A small, expensive, chapbook, dealing with old age. What someone, undoubtedly, believed would become collectors items, fourteen page books, about understanding this, or understanding that... then what? This plop, plop, guzzle, guzzle, of the self? This hide and go seek? This capture the flag diagram, of tingling sensations (special?). Chastisement, then, the other side of the coin. The life's work, versus the quick change artists, either one, could have left either some, or all, behind. As far as more than half of what fills libraries, it's not worth wiping your genitalia with, after an extremely bad, bout. Up and down the avenue of fatal car crashes, knowing all the exact sites, making note of precisely where the flowers, and teddy bears, and whatnot, are propped up. Sympathy, and all that, versus (watch it) "glad it wasn't me, that fateful eve." Maybe it is what we lose, that we mourn, in an uncon¬sciously, selfish way, or the knowledge that we could, or will, be next... maybe it's only tube socks, covering sticks. Over, and over, again, the same refrain, how it doesn't make sense! Well, what sense could it, or should it, make? There is nothing worth making sense of. Well, sure, maniacal mistakes, will transpire, when the adenosine has you up three days, and you're ready to crack, with the job, and insurances, bank statements. Finally- HA- then, oh, no! Rectal chirping, other room thank goodnesses. Looking at her, then, the girl on TV, there was no difference at all. The breadth of whose knowledge, in what situation? Rx: emotional control, at least, to some degree. Force it to happen, make it occur. My paintings are no damn good. Not one word, can be made out, and it's just as well. The things that I add to this, in a frenzy, don’t seem to make that much of a difference. The spinning top, starts to wobble, out of control. Some sort of worthwhile existence, is to be had, somehow. Button all buttons, be more precise, and direct. This sad, half-subsisting, mode, this miserable life, will, out of necessity, be but a dark flicker, on an otherwise, well lighted, and illuminating, journey. Take the phone off the hook, shuffle the books, and papers, around the room, don't tell us about the statistics, we don't want to know. There is no turning back, light on, and we can't ignore it any longer, and it's not flickering, in some back room, but like a searchlight, that you can't help but seeing… Sure, I like the idea of books, that only throw ideas around. Why should there be a Sally, and Johnny, a dog, and bike, in every book? Why should Jane be running, or sitting, or fingering herself? Why should I document the exploits of Dick and Spot? Not that there would be much to say about the latter, but, whoa, ho, hey, hey! Who's gone, was it I, or the other? Is that a reference to things in particular, or the broader, “nature, via nebula,” outlook on things? Fifty crucifixes, a veritable cornucopia, of crucifixes, tumbled out of the thrift store, storage closet. Back to the requiem! Stuck here, with this, for years. To have flunked the initiation rites, once already, to dabble in sex foot, for however many days past, you care to glance, so it seems. What's this? Vomit, real, or imagined? The atheists bible, the nihilists handbook? Weren't these to be used as titles, of some sort? The no time excuses, the failure to really make any kind of one step beyond, stretch, or the two step, onward, howl. Just the chair, the drink, and/or drinks, the occasional ferreting out, by some fellow weirdo, the "our parts of town," along the way. The whooping, hollering, and carrying on, outside the "kind of" skyscraper, because I made the discovery of mail slots, that go from the twenty-seventh floor, to, all the way down. Then, the mood shifts, and I'm maudlin again, all tied up in my own fecal matter, ready to blow the whistle, honk the horn, scream my fool head off, until my voice is lost, and repeat the same harangue, to a different audience, the very next day. I don't give a shit, whether I possess any talent, whatsoever, there's no such thing as talent, you do what you do, or you don't. Those who do, have "talent," even though, that's not what it really is. Thinking, is nothing, doing, is everything. The key grip, wasn’t satisfied, just holding onto wires, following the Director around. Stay on an even keel. Life, ends up getting to you.
