pocket, preferably, a dirty one. Let it all fall down, let the staples, pull clear, don't listen, look, don't even try. Nobody will read this, anyway, so, I will write whatever I want. We binge, and purge, on what happens, in between. I hereby refuse, to take my medication. What's worth trying for? What's worth anything? Read your stupid, asinine, chicken soup book. My regrets still stand. Must fix what’s wrong with this, at once. Taste, style, these sorts of things, bumping in on people's little secrets. Sorry, I had to turn right, I fell asleep, thereby missing the marathon, or marathons, like a dry fuck, in a factory (husband/wife, life). Grease spots on concrete, no real focusing point... they're all assholes, let's ream each other. Forget about the ring around the posie bullshit, cry, baby, cry. If I'd continued the series, the way the series was progressing, I would have... ah, forget it. Things that happened a long time ago, namely, dead people's doodles, and drawings. My house, although I have a fuzzy idea... where did that green stain on the lamp come from? That was the draw, in all capital letters, that was why people flooded through the turnstiles, no one can take back, what was given away, forever. Wave, or don’t, nincompoop. Use your fork, you filthy animal. Whatever I am, it’s getting worse. Fling up some dust.
If we had more patience, and could pay better attention, we'd be fine. It looks nice backwards, and so do we. Get in a car, with an actual, living, human being. We just like to look, fantasize, imagine, etc. We arise, later and later, in the day. Now, I need to scream. How many years did we suppose it would take, just to buy, and wear, this black beret? I’ll live to regret it, in a way. This is the beginning of the confetti era. I fancy myself that way, or, as having those abilities, but really, I just scratch, and sniff. I want to be an islander, I want to go away. How is it possible to enjoy leisure, when you keep bumping into ex-girlfriends? Man, did I ever make a fool of myself. Posing questions, killing time, crossed off the list, thinking we've found a short cut, that's really a dead end. So, then I designed it this way, and am in the process of re-designing it. Just let external circumstances, allow me to get to work on time, and I'll be just fine. This is what life is!? Flinching away, as an instinctive activity, from any manner of, “what lies before us?” We could afford a mobile home, weekly groceries, anything beyond that, we get into trouble. Who filmed the crash? It sounds like the whole shit bang, is already reverberating, around the room. I see it as an unpredictable, la-la-la. For crying out loud, don't you look at her tits! The monkey walks in, carrying all sorts of wonderful, colored, toys. Four faces looking at me, but they aren't real. It seems that his, whatever it is, has a really good hold, on my scalp! There it is … hey! There is lint, or some other kind of fuzzy stuff, on the tape, so it won't sound quite the way I suppose, we want it to sound. These are the handles that we're supposed to hold, when traveling up, and down, stairs, but no one really needs to hold them, or does, really. Let's drink coffee, until our asses feel like ottoman couches. This living room is just like that one. Motor yonder, give up on living in poverty, learn how to diagram a sentence, use interesting verbs. Emerge from it, rectify your problems. Not where the tree was! Rejoice, I bought a new belt. Empty envelopes, empty bottles, page, after page, year, after year, gripping at imaginary lines. I can't smell the forty one cents. Let's cruise our asses up to the supermarket, buy stock in Arcadia, blow our noses. These boots cause blisters, dance, dance, dance. I could only say thank you, so, that's all I said. Sing along, check the negative, play, wadded/folded up, paper, football, with fingers, for goalposts. Balk. The dark side of the room, is emitting a hum, for the things I can't afford. Smell that shirt, then, question sweat gland declarations. To fuck, or not to fuck, is not even a question. It wasn't me, who wrote what I wrote, it wasn't me who would engage in deliberate nonsense. Get out the machine, see if it works the wonders, that it's supposed to work. I got my very own dummy, but there's a sad side to this. It's not a pen, it's the movement of the hand. Maybe I do spend too much time at home, or near home, of course, I don't have a home. I am the waiting, this is only waiting. I look down at the scars on my hands, but never take the time to count them. Crying is rare, for you, me... that guy over there. We play with mirrors, lights, false beliefs.. let them go, or they will let go, of us. They are all dead now (commenting on a photograph). I just figured out, that I piss a lot? Do not accept this flat, down, and out, position. Once I’m rich, I’ll recant, all of this. They don't look, I don't look, we glance, keep our heads moving. There is no, is no! Get out of the wake, the slipstream. What I want to have happen, will not. Scratch it. If I had anything to give, I’d give it. Feel my wounds. Everything is a scam, a rip off. The evil eye, lurch into oblivion, that she was talking about, trying to convey. Well, here comes smiley, there goes chuckles. To wake up with a bloody face, is better than to not wake up, at all. In, and out, that red door, for years, and years (long years, if it makes any difference). Howdy-doo, for the black pen, flip. More ingestion of something, or the other, more return calls, to make, only looking partially, flabbergasted. Inching closer, and closer, the casket's got my name on it! No, I don't really feel this way, well, most of the time I don't. Suck your own dick, boy. There is vomit in the wastepaper basket, yet again. Life is not fair, but we know why. Try to do more. Charge the mound. Monitor the post, and the pole.

