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To not have a grasp of one’s own basic motives, and behavior, to fake breakdowns, and damn the people sitting in the coffee shop, in some delusion of grandeur. To not get depressed, like it's something that happens to you, but to perpetuously subsist, in this half formed, logarithmic construction. I'll sit on the floor, until my foot falls asleep, and then, it's time to move on, apparently. I read, and identify so closely, with whatever situation, or situations, that are presented, that in some twisted, volcanic way, I'm the narrator. I live my life vicariously, through books, and/or, the experiences of other people. The trouble is, I can't fool myself, looking up at the screen, and/or at the pages, and trying in vain, for a spark to be set off, some identification process to begin, or end, let's just say, that I've been left, high, and dry. We want things to be the way they were before. Sure, take a right turn here, but avoid the asphalt trucks, cross county buses, think (my pipe!) endlessly about the false starts, the funky come downs. I look at my socks, no matter how old the shoes are, no matter how supposedly, "broken in…" the black stains, the rips, with the toes coming out, feeling this side of out of sorts, and uncomfortable. Smiling, but falsely, and everybody can always tell. Mumbling, thinking, not doing, not answering direct questions, the cans in the back seat, like atoms in the void. Tilting the rear view mirror down on myself, so I can have someone to talk to. A downer, what used to be called a party pooper, but there are no parties, anymore. All is forgotten, or rather, no longer applies. The whole movie was written, produced, directed, and scored, while merely going out to the store, for a pack of cigarettes. And that's where it all is now, somewhere in the pan, with an off-white liquid. I subconsciously create these conditions, am responsible for them, they're all diametrically opposed, push-pull, stick pin, games, that are created, and apparently, cannot be destroyed. The waltzing corpse, the Tuesday drunkard, looking back down the road, with the side mirrors. Where is the other one pointed? Egomaniacal, and arrogant, as well as humble, and wishy washy, that's who careens into, and out of, the (this can’t be) bathroom, each day. My drive for certainty in the world, has only pointed out my own realization, of how full of shit I was. I presume to explain a great number of things, when the breaking point is reached. Too many things, were so false. Before that, all impetuous… to strangle the co-worker, begin the magnum opus, etc. are quickly categorized, and sublimated. Should we just, let it go? Her teeth, spoke to me. A lie, but let's not even go that far; it's a whiff. Just like it sounds, is what I do, pffft. Despite, or if you will, in spite, of a nonexistent god... the chains dropped off, but the harness remained. There was... well, no, to be honest, nothing has changed. Except the horror of the end, and how one never can tell, but everybody already knows that, anyway. This miserable life, with it's flashes of color, now, and then, which in itself, is only yet another, defense mechanism. I've (gone deep) become very quiet, much like nearly all people do, and I sit alone, here, not bothering anyone, I clear my sinuses, I scratch my appendages, I lie, I sit, I soak. This, despite inclinations to the contrary... you know, to live, and whatnot. Really live, but of course, I've been saying that for five years, and still have nothing to show for it. Living check to check, drink, to drink, even page, to page, when I finally fall out of the ozone, and remember why I've let myself live, as long as I have. Another job will transform me, I ponder, another drunken evening, I surmise. Things get worse. Perhaps, more TV, a movie, a magazine, or paper, all of these baiting me, daring me, to end it all, after the choice has already been made, the rope has already been strung up. And to know better, or to have certain ideas... nothing means nothing, if it's not acted on, at all. To flimflam, and fake it, don’t get me started. I tried the wasted, drunk guy, routine. There is still an itch, a spank, a maybe… but (a spark?), that’s all in the past, and I can’t go back. Anything but this, I said, so, here I go, again. Our wings got clipped, very early on.