Strife is the gun, without a trigger. Sure, let's see what happens, cap the day off, so to speak. As far as what images are, I'm fairly confident. When things slide underneath, and it slides, these are the rare days, when even if things don't "happen," they're sure as hell, more likely, to. Fuck the alphabetical cult, of Mafioso secrets, and mirror lined nightclubs, with passwords. To derail, is to completely come off the tracks, to be thrown clear of the (you were wrong about me) clockwork, and it's not necessarily, a bad thing. The whole, the half, the tall girl, mud all over our shoes. The new wave of sorts, is calling, the catapult’s been wheeled over, there are long lapses, silent hibernations, there is a tremendous feeling, of why not me, and why not now? Alone with empty envelopes, and trying to remember... exactly what the big deal was, about the twenty-five cent book, on (just sit, and wonder?) thermodynamics. Dead people's clothes, and popcorn poppers, panda suits, strange locales, girls that are, "not from around here." We park where (finish, or, die) we're threatened to be towed away. Jump around, in the middle eastern grocery store, in, and out, of the fetishists hideaways, fancy versions of porno shops, diners without jukeboxes, but, equipped with AM radios. It takes forever, without motivation, longer, with it, and even though the choice has been made, the this, that, and the other, still drag us into the, "all I see are karate clinics." It’s like looking at a high school yearbook. If there were pillows, if everyone painted, if it wasn't, then, it would be; it's a girl, lollipops, and empty paper bags, gear lubrication, for the sexually frustrated. This is, was, were... the events took place, the fact that they happened... never enough. They say she knew too much, for her own good. We want to be someone, or something, other than who, or what, we are. Unbutton my looseness. There were more than a few, “watercooler misunderstandings.” Nothing less than to be reborn, despite the three way mirrors, despite the grave blankets, Christmas banners, they don't take down until August, carpet remnants, and "could have been," art projects. Goose shit on the windshield, no jizz, no streaks. Cheap refrigerator magnet gifts, that are handed out to every paying customer, thumb prints, on stainless steel, the silver, stripped away, not quite a passion, but a, "I don't know what the fuck it is." Things not happening, over, and over, familiar cycles, familiar states. I’m doing grand, just grand. Somebody farted over there. We’re sick of the same old shit. Finish this farce. The all out now, pets on leashes, pets in cages, pet shit in the lawn, and on the driveways, people becoming actors, and/or clerks, in "used to be drug stores." Fake theaters, but still, with marquees, million dollar renovations, bridges being sold, back, and forth, and don't forget to read all the newspapers, look through old magazines. Real skeletons, soap, and plastic pumpkins, dozens of greeting cards, stolen mannequins, fretful movements, giving strangers candy, hugs, and kisses. This is a lynching, this is a coffee shop, these are the marks of leprosy, the (just forget it) stigmata of the pariah; this is always, the crumb, curb, porch, wish. Let’s get it right. The next step is commission sales, motorcycles, the places we didn't go in. Dance at the concrete rest areas, pull over, and take your glasses off, squint at the street signs. Filthy, stained socks, faxing it to the city desk, about the classified section. Screaming works, for a little while, until you get too prolific at it. Wave to the train, again, chase it like a dog, who doesn't really want to catch it. In and out of close calls, ways to die, honorable parking spaces, office vandalism, public intoxication. It was designed to look like a book, it lies on the floor, in a wooden, junkshop box, there were vague thoughts, about Spanish mysticism; "real mystics," in drunken clamors of, "haven't I seen you somewhere before?" Homemade lamps, people who die, long before we're ever born, lonely, shop clerks, lemonade, milkshakes, bronze medals, and high school gymnastics, state championship meets. Paintings of naked girls, wiggling on the stool, ambulating into the unisex bathroom. Handing out towels, ass rags, and Christian newsletters. Money is no object, we swing, we get rich, quick. Atoms in the void, make more noise than paintball attacks, on unsuspecting townsfolk, tin men, in tin cars, concerned with solar energy, hotel bathrobes, cheese in a can, and views on Buddhism. Where are the ones that we were imitating? The two way arguments, back, and forth, in one voice, emanating from one head. The great rollout? I’m an existentialist (read this as, goofball). I’m trying to put myself together, but pieces are missing. Shatter your own hopscotch head.
