When they "look at you funny," check into the clinic. Action? What if there's nothing to do? My unwashed, whatever it was, leapt headlong, conjuring, diddling. Imagine the kit, and kaboodle, go out for months (in my head). Standoffish, and aloof. What have I got? Yellow skin persuasion. What does she got? Blue eyes, but she'll never notice mine. These days, well, the teapot's still screaming. I've been classified, crucified, did have to explain myself, but then, I'd move away. The maniacally logical, grim reaper, philosophical, lip smacking. Is this, was that, just a joke? I went through the convention hall, I told them all, that I was dead. Photographs in hidden places, strangers filling up the frame, once known. That's my mold. The template of seraphim, with pearls in their hands, lightning, and thunder, but really, just turning round. So warm, so cozy, so safe (but, not really). We’re on our way, out. Slide rules, measuring out hiding places, spelling bees, screaming. It’ll cohere, because it’s so chaotic. Taco! Taco! Piles of nowhere, equates, in ways, to gangrene, cockroaches, sonical logjams, psychical nausea. I am not important. What I wouldn’t give, for something to give. Sitting in the lost and found, saying nothing, staying home. Sitting on the garbage can, and living out the drivel, the driving rains, of the way things go. I can understand the words, but not in the context of the paragraph. I should've been a virgin, but I woke up first, or, was it she? No matter, this is really going to blow, I see it blowing. Strange respiratory fascinations, drooling softly, automatically. Praying at pelvises, worshiping at cherry red, pheromone soaked, graveyards. An outlet, a code, I don't like X, he tries to be like Y. The weaknesses, the cover-ups, we fear you, because you're entertaining. Pounding on the table, what's on the other side of that piece of paper, you? I’ve been done wrong. Drained out of all the false senses, of shame, pain, despair. Not really hiding, incubating. I think I'm seeing and hearing things, again. Still waters, turned out to be, surprisingly, shallow. Break in the new mitt! Our recoveries, were false. So, this is choppy, and makes no coherent point? Given, but, nothing does. One mistake past the line, is not a pleasant place to be. Did I mention the jail/desperation thing? Not that I care, but there were some ideas that... anyway, the ends justified the means. I have made up my mind, to write a clear, concise, sentence. That was it, did you miss it? I’m sick of these rent-a-friends, who only hang around me, for my money. If you only knew what I thought about, day in, day out, you would lock me up in prison. I want to FUCK!! No one's left to be astonished, or impressed, and that's fine, by me. The dramatis personae, on these printed pages, are fictional, and any resemblance to persons, living, or dead, is entirely coincidental. It just, has to work out. Bad things happen, that fuck up the picnic, permanently. There is nothing in my head, anymore. We'd mumble through the day. She laid out there in the sun, wearing almost nothing, literally, taunting everybody. It was more of wrestling match, than an "intimate moment." Things went wrong. The piglets came out, and immediately began running around. Can I, please, touch it? I made an accusation, while falling down the stirs. All the dingy, shitty, places, faded away, I pissed on my vital signs, it was really a billboard. That's the power of suggestion, I'm amused, I'm an amoebae, too. Poor men, don't have any moral dilemmas. Flipping George Gradle, into teepees, and aspertine. Kite flying, wishing wells, buses, malls. Nowadays, the kids, do inhale. Fascinating, I beg your pardon? Jaded, by our first experiences. "You plum promised me, that you wasn't gonna' make them faces" [sic]. When it takes over, and fucks up neutral things, it’s a psychological problem, otherwise, unnerving. Boots, cause feet to stink, nine times out of ten, so that it's embarrassing, to take them off. Hail Douglas Ionia, sharp shooting champion. Fondling the beige, but only to try and improve my mood, hypnotize, actualize, nowhere my way, from Cleveland, to Buffalo. Disappointment always kept us going, to the Slice and Dice Restaurant. In luck, dirt cheap with Bertha, on the highway. What about "Boo," and the window look, suicide? First, put the book down, sitting Indian-style, etc. Waterlogged, and pretentious, kind of a crumb, who plagiarized himself, which is why it took so long. We got out the… or, bought one, I was well brought up, and well, brought down. I can’t live with it, yet. We’re not “stars.”