Legs stiff, dick limp. Run down the guy who's sitting quietly on the picnic bench. Death to all those who make grade school swing sets unusable, by flinging them around, and around, the pole at the top. My clothes are rotting, or rather, dissolving, off my body. I find it to be quite amusing, myself. Smuggle them in, nonchalantly, do them, for money, even if it doesn't work out, it's worth a try, eh? Empty your pockets, salute, ask (put it in a bubble) for free literature, and storm right back out the door. Exceptional, I said, but I was in one of my own private hazes. In the back, where the pornographic cartoons, used to be. Notes to ourselves about how we wanted to change, reminders about biology laboratories, the plaster of Paris, shrunken heads, at the law library! When you speak, write, and gesture, in a fashion, what else needs to be done? There’s got to be a different way, a new way. The mood control patch, just isn’t working. Cling to nothing, it will go away. When it's obvious, where do we go from there? Be against things. When people are behind the counter, but we can't see them, how to approach? I’ll show you what it’s all about, with this! I’ve been having conversations with Chuck, which have never occurred. I suppose, what bothers me the most, and what always has, really, is that I can't seem to gleen the proper vibe. Copyright 1995, a pamphlet, put out by an anonymous author, to an anonymous audience. The chief of cheese, up all night, in Kenosha. Tear the underwear apart, it doesn't matter if the stains are permanent, or not. Tired, or not, we think we're not going to wake up, and that's a big part of the problem. To blindly chase, not even interested in catching, as pathetic, and convoluted, as it always ends up being. As far as what is accomplished, what is achieved, well, don't you worry (no continuity) about that. The bell would ring, and we'd go gallivanting up those steps made of logs, two at a time, and if you're of a rather kinky persuasion, kindly keep that tidbit, to yourself. Before the magic word was hissed, there were going to be no tumbles, no questionable career moves, no table hopping, speculations on, or about, who you do, or don't, can, or cannot, even see. We are, are we? The weekend seems to have been recollected, from these trickling sources. We don't care, and we thought we did, but didn't, even then. Kids are running up, and down, the street. Hockey is being played, on the Avenue of Stars. I hear you, but you said nothing. Stop sucking each other’s assholes! This whole project, is proving itself to be nothing but a tremendous waste of time. The movie star mentality, is omnipresent, today. Yes, even at the sewage treatment plants, over at the garden wholesalers. Everyone's a "star," now. What street? Or, did I imagine that, as well? That's fine, we know enough to make our own fun, tourists, or none. Open up to a page at random, put your finger on a sentence, word, phrase, now, what exactly was that trying to get across? Does it speak volumes, or dribblings, dime store romance, or construction worker erection? The huge disparity, regarding time, lived, versus an idealized version, we make up in our minds, about the way it should be. Let's go to the store! The days get more, and more, like the fading memories of old shoebox paintings, wood carvings, faded shirts, that got so torn to shreds, that you just couldn't wear them (duck!), anymore. To really not give a fuck, at all, about death, is the only way to enjoy life. Too many things go on beyond the shore, or anywhere near, the ocean. I learned this, very recently. In other words, death must be forgotten. I had formerly believed, that it must be kept foremost in one's mind, and that we should, "live off the shock waves," you know, be shocked into the stratosphere, out of mad, stark, terror. I believed, and still do, up to a point, that death, ultimate annihilation, was the only motivator. It's hard to say, what happened, where the long struggle left off, but, one cannot live, while dead. If your most prominent chords, are all ringing death bells, you, yourself, are already dead. The zombie walks, the skeleton dances, the ghost whisperings, these kinds of behaviors that are commonly engaged in, when one is too wrapped up in the moist grass of the graveyard, the color grey, and nihilism. Funky, touché, all about orange groves, a half a page more. Then, trying to get my point across, when the point was that I didn't have one, I had old styrofoam cups, and kept losing my hats, at parties, and in thickets. Erase, or cross out, recall the hamsters, all huddling together, on one couch. Recall the screams of entry and departure, that weren't often welcome. Fillet your own stool. Why'd you bolt on Grandma, but not Herr Professor? Word gets around. You’d better have a real good memory. With no end in sight? We'd go into what, but it would take too long. There is no money, see, that’s the reason why. This is the stuff, that kills us. She got a haircut, how nice. Our candy mouths, are different colors, can’t you see? You owe me, now, I don’t owe you anything. No more soda…

The car just turned right into me, driving me into the orange bucket thing. There is only one caveat, and it is, to conduct oneself, as if it were truly, the last day of your life. Gummy, gummy bodies, four "5," words? Who are you? I hate the smell of beef, dead cattle, stinking. Is there any hope at all, for any of us? Let me (Adelle could sing jazz scat) let you in on something. This is not enough, go way out! Frotterist, lunatic, pederast, bicurio, former this, and former that? Time for a lift, oh, it's flittering! Just one quick grope, or fondle? Lift up, to be pulled into it. What, ho?! We are the crowd. If we could smatter around a will, of some kind. The whole system is designed to destroy us. If there were (really were) bats in the belfry, stuck on a plate, no worms, just stuck on. And the bit about the "give me my pages back." No, more of a "don't you hurt me," with a wide-eyed expression. No help, none to be had; what else? Nobody cares. At the beginning, and the end, beguiled, dysfunctional, 15-30. Let him talk, he has something to say, for crying out loud. Whatever happened to Frank? Goodness, gracious, keep those opiates out of the reach of my dendrites! I'm in love with my parole officer, or probation, whatever it is. Now, I need freedom, and movement, hillbillies. Those demons, of one kind, or the other, neurons. No more Tuesdays for you, man. Erotic, synaptic clefts, religion is a psychiatric disorder, to be treated. Chasing barroom Sallys, silly finger masturbation, funny résumés, introducing myself as a loon, who needs green. Tell me, please, what is this thing, writer (squirrel killer)? Back to trying to figure this, that, and the other thing, out. Psychotic