Wobbly, wobbly, hams. Another boring six months. Slumped over the steering wheel, on account of 850 dollars? We can use this for scrap. Now is the time, for all good folks, to dive into their dirty laundry basket. Shit, perfect, that's what I am, lonesome. Amongst other things, but that stands out, that 1950's, lonesome thing. It's difficult to say, a lot of things, that's why I listen, observe, and report, not, do. Nothing feels like enough, but I've saved all of their letters. Correct the inadequacy, use the cereal box, use anything, everything, especially, background music. The plan was to make the tape, but we all know what happens, to plans. The work, and the other work, the hours of, O.K. Can the dry cleaners, get out the ground in dirt, innumerable splotches, of what's her name? Everything looked so good, in theory, but the theory, was anti-theory; so, on that alone, it was lame. But more than that, it was all a great, big, creative delusion. Well, at least it was creative, but in the process, countless days, weeks… of making a complete, and utter fool, of myself. Get down to the half¬way mark, then put a star there. Open up the paper bag, or throw it off the table, pick it up later, and throw it in the trash. Return all borrowed materials, especially things you don't... shouldn't, ahh! There isn't any vomit, now, at one time, there was lots of vomit, and I'd write about it. When there isn't any vomit, presently at hand, how can I write about it? How did I ever become this weird thing, that I am? Now, there's a question, worth asking. I've seen my whole self, smeared across the page, and didn't like what I saw in the mirror, either. You called it a complex, I called it my propensity to stick my finger in my ass. Don't half-recite, half-sing, bloody sex acts, there are impressionable children, in the audience. I didn't mean to ruin the birthday cake, hidden woman inside, surprise party, escapade. Back to the fake plan, for lack of anything better to do. To affirm life, reality, etc., we find ourselves, affirming nothing, proving the existence of nothing! Yes, the somethingness, of nothingness, long lines at the department store. I've been tricked, too. My tongue is aimed at the imaginary target, but it's not liable to land there, anytime soon. Bodies being dragged, assertiveness training, completed; no escape, logically. I think that it was in italics, I think that that wasn’t a compliment, after all. It’s about what it’s like to be crazy, these days, when they don’t even believe, in crazy. I am a fugitive, hopelessly indebted, to Louis Pasteur. It gets so late, so fast. Words are not enough, have never been, will never be. It’s always a mad dash, at the end. This is the grip we fear, the vice, we're stuck in, and no quantity of black and white film, can get us out of this, down on all fours position, we're stuck in. When things go too far, and I start noticing the restroom graffiti, it's time to get out of town, for a while, a long while. What? No flip, flip, just, press? We need change, and cannot, at present, have any. It's like begging parents for candy, all over again... soon, soon, we hear. No heart was broken, but it would appear... the signs, symbols, hiding my dick behind my hand, when I forced to use the urinal, so that no one else can see that I piss through a hole. For many reasons I like to look across the floors, and on the walls, at my scribblings, and scratchings. I like to think the impossible, and not do anything. With my degree, they told me I could either write, or teach, well, I wrote. No acknowledgement, whatsoever, whenever she drives by. Sell me to a "farm," when I get old, like they do to the family pets. I have done some things, so nerdy, that I cannot repeat them, here. Make this, mean something. The two quit, in tandem, or got fired, on the same day, bless them. Sorry, this is not my station. I touch myself, when it’s safe to. Now, I kick at the half-full/half-empty, jacket. Dedicate this, to the acne years. I’m tripped out, and I don’t even know what that is, or, means. Everyone is asking me, where my new pants are. Everyone is asking about the incompleteness, in regards, college. People stop by, and/or, call, at very strange hours, under very unusual, circumstances. I will go to the furniture shop, for no other reason, than that it is a gigantic, furniture shop. I think I'm a gonna' call you, make a big issue, outta’ you. Flippidy, dippidy-do, my darling, flippidy, dippidy-do. When she finally answered the door, she was so blown out of her mind, on barbiturates, that I had allegedly transformed myself, into a twenty-sixth century ox, or lamb's hoof, thus, I am a hoof. Complete your education, they chant, as I half eat, half dribble, the breakfast, onto the table, onto the floor, and wherever the hell else. Oh, hi, what do they have? Rain. Let me lick at your boots (of some kind), and innocence, to open a floodgate, or two, unexpectedly, because you were never afraid. Neither was I, and I can't help thinking, that something, anything, should have happened, right there; right there, next to the miracle mop, and the postcard, of some Hindu Saint. Even back in the day, of just thinking about Portland, even in the days before governmental (oh, they forgot) interference, there were a few things, I wanted to believe. The pageant is over, it has run its course. Do not reassure us, we don’t need it. The lime green wall, matched the vomit on the floor. I went berserk, in what used to be the garage. We think we know so much, we know nothing.