It's tough to... uh, well, I only have one fan, maybe. Trapped, guilt ridden... We bought two plots by the Elm tree, that caught a disease. There wasn't enough slack in the rope, but there's plenty of time (no, there is not). Tickling at the drainage valve, sort of an inside joke, sort of an experiment. Tongue-tied to whipping posts, apron strings, and laugh a lot. Vinegar, softly, through my nasal passages. Unbelievable discoveries, sex-like noises, unlock to unload. It did seem to draw water away from the intestinal lining, easy, so far. To do what one ought, or should; bullshit. Be "moral," or go to jail, there's your reason. My name was lost in the shuffle, of the no-win, solitaire game. Cooing, partial passion, as far as things that are worth doing, I'm at least, on the right track. That's not to say that I'm not severely crippled, in several, important, social areas, because I am. But, eventually, this project will be on a shelf, somewhere, and I can, maybe, be old, and point to it. The hearing in triplicates, the loose narrative, the ditzy-pitzy, steel parts. I suppose I did limit myself, in "the better way to find it," snip and clips. I destroyed everything, and something, happened. Something, came from nothing. I sat in the basement, for an hour, trying to figure out the dehumidifier. Accidental, triple graduations, years later. Toss the crushed, stink, pillow, while listening to gibberish. I see the flags, I see the court summons, I see orders, not to remove the stub, fiddle with my nub, morning statements, rent due, post it’s, window series, etc. Let's see if we can stomach some of these stranger, than strange, mouth sounds, that are designed, to drive us out of our wits. People don't believe what they lean on, when they lean on it. Writing this book, has been sheer torture, a living hell, absolutely, positively… impossible. Tears in the park, another lonely birthday. It’s never finished, or done, good enough. The single, most important thing, I know, with certainty, is that God, does not exist. And, never has, except as ideas of wish fulfillment, in people’s brains, erroneous ideas. To finish off the whatever, to dine in, on the beat, the cloud marsh, gypsy thing. In front of a tree, with downcast eyes. To smile, better than pearls, better than Big Bob, the ice cream man. There was this drive, to be there (or at least, nearby). I am in anguish, for the most part, because I am so radically, dividing my energies. There is no poof-poof, involved, it's just that, there are things that are diametrically opposed. To engage in behaviors, that are the absolute, opposite, I've driven myself insane, well, overwhelmed, I don't know. The worst thing of all, is that writing doesn’t pay, which is to say, there is no money in it. Fucked, let's leave it at that. All that matters, is all that matters. We did things to one another, which I cannot repeat here. You like that talk? Full time distractions, part time annoyances, no time, ever. Everything but this second, minute, day, hour... but those units, keep getting bigger, all the time. Become someone who no longer gives a fuck. They clean drapes. Pardon me/excuse me, life on the run, running in place, chained to the... who cares? Atomic forces, pursue me. Don’t buy into one way, or the other. Sorry for the inconvenience, can't finish, can't do anything, one, by one, they die, or otherwise, fall out of the picture. Stolen eggs, uncomfortable silences, Hollywood shame, three night, "what am I doing here," question, and answer, seminars. Flunkie cop-outs, bombastic spending, ascetic and aesthetic illusions, no pride, more of a, "let's get rid of the evidence, and blow out of town." The roaming, and searching, is over, sitting still, bored, listening to the voices, through the walls, for entertainment. Eleven years difference, can't help it, still... sometime, later, it will be more, or less, acceptable, but for now, no. Never again, with thimble tits, endless onions, no more, of that. More gets removed, with nothing to replace it, ever. Whole, huge, sections, are removed, you know what I mean. No hope for redemption, no room for even one more, mistake. The time has come, for the likes of us, finally. Put it in the reference pile. Swim in charcoal.