glances, of delusional rock stars, manic movie stars, trying (all) to look like they are. Questions, lead to still further, questions, no one can get into anyone else's skin, nor should they want (or desire) to. Backasswards, wanting things, too late, when you can't have them, anymore. Blame no one, but ourselves, a little too often, perhaps. I am not pretend. Oh, chubby, I thought it was, cubby. Crumple up the piece of paper, and throw it away. These torrents of abuse, stop them. The book, stinks. Winking like a perv, no one knows why I do such things, least of all, myself, out of control. That guy in the background, is totally stoned. The guy on the floor, no one knows what he is. Hello, ham thighs, remembering, one quick squeeze, and squirt into. Hodag, many hodags, monkey hee-hee, key chain. That look... as if... perused, and discarded, it may, or may not, even concern you. The pink magic marker stains, that I could never get off of my jacket. Sudden nightmares, strategic initiatives, there will be no double homicides, here, tonight, no bodies, slowly, decomposing. I'm very tired, all of the sudden. I feel, very strongly, that certain parties, are aligning against me in order to encumber me, with the modern hairshirt, the chemical strait jacket, i.e. psychotropic drugs. I will fight it to the last, they will never pin me down. He talks about threatening letters, I've sentIn no uncertain terms, I worked for you, quit, now, pay me! This world drove me insane, the community, state, the schools, colleges; all the "let's wait and see," and mediocrity. The fuck you, too, attitudes. The waste, shit, bankruptcy, emptiness, meaninglessness, and pointlessness, of this shitty world. This is not a suicide note, nor a homicide note, it is a declaration of independence! So, you think I'm crazy, do you? You think that these mood swings, and colorful, or off-color, writings, are the product of a diseased mind? You don't like the way I look, act, present myself, talk, mop floors, serve coffee? It feels good, and I like it (sex). I must bring up the maturity level/quotient, whatever.

I, for one, suggest that you keep going. Drunk, from looking cross-eyed too long, in mirrors. Be ready, or else. Puffed out, into my emotional para¬mecium, mode, of self-protection. No more rocking chair, no more hummingbirds, brilliance, being a far off star cluster, of what's been left behind, on a plastic Friday. Vultures in the mood, circling the powerless, the percussionist, the commonfolk, as well. Spin around the music, turning words around, words, around. Only words, no more, or less, apparent, than the hoodwinking exercises, the molecular mish-mash of, "What the hell is that?" He went into the woods, to flail his arms? The supposed myth, of cold fusion, the people keeping their eyes on you, looking through your garbage. I seen her (I loved you, once?) inhale it, that one guy, looked away. This is the pressure, and it isn’t. Listen, hey, no, let's grab some fire exit signs. They will continue to pose, others will applaud them for it. We want so much, to be real. My missing link, is my business. Closer than you think. I’ll be more than willing to prove, all unprovable things, in the next book, provided, the advance is sufficient. I’m too stupid, lazy, and crazy, to know better. St. Something, or the other, just got a highway named after him, an "environmentally friendly," highway. Absolute morons are in charge, is it any wonder? It’s like anti-therapy, to avoid certain, grim realities. Not the other kind, I guess. What pile? Significance, of what? How many credits? There is an indentation on my index finger, perhaps, trying too hard. The experience doesn't really, ever happen, especially not, if your looking for it. What food, wrapped in cellophane? Crooked eyes, being more or less our... the keepers of... six hours, cross that out. Assured of a piss pot, it may not be mine, but I'll always have the use, of a toilet. Graveyard lies, relapse (the contest was rigged) rumors, why the same inane stories, keep repeating themselves, like a Greek chorus, ridiculous. Plastic, huh? No, it's still there, and the concrete one, that spits out rain water, can't be removed. Mediocre is that how you spell, mediocre? Weird! Cover your heads with your hands, and put your head underneath the desk. Generally, get on the floor, and scream bloody murder, until the bombs drop on Charleston, again, or Columbus, Idaho, somewhere. I’m not very proud of this, I guess, I can’t be. Dreams of digging up bodies, or something, even more, disturbing? Getting ahead, is not allowed. Functional, fictional, I don't know what I've done, what I haven't done, this could be covered ground, or, maybe not. Stop ovulating! You don’t know what’s been removed from this. A high gloss, kind of ability, to hide problems, avoid solutions. Dust all over everything, differences, reconciled, some derivative, of formaldehyde, some... hold still, I am not a roach clip! Don't start with... caught... well, shit, for fucks. Never... uh, don't pay any attention to those particular, semen soaked, pajama bottoms. Oh, my, now, where were we? Ceaseless catastrophe, ongoing mayhem, just what we need now, a renaissance of country music. "How could s/he, take advantage of me, like that? Sound familiar? Zoned ruts, and zombie- like (we don’t want what we want, enough) somnambulism, the peanut butter, again. Years of peanut butter, I must know, why?! Go back to that part, crush it! Bury it alive, no, no, crush it! Every time I turn my head, off to the left, in order to crack my neck, off tumbles my cap. Acid free paper, dedicated to self love. In, and out, of style; my thumb, really hurts. Ditching what, where? Strangling who, when? Less, may be best, at this point, not knowing what we've done. Boring revelations, I just drift through them. Snob-nobbish, there is nothing to say, half human, only half. Miserable, self absorption, but only on my side. All anyone has to do is ask? But, there's nothing to say? What's going on here, do I sense, internal contradiction? We have no choice in the matter, the uniforms, are to be worn! Yoo-hoo, yoo-hoo! People want specifics, huh, like yoo-hoo? This is it, this is the one! It just won't do. Closed captioned, for those who don't care anymore. No blandish, kitten, oh. Hold the phone, this is the best that... on second thought, hang up the phone. Process, the whole thing, even the sleeve, getting torn off. There is no such person, but the death-like way, of using; having used, the name... the company of, dead people, the company of here we go, there it went, oops… thank you. We have seventeen electrical outlets, in this room, alone, baby. Don’t ever tell anyone, what I’m doing. The blood in the snow on the driveway, will be there until spring. All we did, after a while, was knit.