Chaos gets worse, horrors, become more horrible. Poor little nothing, is feeling sad, today. What should I put on my tombstone? Hmmm... how about, huh, just, huh? No name, dates, in loving memory, just, HUH, in gold embossed lettering, that rubs off. My, we thought we were clever, and beyond reproach, back in middle school, rubbing the "L," out of the cover of the folder, and whatnot. Well, there's a reading going on, somewhere, there's a book down the street, with naked, or near naked, people, in it, there are people who are miserable, and people who are drunk, and those people, needn't be the same. Recording has commenced, they announce the death, on the early morning, radio broadcast. The superstitious red vests, the 300% mark ups, the cardboard cartons, and passive pursuits. New stains, on old books, mothballs, in the pockets, of runway fashions. Trying to discern some idea, of time, or place, reading what can be read, through violently scribbled out, passages. The dream of the paintings that could be seen, and I've already forgotten those other dreams. It's all a haze, there's no reason for today, rather than any other, to make my meaningless declaration, I do believe it's the beginning of the end, to not be surrounded, by at least, a familiar ring around the tub, but apparently, this morning, I had other ideas. I must alleviate this guilt. Baddle, oop, baddle, oop, baddle, opp, it goes, like a balloon being inflated, and then, deflated. The young, grow up. The tally now stands at twenty five, and a half. It takes an awful lot of nothing (way too much, to produce something, anything). Thank you for remembering. Perhaps, the periods of profound silence, after and/or, during, an alcohol binge, are what got us drinking in the first place, to keep the demons at bay, if you will. Perhaps, it's just as well, that I couldn't read my own writing, if I can't decipher it, surely, no one else can, in which case, after I die, no one will insist on donating my brain to some scientific foundation, which gives grants, for neuronal anomaly research. The appointment books, for the last three years, have been saved, not that there was even one mark, on either of them, I believe, that's why I saved them, to document this destitution. Years of waiting, even though, I was waiting at the edge of my seat, with sweaty palms, it still amounts to waiting, I've given away too much, perhaps. Toss it away, like trash, for the right reasons. No cure for a lousy life, no easy outs, no fucking, ever. So, I put the hand me down coat, in layaway, which seemed strange, but I did it, to get back to my pseudo beatnik days. I cut off the cuffs, nothing is classy, or the least bit, warm, and sexy, as a sharp knife. What did I say, as I stumbled out the door? I gotta' take a sniff? I sat at her dining room table, mumbling Shakespeare, half to myself. What was it, I finally enunciated? A gossip columnists wet dream, and I don't know the name of the next town. No thoughts at all, in the jury room, just wanting to be left alone, reading about the corroboration of the events, that have come to pass, listening about this wonderful constitution, and bill of rights, civic duties, and rah, rah, rah. We’re branded, seared, singed, cauterized. We’re just getting started. I continue to smoke. Document the screams, and pleas for mercy. Where were we, when our lives were there? Esse is percipi, but I'm kinda' dumb. I’d just assume not, take any dance lessons. Poverty teaches us more than any college. Two piece suits, nylon luggage, piles of paper, with these letters on them. Kick the imposing, and demanding, out. He is a looker, she is enamored, awed. Erase the history lesson, and don't let it come back around, in a mutated form. Pay day, could be a goal, that would garner the necessary background noise. Actually, that's the way to properly describe it, a brief swelling, that becomes more, and more, difficult, to sustain. At this point, more times than not, it's just rolled over, and forgotten. Smiles, and countdowns, justifiable concerns, implored by psychiatrists. Forget what nowhere spells, backwards, I think that ideas been taken, already. Sunblinded in the theatre, sitting on somebody's head. It's beyond the point of needing to learn to appreciate what we've got, because we should already possess such knowledge, by this point. After all the nervous laughter, imagine my dismay, when it was discovered, that it was I, who resembled those Dutch figurines. And what would it take, to get round boy, rolling around again? A moped motor, some belts, and/or hoses? They do replace the neon lights, always six months after they burn out, and in a different color, entirely, it's a patchwork act, and making due. You went and played a trick on me! Nothing is going on, at all. I owe you, you don’t owe me.