I'm just another guy at the laundromat, looking at those paintings (?), of baby lions, and tigers, dogs wearing suits, pissing on fire hydrants. These are the scribbles, and follies, of a madman, a moron, a fool. I've come to understand, it's best to leave the pretty women, alone. Most, don't want to be bothered, especially, by the likes of you, uh, "struggling artist types." The bottom line, is they probably see right through us. I'm reminded of the old yarn, about the rat that fell into the deep fryer, and was put into the bucket, with a load of extra crispy chicken. They probably arm wrestled, for the honor, to suck the pus off the giblet. Oh, boy, to see the look on that face, on such a glorious evening. Life is just, well, maybe, I thought so, I don't know, anymore. Events transpire, make no bones about it. Pellets are just the same, and just as good, as a big log, or steamer. And we are all alone, and all that existentialist crap, but that doesn't mean we have to walk around slouched over, with that look, on our faces. When ideas work, we use them, but see, anything can work. There's no rule book, no guidelines, that hold any water, have any authority. Symbolism, I gushed, both to myself, and others, really, anyone within shouting distance, for maybe, three days. Over, done with, me, scratching my head, and asking people, "What was I saying?" Take that dribble out of the flower box, and tie your shoes! Paradox, o.k., sure, but that's sort of a half of an hour, spent in a psychologist’s office, as for what we mean: we had best mean what we say, say what we mean, or shut up, and let the monkeys do the talking. You fuckers are tearing my ear off! Where did that come from? Caring, is part of the problem, well, it was; nowadays, I don't think that I've really got any problems, at all. The goal, is to be able to just, buy a house off of this, to give up the day job, of drudgery, boredom... to make the pegs, sort of, fall into the wrong shaped holes, with the clever placement, of strings, and mirrors. Fanfare, usually equals, “no thanks,” or, more often, “please, stay away from me.” Look, and there it is, more than enough material, for a dozen books (not really). Stay lucky, don’t be fooled. We don’t know what to say. I need to try and get circulation back, in my index finger I need to start violently, crossing out, or erasing. Egotism, a soft, more applied, egotism, is the rule, after the turkey hunt is over, and you're left holding the bag. It's that damn critic, again, that internal voice, that has done everything it could, to completely, tear my world apart. I wouldn't, and am certainly not saying, this to be cute, and/or clever, I do need some kind of "shaking out," of some kind. Well, no. I mean, what does that even mean? Who really helps? Let's play word games for a half hour, or so, and try to adequately, define altruism, again. Being a chained slave, leads to schizophrenia, you don’t say? Refuse things, as they stand now. What is it, that keeps us, who we are? A slice of the pie, is to do it on your own, heal yourself, feign some integrity, or, have some hidden away, somewhere. We felt out the pow wow, and left, unimpressed. Cultivate some concepts. My obituary, was blank. I refused, past tense, to buy their soap scrubbed, whitewashed, products. What I am doing now, is wasting physical, and mental, energy, merely, moving the exact words, on one page, to another. I'm into consumables, beverages, and the like, I don't usually have an awful lot to "show," for the money I earn. Stop, was written across the page, five times, with exclamation marks following each one, all five, were highlighted, with a yellow pen. Stop what? It doesn't say. People are funny, sometimes, licking their hands, sometimes, not, sometimes eating burritos, or tacos, in cars, sometimes, not. Clichés, are generally, not meant to be taken very seriously. Clichés of clichés, are usually denied, and laughed at. No, sure, it's hard to strike new ground, and make some kind of original statement, but c'mon, to resort to using hand gestures, groans, grunts, and hisses? Please! How about this for an update, no more mistakes, ever? No more room for risk taking, no more bail bond, standing on nylon mattresses, without any bedding, maturity calls. This one goes out to the one I lost, whoever, or wherever, she may happen to be. The jargon, became barbarous. Call this an Alan Smithee book. We faked it, to make it.