Already indoctrinated, roll over L. Ron. Suck it in, get over it, grow up! Did we drop, yesterday? Well, to be honest, I can't use the bit about clocks stopping. There are no exceptions, to certain rules like: physician, heal thyself, and solve your own problems. Man, it's gonna’ get really screwy here, on the flip side, in a minute... They took our brains. Agonizing, over nothing? The time is now, for what should've seriously been done, years ago. The rule is, rules are; straighten up, get it together, hurry up. These are the rules, you may refer back to them, if you so choose. I've had more than enough. The urge, and, yes, that is the correct word. Runway behavior, run away thoughts, more, or less, escape mechanisms, from everyday reality. This, as a whole, is the (hedgerow) best that I can do. What’s underneath the beautiful, green, psychedelic pattern? I forgot what I was going to write, about sexual indifference, except, what difference does it make? Force it to be fantastic, even though, it isn’t. The other part, is upside down, hold on a minute, o.k., it says, looked upon as a slug, of some kind. Well, whatever. No more jobs, no more of my life, my one life, just pissed away. Nobody wants to live a life of regret, for not having, or having done, certain x, y and z, behaviors. Engage, or disengage, but get out of space, duck! Happy fucking morning, it's 6:28 A.M.! Time to change a few of these after hours behaviors, into something, a little more productive. Change, in general, seek it, find it, etc. I do listen, of course, that um... low key rapture, I keep harping about. Alcoholism, addiction, and/or dependency, are pretty heavy problems, to deal with, squiggy! I see, keep seeing, this evil, monster creation, in the hotel mirror, save me, help me! Oh, monsieur! Bounding squirrels, with extra special treats, in the mouths; really, breakfast. That almost, ex-wife, feeling. Total abstinence, now, to conquer the cigarette problem, that seems to afflict certain control groups, more frequently than others... just you cross denial, off your daily list of things to do, and promptly. Why never answered, or is it assumed (I'm not even sure what that refers to)? No dead sisters, no elected spokesperson. Things got crooked, fast. This is not the first time I've forgotten the oath I made, but it's gotta’ be the last, considering the shape I'm in. Withering fame, with every smashed delusion, cock-a-doodle-do! Adulation, adoration, shit, I think it's time to grow up, and accept things, as they are. An invention, for the express use of sliding out of the body of lead, and into some ventricle, somewhere else. Well, the endless philosophical quest, has led me into psychological trouble, again! A search for signs, for textbook footnotes, but as far as advice, leave it down by the old car. A final kind of synthesis, a "the end," to a whole lot of shit, a whole array of demons, that aren't really demons, but, you know what I mean. I feel like a real, kind of fabricated, yo-yo! See, for this, and a million other reasons, I've got to get out of here, and far away, now, as in long ago, kind of, now! It's better to silently revere people, and deify them, from a few states away. Did I already give the bit about the Buddha, and the oooh's, and aaah's, etc? No? Yes? Fuck it! I piss too much. Sure, energy needs a conduit, always has, always will. Yeah, all ten commandments, all twelve, whatevers, followed, partly memorized. An asset, a Saint, a busybody, or a lazy nothing, without a head on, nobody? Much anxiety. Whichever! Some of these pages are WaVy, someone, put a halt to me. Louise Marie, will you marry me? I guess I just don't know what to do, still! The excuse, was what gives a great many choices; the tendency, at the time, was not to make any choice, at all. Well, that's no longer an option. Did I screw up the specific doctrine? Lessons keep revolving, never ending, time, and intentions, that is, until, it is learned. Help me, just this once, this one time, help me, anybody! It's far too late to, you know, cure the suffering... but, if... sorry, forget it. I've dug both hands into knowledge, the right kind, sometimes, the wrong kind, but some kind, always. At first, it’s luck, then, they just ride the wave. Volumes of knowledge, that, to be honest, I can do nothing with. They call it by a different word. It's no use to me, none, at all. Those two years of... now, now. I felt goofy, but, horny. He pulled his headgear, off. All I need is a cheap, three dollar, panacea. Fighting with that asshole, for the money he owes me, crying in the rain? Alcohol, shit me, out of my own ass. Live your life, so as not to be embarrassed by anything, later on. Hover over, or around, the mitt.