Missed the trash basket, that should be the name of my book. Or, how to get the wrong kind of attention, without having to try. I've long since forgotten, my own name, two years of making comments about the long, cold, bleak, grey, street. My idea of entertainment, is fingering the lampshade. To do much more than this, is anathema, hours, days, years, ultimately, who cares, myself, included? All my panic attacks, drives for clarity, pools, to float in, until they dry up, and then drop, abdicate, forget what works, for the cozy comforts of nothingness. I mean, when you become a parody of your former self, when ridiculous is a word you once used, as description, in other words, after looking through the yearbook, after the car crash reminiscences. There were supposed to be certain important parts, certain periods, or epochs, that some, would consider interesting, but even if you own half the island, they don't bury you there. Forget it, the last time I pulled those pages out of their hiding places, the only thing I got out of it was a migraine of the loins. I had the wrong (watch the plane’s land) idea, as usual. Half of what was supposed to be added in, wasn’t. Don’t believe it. And sure, the joke of a generation, but at least, it can be a funny joke; a tragic love, but a love, nonetheless. Subsidize those bastards? It will never occur. There are too many people. Sure, silence, but also the screams, this is to say, that all is not bad, all is not yet, lost, despite illusions/allusions to the contrary. What did that say? The little crevices, nooks, and crannies, of a forgotten asshole? There were scribblings on the page, indicating that some sort of math problem, was being worked out, at the time, exactly like Dr. Cohen, and his napkins, but in a different way. Sitting at home in a stupor, irregardless of invitation only, affairs. I will sit in there, and rot, mainly, trying to remember exactly what it is, I said. All the supposedly, important parts, I have edited away, like a true idiot savant, or whatever the hell it's called in France. There is something written there, about vampires, and permanent scars, murder, impossibility, I can't read it, but can make out a few incongruous words. Tie a cunt on, go to the moon, react mildly, feel the shreds of your own ruin. You took my heritage. Written in a loose, possibly nonexistent, narrative; accidental, chance events, are the only events, for him. The ditzy-pitzy, becomes the be all- end all. Sometimes, I can read a face, or gesture, like a book, more often, not. We are not like books, which I find disconcerning. If this were a picture, it would be a few random cells, or slides, of a bargain basement, amateur, porno video. It's probably true, even though I don't have the facts in front of me, that murder is justified, more than half the time. Everything kills us, we're still trying to figure out which does what, quicker than the other. So, we live out of habit, what else is new? As for the five mysterious ones, and if it is, or isn't, worth it, to get something in the mail, I prefer to keep that kind of impetus, dangling in the willow tree. Why someone who was never really looked at, keeps creeping it's way into my hand movements, and shadow studies, is beyond me, except to say, that indeed, I have been indoctrinated well. As far as eyes, and the view, or whatever, the common man, that I am, even though, I used to presume to be otherwise. It's not supposed to make sense, and that will be the final word on the subject. Who's the cat, kid? A few words removed, here, or there, to potentially avoid that much more work, later. The key is to let the vices, voices, keep you rolling in the right direction. To be "not of this planet," to appear in need of a savior, just appear, to be. Now, I wouldn't want people to get the wrong idea, so, perhaps, certain glib comments, can remain in the grab bag, of what I didn't have the courage to ultimately, say. Why I keep trying to pretend, that I was in possession of what were supposedly, good old days, of wine, and roses, when all I left off with, was a hangover, and some scars on my face (I'll never know). It's an act that I put on, like someone who has sipped at the nectar and ambrosia, only to slip back down the pole. But, see, I never sipped, it's a series of facial expressions, and method actor posings. It’s a process, going from frozen, to thawed. Refuse to do as you’re told. See how it just drags on and on, with no end in sight?
