Writing feels an awful lot like torture. I will go and be a Navaho, in the hills, somewhere, with fifty feet of rope, and a bright orange car. Easy on the ketchup, hey, what do you think this is? Someone has permanently etched a home cleaning supply, and health aide, onto the wall of the public restroom. Insisting on cherry pie, not the strawberry one, before us. Was it an onion? We're running out of time, what, ho, crazy? Turn me around, and around, the map of Las Vegas, Nevada. Dog food in sugar bowls, feathers falling out of hats, lightweight, new, construction helmets, and crayons, walk right in, free. These are apartment buildings, no, wait, these are apartment buildings, the others have crumbled, or blown away. Terrified of leap year, hopscotch, and guys throwing down the novelty head, of a novelty costume. This is all there is to say, drive by, and scream, drive by, and honk. Thank goodness there was no feature article written, “circle this one,” and comment, with goo-goo eyes. Even though speaking, with words, saying nothing, searching high, and low, for this counter-cultural leader, who was me, all along. Walking down the street, practically dragging the dog, because of some neuroassociation, he's made in the past. My own neuro-dog leash, doesn't let me stray too far away from the straight and narrow, either, but see, I see the truck coming, I see what appear to be headlights. Sex is a myth, invented to titillate children, clay is just screaming, to burn in the kiln, resembling hands, admidst ashtrays, and Amish incense holders. Blood on the chopsticks, at the bead shop, at the bus depot, in the office, on the sixth floor of a medical/dental building, in Oak Park, Michigan. The exact number of times, I have replayed the going away party, in my head? Two hundred sixty three. The great idea of the linguistics degree, the "multi-media restaurant.” It hasn’t fallen together all that well. I will not fly in an airplane, do not ask me to do so, again. The drink, Joe, the Charlie can. It looked like a giant greenhouse. Make peace with the turbulence. This is the smell of spectacular. The exhibition went badly. Stains on the wall, is all I'll amount to, but I'm looking too far in the future, again. Be aware of your own odors. For now, there are porches, lawn chairs, and garden equipment. Obstruct, in any way you see fit. Pull off the protective, plastic coating. We let them get away with what they do to us. Why is that oil painting, so threatening? Where do those guys with funny hats, strange beads, and long black coats, work? Fly day, stomach growls, salt licks, and Kewenaw county. Up and down the flood damaged boulevards, into the beer gardens (I laid there, immobile). This is the next book. I will continue to use coal. Don’t you taunt, or tempt me, ever. Warts all over the right side of my face, and ink stains, car doors slamming; hair, and ashes, are all I can taste. This has become "ex-funeral home workers, reading material." No one knows what's shouted, and/or mumbled, in the Paradise Diner's, dishwasher kiosk. There, let the dust settle, let the arguments, end. Mexican egg throwing, deer carcass ribs, exposed, the new kind of spring-like, contraption (on cans). Refusal to address the establishments by their true names, refuse to buy a motorcycle, because of what happened to D. Refusal to give in to urges (criticize me), because of the other guy. Cry baby whining, because there didn't seem to be anything else to do. Then, out of nowhere, the switch is thrown, the sweat, starts flowing, handshakes, and hugs, and screaming, and kisses. Falsetto, kick starts, despite what was said to me, while standing there, waiting to be served. Some great change, has been engaged, it wouldn't appear to matter, anymore, what was mailed to who, or where. Find those infernal scratchings. Over to the RAUNCH-A-THON, checking out the offerings to the hinter zones, and neverlands, with their will-o-wispy, wishy washy, asses. Then, for no reason, Doris Hanson mounts the table, and commences those, "wiggly, jiggly, jaunts and shimmies." Addicted to aerosol, crosswalks, cigarette butt pails. Not without one of these plastic badges, you don't! Find the cream colored midriff, the nail is on the floor, and it's been pulled from the side of the building, walk up and down the street, make no accusations. Come on, come on, hee-haw, hee-haw. Smashing the church windows, but there was a reason this time, the box of pizza, on the counter. These new paper towels, are so much more, absorbent. Read this, while your shadow falls across the mud encrusted, wheel, the snow is melted. Like a teenager, I groped, fumbled, stumbled, tried again. Something, about something… But how did it get on that angle? "Drunk," the kid said. Stay uncorrupted. Then, yes, put beverages all over the table. Hello, cat, I'll miss you when you're not on my papers anymore. The room is a sanctuary for empty soft drink cans. The jar of processed, whatever it was, was balanced, squared, yellow. Lust, out loud. Incest, destroys more families, than we’d like to know. Beware the cheap, and tawdry, merchandise, they sell. They are really after me, and they always get their man.