To take complete responsibility, for an irresponsible act, would appear to be a rather pronounced, oxymoron, a paradox, but, I do, and the manifold consequences, to come, from that sordid night in question, I will stoically, accept. This problem, and my "problems," in general, are mine, and mine alone. What rankles me the most, causes the most guilt, and sorrow, within me, are the costs to the family. Lost respect, grief, troubles at the job; you did, pfui, I will shift it all around, shake up the scene. The chemicals in my brain, are not giving me the right information. It’s not there. Toby brought out the dread. I will write a book, but it might take longer than I expected. I buried all my victims in the woods, near my house. She fucked up, too often. Must germinate. We read in our sleep, too often. Want to be big, not like this, alone. The low end of the tragedy, made me make up my mind. Stare off into the heat punctured, vacant fields. Success, doesn’t occur. Scrap the past, instantly, but create, and forge, a future, that is bright. Precious, you are, I'm forever in debt, and do not take you for granted. The problem of "live life to the fullest," also, vicious, circles, for wrong things, reasons (existential). The real reason for my stagnation, an explanation, that is long overdue. Free will/deteminism, thought, happy thought. Living in constant terror. That something (death), didn't say all I wanted to, or do all I wanted to. That kind of eternal regret. Fake, verus real, calm/storm/yes, and no, yin/yang, apologizing, over, and over. Sorry, but knowing that, doesn't cut it, after awhile, versus the reality of what keeps happening, what I want. Content with books, and being alone, but horrified, also. Unfinished business, fleeing, avoiding. A life, so far, that is not quite up to snuff. No one to blame, but I, no excuses. Unlived life. Sis, boom, blam, lunatic lurching, I am a duo. Give me (a lot of) money, then, I’ll shut up (this is the only way). Try this, for triage. A floor plan of the Nikito gallery, is lying by my feet, with coffee stains all over it, and it's perfectly analogous, to my own cognitive architecture. If it takes too long, to hurry up, to be reborn. Kicking habits, to re-begin, again. Obsessions, and compulsions, wax, and wane, like the moon, that no one looks at, anymore. Here's half the cure, it'll take six, to eight, weeks, like everything else, in this submerged, lunar module, of civilization, an Atlantis, rising out of the depths of ignorance. Through the back alley, with a wah-wah, cry your ass off. People with hats on, tearing each other's clothes off. Low lease rates, no down payment! If only I could read this, using your head. It's been years, it's almost too late. How many socks I've folded, how many dishes, I washed, waiting, for this. Crammed into the last noodle, like a hiding spot, afraid to be seen, anywhere, drunk in philosophy class… over, and above, what I was pretending to be, what I couldn't be, while, the only thing I could, was already known, and ignored, dismissed, sublimated, submerged. Gurgling insanity, because I had a gift, I couldn't give, some death wish, that will never, be adequately, explained. I'm a fantastic gardener, because I've been digging my own grave for years. No matter how old I am, or was, how deep into the depths, I floundered, and figured my way out of. Left off, looking at mailboxes, front lawns, joy, forty cent, ceramic, flower bowls. Don’t get too famous, to shit. Maybe I want a fancy cover, because what’s inside, isn’t any good. Where to throw our cigarettes, how to fly off, six times, into what we should've, would've and/or, could've, done, long, long, ago. I may commit unspeakable acts, on myself. The tears of being, coagulated, wasted. Caught up in the webs of you, a you, I never even met. I believe in nobody, nothing. Things that I must change, wanting/doing? Frantic, desperate, yearning, to liberate myself, staring up at the "titty pink", jail ceiling. Once, is an accident, the deeper ramifications; why silent, and vague? I want to (no one) apologize/beg forgiveness. Will overcome? Don't know, why? What happened? Fuck up/crisis (again). Love you, dearly, don't know why it's so hard, to express that. Wanting, not doing, reach out. Everything you've done for me, is greatly appreciated. Drinking (please, stop) problem, solution, resolve, help me, if you can. Alcoholism, stats, stuck, peculiarities, eccentricities, virtue of being odd. Failure, no, but not living, when that's my only aim? Breakdown, no, freak occurrence, at wrong time. Make this negative, into a positive, somehow. Want to live here, to be closer to you, but only sub, or unconsciously. There is too much shit to worry about, these will not be clear thinking, eras. All chances, blown. Alienated self, from these motivational concerns, true goals, aims, desires. Localize the longing. Hate, is so captivating. Not everyone, got invited. Intelligence, versus stupidity. The sex and death chants, were supposed to mean something. Remember the dot on the i, in drip. We don’t cut through the neighbors lawn, anymore. Don’t do this. What a waste of space. Test it, taste it (pussy). Do need help, helping myself. Can't believe I'm saying this, again. Mistakes, over, and over, but, new starts. Must jump clear of the clockwork, in regards to this almost, conditioned, downward spiral. Unconscious drives, Dionysian myths, the reading, literature, et. al. Left to my own devices, there have been a few breakdowns, a tumble from