My own banality, I project onto, "them." Suddenly, thrown out of the wishy washy, world, of how I thought the world should be, and nothing lost, by this insight, but, very much, gained. I will lie out, in the seven acre, land parcel, all night long, if I feel like it. I'll make the same old comments, about lighting, and the tricks that we can pull, on the consumers, but I'll do so, with a glint in my eye. Piles of cereal, tons of cereal, and bacteria, what we thought meant the whole world, amounted to a fifteen second recollection, of "those who have passed on," places we've been before. So the team of the moment, walked in, and walked out, raising the price of lemon bundkins, and keeping Americana's on the menu, for a few years, or more. Fantastic booby trap, garish signs, to get the motorists to take heed. What did it say in the margin of the program? That I struck out, every, single, time. Is it tucked in, or folded? This will end up being the biggest risk, I’ve ever taken. I never could do cartwheels, never really tried, though, either. Back in pink, in Arizona, it’s these new drugs! I can appreciate the corrosion! In a rage, I tore the handles off the antique, display case. Managing the bedposts, managing the store in the strip mall, selling flowers, and poems out of the back of a pick up truck. The unusable pillow is, of course, the one, that I not only, like the most, but, need now. They had a lip-to-lip, tongue hold, on one another, that didn't quite embarrass anyone, but did make a few of the passersby, slightly ill at ease. Here are some new ideas; it said at the top of the page... which really got the old fingers snapping, feet tapping, and the noodle all revved up. Flunk it, but do it, when at wit's end. Do it badly, rather than, not at all. I don't mean any of this, and don't know what I meant to say... finish the job with your hand, I suppose, I was edging toward. They want it free. Someone mumbled, that we look like, what we want to look like, how we carry ourselves, assume ourselves, to be. To spend all day, and night, taking out the one, or two, year old, dated, passages, the crap we didn't even know was there, then, taking off all of our sweat drenched, clothes, and folding them, neatly. Chickens are having sex, in the peculiar way, that they do, they sort of, keep running up into each other... it's not like I hung around, and watched, but... The facts, become revelations, which destroy us, like an orchestra. At least death, is tangible. We don’t know who the hell we look like. Ah, girl troubles, add this to a thousand and one, other, futile chases, and let downs, that I don't need. Good thing they see me for the lush, and/or, unstable person, that I really am, before the march up, and down, the escalators. Gotta’ be ready! What was the other way of looking at things, and the flip side of the coin, or issue, or, whatever? The peroxide, self-destructive streaks (really, just hangovers), all of this spit, and bile, whining, crying, without tears, all of this, and more to come. Sci-fi feet, making their way through the graveyard? Well, right here and now, wherever you are, is the only place, time, etc., to be exactly, what, and who, you want to be. There is not, has never been, any such, "feel good about yourself place," in which to sit, and drink tea. See how it feels to shit backwards? Talking about how neither one of us, was the least bit interested, in any sort of relationship, this being said, as alas, we tumbled to the floor. Six words per line, and still you wonder how you didn't light up Broadway, in the Dixie Puck years? Wasted ink, and weird, screwy, headlines were all anybody expected of me. Once again, the "mood," and/or atmosphere, was, shocked, bewildered. Trephoning holes in my skull? Be damned, vicious fiend. Dorothy, get away from the curtains. If you don't, you'll soon find yourself, quite disappointed. The center will not hold, they tell us, gravity will make us fall, bodies at rest, tend to stay at rest, bodies in motion, stay in motion. All over achy, and blaming the crown chief Buerogard, wasting away in one similar pose. The guy screaming at us, as we drove by, that we should, "get some new shoes," or something along those lines. Sure, I bite my nails, what good is it to clip them? Does it have something to do with the aerodynamics of flapping our arms, in bird-like motions? I can't seem to think in front of blank paper, some kind of rough sketch, or outline, is needed, perhaps. Forget about the dorm room, peek-a-boo! You were taken aside, near where the bananas were kept. It stops being funny, eventually.