The tissues on the floor, the shit in the toilet; worms, snakes, graffiti, wonderment. At least three "I's," and two "selves," like the way it must have looked, from the table by the window, the long road to the back, where they unload the kegs. Antiques in inappropriate places, editing, leaving five minutes after the arrival. Half reborn, partial spring fever, the brand new toothbrush, spitting the mouth full of toothpaste, all over the dashboard, in the car. To claim that there's no longer anything that we take for granted, to claim that we think we had a few things worked out, or at least, a bit more orderly than they were, in reality. They would melt in the summer, and crack in the winter, the closed down ice cream parlor, is saying to the community, "We've seen quite enough of you, we've had our fill." Pushing down, the blood, wrong turn, but it won't blow those sparkles onto our faces, anymore than that huge piece of plastic, being dragged across the highway, since becoming thoroughly affixed, on that guy's muffler. I was scoping out tongues, and orders, men's big and tall shops. Authors, writers, well-wishers, the other kinds, the sometimes kind, whose hands are always free, to pick up the beer mug, but not the pen, that they profess to be so familiar with. More life, more bowel movements, like that one, more stickers, with green patches, more poison for the fingernails. The vultures wait there, so patiently. Early warning, was ignored. Strings and/or sticks, for your birthday. We never get sick of it. I thought a lot (or did I?). Open the textbook, at random, and read a paragraph. I have never wanted anyone more, in my entire life. Suspicious eyes, or, "what the fuck planet are you from, "arm movements. This is a great pulling under, of some kind. Put a word here (yikes!), congratulations. Long letters, before we got selfish, dried up, and just found ourselves in the pizzeria, more often, than not. Two years, it took, to get grey, old, and boring, stop answering the phone, practicing those exercises, in the park, with the weirdoes, drink beer in a glass, not bottles, or cans... the two year significance, of what went on behind the scenes. The words reach the ears, the two dogs are looking on, with contemplative expressions. So, this is a tea room? So, this is a roll of flypaper? Crawling across the velcro wall, at the hour of power revival, got me to thinkin', fixin' my own clothes. The accompanying music, to this text, can’t be described. This is not a party, it’s a hurricane! I must remember to wipe off the toilet seat, after pissing all over it, the shower curtain must be affixed to the plastic pole, the Nazi sympathizers, must be removed from the grill work, the jury is excused, the nightmare of phone calls, on cellular phones, and "sexy roofs," or was it, rooms? The pancakes have already been put on the plate, with butter, the factory waste, is a new toy, the record albums, are all over one corner of the thrift shop, in cardboard boxes, and somebody, is telling someone else, that they'd better be careful, for ground water, seeping up through the floorboards of the garden shed, and laying waste, to their baseball card collection. The pens are all chewed, so that the caps can no longer be used, the trees are cut down, and piled neatly, in the backyard. We'll make a night of it, ending up upside down, at the comedy revue, the personality clinic. Why is it, that we appreciate this? Blue eyed girls, in corner booths, gnats, or flies, being shooed away, by impatient cooks, new traditions, a total lack of fitting rooms, or anything, post-1956. We will take the trail, to the one that's tucked back, and over, no one makes their way to the middle of the page, stuck with the hand-me-downs, stuck with the losing lottery tickets, hand out, pants down, fight, fight, fight. This is how it begins, old women, being mistaken for young girls, right turns, into legitimate careers, real offices. Then, we know we’re doomed, or, the other way around. The smell of the sewer lids, the astonished expression, on the policemen's faces, the straw, piled in the barn, the wall, smashed down, no safety goggles, let it get in your eyes. It isn’t, correct. Quick side street touch, just a pfftt, and some rain. I'm not even sure that the killer had a motive, at all. “Extreme fame,” she mumbled, over, and over. The shuffle/stumble, to avoid the obstacles, set about in the room. More sideshows, on the sidewalks, more overpriced knick knacks, and new wave counter clerks. More limp (soft) dicks, hard, hard-on’s. Yes, I shot you, but I didn’t kill you, did I, you ingrate? You want filth, I’ll give you filth. Her vagina just leaked into my hand. I don’t think that anything more, would, or could, improve it.