grace, it would appear. Who will overcome? To redeem oneself, if only, to make… although, I know, clearly, that it is my problem, and that it's dissolution, will benefit me, more than anyone else. Dreams, so real, of a happy life, an improved (although nothing is wrong, or needs improvement) rapport. This is what it is like, to be in constant, emotional pain! Complete responsibility, accepting the consequences of my actions. Gimme’ that fucking beret! I have started drinking, again (feel me). Must cope. In so many respects, fine, but.... Startle a lunatic! No more, new man, is this a cross-examination? Run afoul of something. Rub it in. Who's the cat, kid? We’ll ignores most everything. Up, and down, the stairs, screaming, "chase me, chase me." Clear out the neuronal, stop-gaps, wipe away the cum, and semen. What's gone, is here, but, I'm still free. Where to slide, for inspiration, a new kind of creation? Left turns? Agony subsists, desists, slams us into the walls, but says "excuse me," afterwards. No matter, no needs, no pencil up my ass, no unnatural impulses. Superheroes, like to keep their hands, on ladies' hips. Straddled, startled, please drive carefully. A spongy, kind of cortex, now, I'm rich, and famous, gotta' switch phones, gotta' sit down, revise these sloppy parts. Screaming, and screaming, nothing that meant everything, listening to arguments, arguments, without the facts being clearly stated; anyway, it's none of my business, I overelaborate, don't know when I'm in denial, until I'm out of it. Don't know when I'm depressed, until the rebound, out, takes over. Send me to the factory, send me to the massage parlor, beat me, unmercifully, rub me, wipe me, no please, or thank you. Why should I let you in, quoting scripture, to suit the situation, rambling on, and on, about what we wish, were true? Coverlets, and eye liner, broken necks, addictions, two years dead, three, on fire. This mess, has been my ruin. Looks like a acts like a, lemming. Dirty fingers, dirty claws, stolen lines, stolen everything. Lined up outside the door on Vine, for one more, just one more. I've dived into this lie, I've lived, I've woken up, too late, but, no matter. Remove these highway barricades, immediately! The neurotics, rock themselves, to near oblivion. I’m still at stage one, after seven, or eight years. Hre is the part about the cucumber.

Things below the levels of consciousness. Some wild maniac, to somber philosopher, extremes. Must, and will, solve my own problems, maladaptive behaviors. Preventing relapse, I am not what I seem, this is only to say, that I am a much better person, more actualized, if you will, than recent events (and non-events), would seem to indicate. I want to smash the bottle. I want to give you hope, no, a guarantee, that I will make something of my life. Self absorbed, not necessarily, an egotist, but, they're hard to differentiate. They appear to others, to be absentminded, or aloof, of another word, I'm thinking, all the time. Not doing anything. The changes, and they must endure. Must empower self, stop the underlying causes, from causing these self destructive, events. Can't afford to be, anymore. Problems (stop drinking), interpersonal relations, career? Some disappointment? Was, on fire, now, all wet. Escaping unpleasantness. True, negative, self image, low self esteem, feelings of inadequacy, low tolerance for stress, some isolations, some depression. Must crawl out, of turtle shell, protection, working on impulse control, breaking mental, and other, habits. Foolishness, lack of responsibility, daring to get fired. Would like nothing better, to work forty hours a week, or more, making cake? Not at all fulfilled, in any way, with any job, I've ever had, nor do I believe, that in the future, things will improve, substantially. Our thrills, are so short lived, sex is death. Those dances were so wrong. Make them pay for what they did to you. Did like people, did do lots of things, differently, but, something happened, along the way. We get shocked out of our pants, and regret it, only afterwards. Laugh at me. Join the vanguard of silence. It’s been a great, many years. Not a specific, shameful, thing, but a series of things, that weren't shameful, at all, but very crucial, developmental changes. Choices (bad, and good), control my indulgent personality, my now, or never, all, or nothing, ways. Let’s work harder than them. We must. Indignities, unwholesomeness, to survive the crisis, weather the storm, ride it out, circumnavigate it, in some way. Must stop driving by the high school (note, to self). We’ll crochet, as a trick, to get out of the cage. Splitting off, in exorcismic spasms, rolling on the floor, to disrupt the disequilibrium, of the pineal gland. Staring at it, staring at it, perhaps, trying to make it look like, you’re not. Fuck who you want to, even though, it's meaningless. To put pills in my system, to combat "disease," to be seen, to seem as if, a patient. Waiting for the proofs to come back, rejection slips, waiting for Tuesday. Now, or never, is when life happens, and I choose the latter option. You think I'm insane, slow, speed freak? Hah, adapt, or be drowned. There is far too much, within me, I can't hide it, anymore. One page, two pages, this is not work, it's an act of redemption. Admit that what you observed, even the delusional aspects, regarding my interpretation, fact, and/or fictions? To sit still, and be nothing, while calmly accepting everything, every conscious, or