The way I avert people's eyes, you'd think I just got out of San Quentin. The way I go out of my way to avoid, getting even close, to the near occasion, of anything substantial... you'd think I had some imaginary straight jacket on, with however many milligrams, of whatever medication, can really turn those impulses off. And as far as this death, that cajoles, beckons, I pay it no heed, whatever. I'm a coward, proud to be so, I don't want the silent, black, forever; is what I'm trying to say. The word will never be written, anywhere near my name, in any police reports, or newspaper obituary. To be dead, however, does not mean to be nonexistent, the way I talk about it, but, in any way, not fully alive. Be as still, as a tree. It's so bipolar, up, and down, these sometimes frettings, and struttings... the whole blitz, at once, and then, collapsing in the corner, is the way things go. There doesn't seem to be anything even the least bit, appealing, available. We work too slowly. I have tried to do something here, in the writing of this book, and I don’t think I’ve accomplished it. I said, I do care! These are all excuses, and vague, at that. You’ll come face to face with it, when you do, look away. Who doesn’t, have a conflict of interest? Just, fold it! Forget the time it takes, what the voice used to sound like, about the audience, the failures, the no starts, or the sputtering halts. There is a reason why some sentences in this book are repeated so often. Go forward, and reach the top, even though everybody knows, there are no such places, or things. As far as the silent signals, no. They are small, non-obligational, decisions, that are usually batted about, in the cranium, for weeks, before anything, actually, takes place. There's the page, or half page, with pink ink, and a pompous scrawl, typical whining, and whirring. Well, it's par for the course, for me to forget what the grand soliloquy is/was, that it was my intention to convey. Piss in the toilet, on the seat, the floor. The smell of urine, on my shoes, the sight of Greek letters, or symbols, or whatever the hell they are, on all the bathroom stalls. Then, other people's comments, probably from some rival group, by the likes of what is written... in effect, some great indication of the caliber, of the higher learning institutions, where these groups, supposedly attend. No one flushes, our off-screen lives, are just a different kind of film. I made it too easy for them… It’s poly-phylum injustice, trying to defeat biology, all the time. Sure, some narcissistic preoccupation, the evidence against X, is still in favor of Y. People say hello to one another. No one would dare ask how the other person was... because, hey, that's personal. Nowadays, a good-bye isn't necessary, just that quick hello, and walk on. Social interaction, whether by choice, or proxy, leaves much to be desired, especially for the could've been’s, such as myself. It is a choice of sorts, to flounder like this, scratch at the surface of the table, endlessly waiting, but I can't see how, why. It was a banner day, and if I weren't so selfish, so one-dimensional, perhaps, I could have seen clear, to pass a few lines of credit, where credit was due. Instead, you know, miserable, because of my own pathetic life, thus, by presence alone, dragging everyone down/in, with me, to the pits of my despair, for as long as they let me, which is no time at all. That is the right answer, nothing else is. I’m afraid to ask for help, I’m afraid to do a lot of things. My enthusiasm about some buildings, revulsion at others, wasting gas, depleting resources, internal, and external, in more ways than one. If it costs ten dollars to get the coat cleaned, then I won't get it cleaned. I only go as far as the index, the booze (smoke us) talk, my own skin, stuck here, stuck there, brutality, second hand smoke, so on, and so forth. Now, I'm my own censor, and I can't remember where, or how, that happened. I bumbled, said I was leaving soon, but have no real intention to leave and no plans, as usual. Slow, sliding into the shit, no idea, so jumping headfirst, into the empty pool. Just for grins, the front door was locked, to dissuade people who would dare to walk through. As for where I was, or where I am, the selfishness continues, the enthusiasm is only worked up, when it's my supposed steps, in any direction, at all. The whole new traditions, that I was to begin, the run through of the life, that would be, could be, seen, as if with a miniature television. And, it's always switched off afterwards, and never turned on again. Lusting, only if I don't know their names. The way that you run, with your arms, is unusual (very). Blow it away… Philosophy is only a mirror. We are in time out, our behaviors on parade.