If you drink, at all, you're an alcoholic; prone, and/or determined, to intermittent self destruction, and omnipresent, self delusion? Dig the curbs! The first step is always to find a pen that works, then, things can usually begin, in earnest. Anyway, back to the infamous, letter writing routine. See, this pen is already kaput. The sun is/was, annoying the wits out of me, one of those spinning, drunken, kinds of suns. I no longer give a shit about anything, most things, are mere annoyances. The growling dog, the errands, five dollars in an envelope, empty cans, co-workers, dreams, deferred. The cans, rolling around the backseat, crashing into one another, with such force, and constancy, to... and why are those giant cake pans, still back there? Well, at least the "bike," or what's left of it, has been removed. I don't believe in mathematics (or much else), but this, or these, "things that get in the way"... insanity ensues. The biography discredited him? Who wrote it? I often wonder, how much requisite space, is used up with quasi-knowledge, concerning the guilty pleasure, of ex-hockey fans, in Montreal, Quebec. I could have sworn, that I put a lot of work into this book. Some of us, just aren’t going to win. There were children's toys, being clanged together, some hoots, and whistles, with some lady mumbling in the background, that weird is sound, but there must be an expressive outlet. Try to make it work, anyway. Call it treason, I don’t care. The only way to make it, is to get rich. Some, will be left out. The already wealthy, get a whole lot richer, doesn’t that bother you? Oh, more talk about the book? The "chicken dance," is commenced, from the seat of a reclining chair, and I still don't know where I am, or where I'm going. What is that, a harpsichord? The only time anything happens, is when the stumble into the darkness, is commenced; the walls are rattling. Low grade, to high grade, idiot, to moron. Eight months, of trying not to get caught, looking, too closely. The curtains rise, and fall, on these dramas, that fold, and unfold, are hidden away, with the books, never to be read, like that one that I bought today. I keep kicking over the laundry basket, that contains, what's left of my consciousness. To buy this, to scratch that. Floundering, sitting there, like mushrooms, do something. Dig the rhombus! If you keep going, it’ll get done. So, then, where does metaphysics, ultimately, lead us? I had an answer formulated, but can't read my own writing. Absurdity, complexity, chaos, discordance, paradox, contradiction; these are the means, of stepping closer to the nature of reality, which is to say, that they are not answers, in and of, themselves. All this former rancor, that I felt, stirring in my bones, these things of supposedly crucial, import, but that can't be answered, the ridiculousness, drunkenness, lungings. There are no answers that aren't arrived at, and discarded, the moment some pretty girl walks by. I'll be damned, if this will be passed around like a joint, in some University basement. I guess I'm just shocked by my inabilities. I become agitated, frothed, nearly violent, kicking at the dashboard, only to be followed, by more silences, more, and more peculiar, back door exits. Drunk, and sleeping it off in the car, wanting some new life, some new independence, bubbling over with enthusiasm, then, the crash, or the fall, or whatnot. I can't click my divergent personalities, together. When given opportunities, to try on my new personality, so to speak, I sit there, with the same shirt, and hat on. I have nothing to say, even though, I believe otherwise, or, did. All I mean by this, is that I am fully, and unequivocally, lost. I don't want, what I think I do. This is all in the present tense, I'm not "over," any of this. I used to dance around toilet paper rolls, in the living room; half screaming, half singing, in a high pitched voice, I used to be able to get over, or at least, forget, partially transcend. Now, there are only fatuous wishes, and dreams, that fade away, not only in the morning, but, five minutes later. The room smells like old books, and it takes everything I have, to leave this room. So, of course, that said, the grand plan, is to move off, to some exotic locale, where things will apparently, begin, where some supposed, "life," is to commence? Always, later, never, done.