unconscious, wish, dream, infatuation, every letter, not mailed, every acorn, never planted, you call it insanity, I call it, the sign of the cross! It is spelled out in block letters, and it was true, at one time, but no more, never again. Art, is Theresa taking a piss, in the coffee shop, ladies room. Music is the heat, coming through the air duct, and blowing an empty cup around, in some rhythmic, confabulation. Life, is the ecstasy, of a half off sale. Life is an advertisement stating, “lose weight, today.” Things are shitty, then, turn good, again, it's the flipside, the see-saw, the yo-yo, and ping pong, of being alive. There are challenges, and radios, girls, showing, or not showing, directing, or not directing. It's all in our interpretation, one of what, six facts, that make up the depth, and breath, of any psychology? Point of view, and reference, found. Hor lu, hor lu. I was a bit of a screw up, then, I am fixated there, now, at about fifteen. Once it’s learned, remember it. David (coffee)? This is already, way too long.

Well, you should see what I'm writing now, it's a kind of manifesto. Yeah, it's a human egg-laying ritual, a b-side of the illiteratti, a worm test, a compost heap. I don't think I'll make it to the dark side, with y'all, but... keep me in mind, before you flick off that light, for the last time. Wink, wink! Blink/ping-pop! Write your name on the upper right hand corner, name, and homeroom, are sufficient. Shatter the illusion of you. We deserve the pain and sorrow we’ve received. Go stand out in the hall! My decision making potential, has been desensitized. This ain’t shuffle board. You were the kid on the skateboard? This curse on me, is a strong one. Try to be better than they are. You must pay me! Don't you dare cheat me out of my take, on the candy jar thing, lady. Some of my deaths, have been tougher to handle, than others. I work so hard, for no rewards, none, whatsoever. Let's all just... fixate on fucking, for a while, anyway. I should have (much hurting) fucked her on the tarmac, back in 1987, with the planes taking off, and landing. Blow horns, throw confetti; oh, no, I've been tricked into this! What's step one, Blanche? Say, I have your former addresses, on Hilbert, and Concord, but no idea where you're at, nowadays. Ding, ding, partial, relative, happiness. This shit, is far too general, to be specific, about anything. It's a test of one's patience, I know. But what, from here, the fast food, woo-hoo? I have to go to the toilet. Who wanted to try to bake brain, attack a mime (or tell him where to go), shut up you cock hole, or whatever was said? We lost complete track of the rules, and regulations, after a while. Scaling the walls, that were once, my protection. Built up, to perform a function, or sets of functions, no, nobody's really laughing about it. I feel ruined, wrecked, destroyed, blind, deaf, dumb, unconscious. How in the hell, could this, be? Shove it, just, shove it! Cut, much deeper. The best part of sex, is the rubbing. Three and a half years! The 1930's wardrobe, bought third, or fourth, hand, the hope for, hopes for, something better. Crawl to salvation, like a leper, to his arm. Chris, pick me up. We need sustenance! Some kind of second start? After all these fears, there will probably be, more. Give it a blow. Eat the fake cheese, from the damn tube. Then, it happened, sort of. I've messed things up, I've really fouled things up. Well, there's the broken ashtray, there's the college catalog, false starts, subtle finishes, then, the regret, but that, comes later. Now, there are too many delusions, to cast off, like demons, get rid of. It’s not going to, it’s going to, happen. So much work to do. Tin ferns, the stars, of course, the whole room, ultimately, the continent, a vow of silence, a defection, defecation, a dysfunctional set, or sets, of situations. The minotaur in the maze, seems to be gouging me, measuring these wrong turns, these traps, secret doors. Oh, the shambling mound, I'd almost forgotten. Will you guarantee, these used tires? Further education, would only download me, and shuttle me further, into their ready made, and non-creative, occupations. Poor, little, baby chicken's, doing the only thing they know how to do, when isolated from their group, at large. Postage stamps, pumpkins (i.e. jack-o-lanterns), chocolate rabbits, other let downs. I had no way of knowing, how phony I was acting, had no way to tell that... well, when you dream about reading, you read too much. A happy, little, niche, of our own, that we all have to find. Our own little version, of psychotropic medication. Bland, blind, uncharted regions, that we sent our best men to work on, six years ago. The results are still nil, and barren, and nothing. Such a nice, swell fella'. Antisocial, I mean, psychopathic, anti-social, but, nice, kind. He won't hurt, or bother, anybody, just ignore him, and he'll go away eventually, stop badgering us for attention, silently screaming, for attention, of some kind. Split, and slightly cushioned, um... partitioned, but not really crazy. What I mean by this, is, how many reminders do I need? What should prove to be so obvious? I should read, drink, forget all that I'd read, start over again, tape some chit chat, or some shitty songs, flounder, fiddle, tumble. Right in the middle of the hectic situation, all these fears, allayed, sublimated, thrown against the wall, observed. For thirty six hours, the fire burns. I’m starting to believe that I made the wrong life decision. You’ll never be safe.

