Automatic reform pools, writing, right now, my back hurts, they are waiting. It is, or, it is not! Already, the once and for all’s, have passed, see, I poison people, so to speak. Only another footnote, in some future, literary anthology, hee-hoe! Screaming out in a high, fever pitch. We made some ridiculous pact, not to be like the others. Haircuts, and vaginal hemorrhages, we recommend this. Twisted, we don’t go for that, is this knee high, olive, good? Every single line, each, and every, word, in the one, and only, poem, I’ve ever written, has been crossed out. All I ask from you, is to help me regain feeling in my legs. There is not enough money, or room; tumult, and confusion, one, and the same. Waiting rooms, warm pop, cold pizza, and only the loud guy, got the large slice of palliative other. She propositioned me, detective! Suffice to say, that I did form an emotional set (or sets) of responses to your delicious antecedents. Talent? Ahem. Bizarre, or not even, perhaps, well, then, to the next thing, the next chapter, the next lunar phase (the one we never see). What in the tar hell you doin’, whatre’ ya’ doin’? What are you doing? To fall down, has already been done, depressed, so, we wonder why, get more depressed. We say a lot more, generally, than we think we say, a “special invitation,” did I? I think so. Surprised I’m here feelings, could be likewise, interpreted. I had absolutely no idea, of what I was dealing with. We will be more than prepared, for the end of all of this. The moth would appear to want in this room, as much as I want out. Get up early, don’t be an asshole, concentrate! I try too hard, at too few things, that don’t seem to matter, anymore. We beat the odds, but we’ve gotta’ keep beating them, that’s the problem. At least try, to keep that, in mind, upon your recollection, of me. This lacks the pointlessness, of a paper for school. This flopsy world, full of pre-approved credit cards, and past due notices, is just too much for the likes of me. I write, only to substantiate my own existence, there are no exciting reasons. The over burdened, and slightly damaged, netherzone zombies, are sitting on their front porches, relaxing with hot, and/or cold, beverages. As for error, we must stop mauling them! This funny, silly way, and the long, slow, side trips, away from, and back to, it. You are a one take Charlie. All is lost, we are theirs; the consequences of failure, are the types of things we feed on, now. It is the desire to be famous, that ensures you never will be. Bad/good attitude, mean, or kind, dispositions, danger, face the answer. Think enough, and you won’t know anything, why waver, wobble, waffle, and wait? Stop doing it/that! Put it in a bag, to go. Teach us to care, and not to care. Master, teach us to sit still! Resisting your programming, angered by these stimuli? Positive, pessimist, negative, optimist? Three times, laid, three times, jailed, I get the feeling I shouldn’t be writing this? That is, this, is reality as such, poets don’t know. Dispatch the errors, for the sake of dilly roll sandwiches. It is wrong to presume that mistake…the invitation to the party, lies on the floor. Not one, but two, pieces of chicken, got the kids screaming, “Where’s my money?” We need some kind of makeshift careers. Mouthpiece opens, spews, closes, finish this farcical diatribe, of absurdity! You are charged/changed, by/with, fear, the end always charges/changes, considerably, each time we contemplate it. Engender nothing, find undeath, the war is over, and the causalities, are all of the things you wanted to say, but couldn’t, meant to do, but didn’t. Lead us astray, lend us a tray, pistol whip us, get inebriated. They have always been good, in that way, but, see, they have never been adequately, defined. Nor has good, for that matter…if writers, don’t write, they encounter a surge of self-imposed shame. Who the the, are we? At least, our senses work, after all the money’s gone, thinking is extremely cumbersome, and awkward. This is what game? Old fashioned residuals (cry at the remainders, go to Knotty Gardens). Brown underwear, allows us to sulk in our own fanaticism. Effect…that is unless you…the records, that don’t even seem real. Abrasive, bloodless, deluded brains, the metal stick, and color coded weather map, in the toilet. Fool ourselves, fool you, go over there, drive over to the where the amusement is, penises, belong in close proximity, to formaldehyde, burn the…borne of…handle the restraint. Sex on the middle school bus, why all the talk of this? Feel the rope, go to extremes, it ultimately, had nothing to do with knowledge. The reapers work, will get done. We spend most of our free time at funerals, nowadays. Peak out, early?