Absolutely nothing, matters, this is rule #1. These are the famous sad sounds, of one composer, or another, that are so beyond life, and death, so beyond mere words, so as to render life, and death, and words, utterly obsolete. What, top? It doesn't say one, or two things, or diagram a certain mood, it "says," all things, is, all "moods." Anyway, I'm steeped in nothing, save for an occasional, obsessive/compulsive phase, that's dropped, as soon as it's picked up. I'm hiding in the barn, I'm outside, looking at baby raccoons, in cages. I'm over in the back of the store, wherever I am, it looks like I'm going somewhere specific, or at least, I know, where I am. The tapes have had some things recorded on them, that I wish were even half as beautiful, as that story that I heard from, I can't remember where. The construction paper lies there, with all the other grandiose ideas The trains keep blowing their whistles, not a mile from my house, I'm not on them, no one I know, is on them. It's the cat, in the road, with it's guts squirting out it's ass, that's on my mind, now. I should be doing anything I can, to see that at least a sliver of the truth, comes out of all these scribblings. I don't give a hoot whether the writing is legible, or not, the poetry readings, with the dull sap shits, with their fingers in each other's assholes. Disgusted by the scum, the escapism, what makes sense, and doesn’t, what is, and what isn’t. It’s already, way too damn long. How can it be? I don't care about the bruises, cuts, and scars. Try a little harder, to be Indiana. Put the soap back into the dish. All of my circuitry, is dangerously overloaded. I keep cringing up in embarrassment, as I recall things that I have done. I am going to smash the car window, with my bare hand, because it needs doing, something, needs doing. As for what happened to me, well, I’d rather not say. Death is just one of those things, that happened to me. This book is only a trick, or a tool. I will not cavort from table, to table, I will live according to a definite schedule. I have no life, and don't see anyone else, as having a life, consisting of anything worthwhile, that doesn't amount to insurmountable debt. I seek weak words, on flimsy paper, I see shame, pain, despair, desperation, and destitution, I feel the pointlessness, up, and down, my spine, I hear it, dance with it, fuck it with my hand, fist, tool, equipment. I went on, and on, some stupid thing, about the lack of a desk. These snack foods, are not satisfying. Whining, yes, but also kicking at the sand, and soot, ash, and manure foundation, of this false chase, this flashy game. I make my way through the trash, and around the room, and I want what I can't have, not because of any weakness of will, on my part, but because such things, do not exist. A lazy, good for nothing, that has transformed himself, into a machine, of sorts, for the entertainment of those, who have been down similar, dead end, streets, observed the same veil of tears, seen the body in the casket, and it can't move; then, you think you see it move, but it's only your eye, playing tricks on you, as it does all the time. And shit falls out, and your hand hurts, your hair gets long, and you think, and think, and think, but nothing ever happens, can happen, will happen, except for our eventual dissolution. We see heads, and hands, faces, fingernails, we hear snippets, sound bites, and there's, "just something wrong with us." But we can't figure out, after years of trying, just what that something, is. Then, we fly into a rage, and take a right turn, we rant, we rave, we apologize. You have too much disposable income. It is time to give up, now. There are people who did it, people who do it, and people who will never do either, and it's our choice, entirely, what, or which type, of each of these, we decide to be. We’re merely, overwhelmed. We're apes, but there's more to it; reptiles, but we can get over it. The drunken oaths, forgotten, the precocious hollerings, the obstinate stances. This is the sign of someone who has walked the tightrope long enough, without a net. After the net, is either, put there, or stripped away, people stop looking. I bark like a dog, I howl the four seasons, I bellow the call letters, I whisper to myself, all of my wonderful possibilities, or, whatever those were (why ever, I said, wonderful?). To be in hell, crawl out, and then, apropos of nothing, willingly, crawl back down. Let’s fake it! There is no “underground.” They are on my tail, the noose has been tied. Can you dig it?