The last five years, the same. New midnight gig, new dishwashing job? Gloria, they award degrees on Friday. Seven year plans, loves own buzzsaw, and chugga, chugga. We don't bother much about anxiety, around here, just let it build up, and explode, on its own. Just like one of those Freudian, hydraulic models. Boy, I used to think I was smart; why move, I used to think. Why get up, and go through all the same, worn out, motions, and behaviors? Better to sleep, I thought, still do, actually. Interrupted, standing there, quiet. Mixed up, who's talking, what tense it's supposed to be in... everyone's talking, it's blurted out, in all “senses," at once. Present, past, and future, blend together now, one day, one hour, one minute, at a time. White, and black, television mice, with the E-wave, zero gravity, background noise/stereophonic, music. No regards for anyone, or anything, at all? Suddenly, up-turned, or down-trodden, for no explicable reason. I’m going to squeeze your hinder. This house is as volatile, as playing with matches, and gasoline. In and out, of in, and out, revolving, dine, dive, die, die. Not within this holy regularity, at cross purposes, driven. Service with a smile, bite, nibble, swallow? Refuted, finally, crossed out, forgotten, forgiven. I was a mediocre student, who might prove to be amusing, from time, to time. Beat it, flappy. This imbecilic, certainty! All scuffed up, blue bags, are pretty much the same. To just ask, inquire, see if what's up, is truly so. Oh, well, it's gonna’ be a surprise, oh, yeah, some of these are gonna’ be a big surprise. The idea of (1957) transcription, crying at the accumulated losses, laughing at the same losses, slight gains. Gravity, honeybun, gravity, and these laws of entropy, these dead end streets, that were quite clearly, marked. We’ve had more than our share of excitement. This shall be published, or else. Help yourself, there’s nobody else, to do so. Some of us, are quite angry, at the way things are. If everything were the exact opposite of how they are, things would be, the way they should be. The axles continue to be tested, ceaselessly. The economic system, is designed to… Cliche' this bus around! She said she needed some help drafting the preface. If you really think I should, then, I will, repeat myself. To admit our commonness, and to not need a guru, to do so, is the third step towards quasi-enlightenment. The crying lags, jags, and Christ masks, plastic. False charm, fake wit, phony, and pathetic, attempts, to grab, and grope, and some sort of positive reinforcer. There is something wrong with me, it is all consuming, very frightening. Shaken, then thrown at the... cannot choose, cannot love. The doubt, may be the worst part. Manipulate me. We’re all dead weight, in the vacuum of this. The "digital" speaker, that isn't really. Let it all influence you. Be immune to the emotions. It's too early to tell, right now, in life, versus imminent death? The characteristic movements, with the legs, a kind of openness, and availability. Checked, pretending not to be what we are, pretending not to notice what's going on, at all. I believe these behaviors, are learned, sir. I don't know what else to say to you, frankly. Rub your whiskers, wipe your nose, scratch your face, ass, and other parts, scratch the back of your head, retch, kick! What research is showing, is that a heck of a lot more research, needs to be done. More severe than hee-haw's, dollars, problems. A gestalt shift, into the stick fort, into the convenience store, into that thing about being dealt a pretty good hand- but never playing it, not even bluffing. A nicotine kind of need, a "we used to be apes," kind of rationalization. Toptip, Lantern, that other place, that changed management, or ownership, or, whatever it was. What to say? This! Which ship is the "real," Theseus? Which student shifted in his seat, enough times, to qualify for hemorrhoids, senatorial glib freezes, lies? To have these ideas of inadequacy, that don't go away, just like the piano playing, Pontiac Indians, by the fire. I have no charisma. Was it indeed, some peculiar kind of yoga? We’re graceful at the podium. It’s too much.