Driving around, and around, smoking cigarette, after cigarette. Always a baby's step forward, and a full sprint back; a waste, a shit pot, fantasies about playing with the soft flesh. There's not enough time for spitting, and luxury, clearing the nasal passages, with these peculiar snortings, and grunts. See what's been underlined, life exists outside of four dimensions. Up to the stranger's door, disrupting the peacenik’s party. Left (imagine my dismay) in a hurry, when the know of's, turn into, know abouts. This is Nelson, he's our new P.R. man. Still, giant blisters on the floor, toenails on the bedstand, plastic horses in the basement, army coats, sailors hats, orange pop. It's going down, it's going down. To be damned, is better than to sit in silence, around here, nothing to say to nobody, wandering through graveyards, losing keys. Give me the two dollar variety, give her the purse made of see through plastic, hand out the syrup, up the ante', buy the ten sided dice. I'd forgotten about the tuna sculpture, lied about the likelihood of being spotted in convention halls, drove by the auto plant, made out at the drive through, recalled the filibuster, that could've decided the whole end of Chistendom, right then, and there. To let the chattering of the Koreans, in Irving's sandwich shop, intoxicate you, to park in the wrong lot, and wander in, and out, of restricted access buildings, to go down to Ohio, just to say you did it, to walk over to that borrowed CD/cassette machine, and press play, dammit. How could Rick have forgotten the gazebo? This, after I remembered purchasing all those blank tapes. Who’s pouring themselves a nice big bowl of snack chips? The pretzels aren't free, that guy knows his beer. I said (not for the first time) that it had, “been a long time." A dime an aphorism, still waiting on the response, in regards to the side project. Smoking, like a prehistoric cave painting rendition, of Chief Ollie, with three sides, and assistants, who know the mass media game, inside out, and are intent on winning it. Watching your house while you're gone, being responsible for turtles, while, a turtle myself, migrating toward someplace in time, where the sun doesn't set, and refract light off the plow. It should be a complement to the way we are living; psychotic delirium, is merely moving your hand really fast, or refusing to switch lanes, and pass by Papa Gillicutty. This is the start of it, these are the bland ones, tornadoes set to touch down, and I bought the video. All of the sudden, seventeen is seventy seven (watch out!). War is coming, very soon. Lost sense, blue (speak, use words) notebooks? Our acts wear thin. Their modus operendi is to cut the beautiful trees in half, to protect their precious power lines. Strip it, with turpentine. We shouldn’t, and ultimately, can’t, anyway. Now I see, why I was not invited. Well, the inflatable woman, is stuffed in the closet, like a corpse, symbolic of skeletons. Say your lines. The cattle call, went unheeded. Through the alley, vomit on mattresses, we've finally forgotten what never really happened. Try phosphorus (no overflow). Storm the beach (backwards). Why the dream of the great panhandling, why the color coordination, of the four disk retrospective? They stole it out of my room. As usual, there is only one person whose rug has been pulled out from beneath him, but I yanked the tiles out, cheated in solitaire, wormed my way out of Memphis, leaving my coat, shoes, and bag. It's a game we play, with the remains. Become the ones who got through it, spread the disease across four continents. Parting words in Hank's bar, dollar beers, and résumés written, thrown into the bottom of a dresser drawer. We appease ourselves, indulge in the latest dance crazes, wait at the train stop, jangling the change in our pockets. An hour, for each double breasted, gold embossed, page. The poster that we had planned to steal, and the plastic toys, held together with super glue, and that spray around fun foam, they sell down at the Holly Hop market. There's the historic landmark, there's the old fashioned fire station, no bell, but still standing (and a bum staggers by). Falling into the real news, of wastrels, and denizens, of strange clubs, so far out, there's no getting in. Smoke comes out the doorways, the line forms outside. I don't know who you are, but don't get your hopes up. Twigs in my throat, blood in the capillaries, starry eyed looks, in convenience stores, cheap cigars, bridges, burned. Shifting in the seat, remembering back to sleeping in somebody else's, urine soaked, easy chair. The past is all left off, and doesn't matter at all, and I don't know what I used to find so hard to ignore, but once in a blue moon, is quite alright with me. The same guy who exposed himself, probably robbed the bank. Why there was a bullet in the ash tray, I never could figure out. Principally, an atheistic doctrine. The back of the door, still has holes, where the thumbtacks used to be. Supermoss knows only of the old kind of phones. Photos of the corners of basements, bizarre states, of spellbinding elation, it falls apart, and then some. The malt shop era, is part of somebody else’s dream. It isn’t good enough.