Pop your cork, impress your friends, go to war, to get peace. Possessed by the workaday (at a time) lives, we’re dying through. Chewing, and consuming, crayons, acting soooo sufficient. Stuck in a haberdashery, and there is an anxiety, that will not allow me to take the time to get my new pants, properly hemmed. Before you begin, decide on something, make a plan, to disassemble the shrieking orange. The body apparatus, is like glue, one stinking hair, never any relief, or end, in sight. It’s time to get on with the editing, now. The grand opening, didn’t appear to excite any of the cheese shop employees. This is abominable, this schedule, these rituals, the repetitive disaffection, leperitus, social isolation, absolute lack of spontaneity. The levers we pull, are extremely awkward. The major breakthrough, that everybody is waiting for, already happened, and they missed it. There is a very definitive ending, to this book, and that is the first word, not that I can recall, what that word was. As we get fatter, become less healthy, and our attractiveness disappears, we enter the prime of our careers, lives. Applause filters through the open doors, to the indifferent world, passing by, outside. Keep right on reacting to imaginary stimuli, if you so choose. She ended up doing soft porn, in Santa Rosa, I think. How can I go all day, without doing anything, while doing, all of this? I have had, and still, have, a need to complicate my own life, and confuse matters, so that I can deny any concrete definition, or, outward label. Cry, softer. It may, or may not, be angst. You can’t blame me (yes, you can). Mourn, moan, be sorry, and sorrowful (why not?). Put a stop to them now, permanently, things have gone too far, for too long. We fear lawsuits. He claimed to only lick the outside, of the used rubber, that he found in the ditch. I am, and am not, any of the things, that I have described myself to be, or believed myself, to be. Example, belief of self, to be quiet, shy, maudlin, when in actuality, the exact opposite, loud, obnoxious, buffoonish. I could go on, and on, and on, but it would suffice to say, that in every area, with each self-described, characteristic, the opposite, not only holds true, but is true, as is the initial assessment. I am both, and/or, neither, and to say that I’ve given up on the search, or exploration, would be just the kind of deception, that I am writing of, to give another example. Dogs smell good, but most people only like the smell of their own dog. Yes, somehow, somewhere, something went wrong with me, but I can’t, for the life of me, figure out what, or when. This is the honeysuckle thing, we’ve been fearing. Juan took a bite of her taco. My main goal, seems to be to continue manipulating this thing around. What we delay in doing, are the very things we must engross ourselves with. Regardless, it isn’t here, what I’m looking for, in regards to life, and living, does not lie in writing down random, and disassociated, thoughts. It’s almost as if the events in the strip joint, were not transpiring, and not in a good way. Rub your face, and forehead, slam your fist into the dashboard, miss the turn, take the next one. I’m embarrassed to be myself, ashamed to be, who I am. Solutions, do not immediately follow, the problems, we attempt to solve. Monday, the box with crosses, swollen metaphors, standing in for punch lines, baselines, cores, and refuse, the things that never go away. He busted out his rhymes, most of them, regarding predictable mind sets, and avoidance. This is a diversion, a distraction, a pastime, stress reliever/causer, an avocation, something to do on the side, on the sly. Plug-plop, go our anti-psychotic medications, fizzle-fizzle, go our personalities. My table! Spontaneous superstars, stand in line, for work, unemployment checks, no work, no…I don’t want to be forty, I cannot become forty years of age, with nothing happening, nothing having had happened. The constant dizziness, is one, of many things, that come across, and remind us, that we are not long for this world. We are replaceable cogs, no matter what mere position in life, it happens to be, that we inhabit. We are nothing, no one cares, no one will, love is the myth of myths, moreso than the god lies, that some of us, still swallow. No matter how beautiful a day it is outside, you don’t have to travel very far, to be reminded or how poor, and deadly, sick, and destitute, we all are/this all is. And this is all there is, we are all that are, it makes no difference, we make no difference. Our lives are merely interludes, where not much takes place. All will be divided, and taken, when we pass away; like vultures, fellow human beings, will swoop down on the estate sales, and take everything we spent our lives accumulating, and they will get it all, cheap. You know that you’re really suffering, when you don’t consciously think you are, when you no longer can, consciously admit that you’re suffering, without blowing your head off. Such times, are usually two, or three years, after, the last time you wanted to blow your head off, and since that “golden moment,” absolutely, positively, nothing, about your condition, and restrictions, have changed. We end up wondering to ourselves, why we didn’t, while we could. Just you wait until the Coroner’s report is released… There was something strange, or, so we thought. Handle your destruction.
Reality, is imposed upon us. The art of living, is an unfinished canvas, be my dietician. The birds provide a similar, though different, sort, of disorienting, stereophonic, soundscape. Dead forever, so it seems, while all the while, sweating in the heat, the perspiration, from the act of cheating, or attempted creation. Authors on creating, organs of no particular length, or breadth, people with sick voices, incontinent sprayings, on a loose orifice. We all choose consciously, to deny that which is most true, unconsciously. The idea was to write a book of everything, it fell short. An overdose, feels like drowning, in air. Block traffic, what do you have to lose? Two dirty plates, imply that, perhaps, we make enough money, after all. Don’t make me maim you. People won’t like this, too well. Devour the sacred, spit it out. We must become something. Feel the burn, of a good fuck. I dismiss, in about equal proportion, to the number of times that I have been dismissed. Buffoons, have the ability to make their own fun, in the playrooms of the mind. The world of art, seems nolo contendre, set against the world of money, and high finance, unless, that is, it is pale, uniform, popular, and that will appeal to the mainstream buyer, and be bought, thereby, contributing to commerce, etc. All there is today, all that is required of us, is to breathe, and to pay. Put your name, and the date, in the upper, right hand corner. For now, we’re trying to get the levels right; later, all will be revealed, in a grand, and wonderful, explosion. This is our final notice, in regards, whatever it is, we’re being given notice of. The bibliography has been grafted, from the dust, pulled out of the vacuum cleaner bag. Strut, fall, look at photographs of turnips, overwhelm yourself, with the imagery. Pick up the book full of metaphors, and throw it down again. Go on impulse, explore the addicts mystique, do, without thinking, clap your hands. Some people do not act cool, are not trying to appear cool, but actually are, often they are the most fiendish, and embroiled, people. Most, well, a lot of shadows, are cast off the contours of a substantial object. The game, is a game of compromises, comparison, contrast. The dead end street, ends with railroad tracks, themselves, dead ended, long ago. It felt so good, that perverted thing we did, but it was wrong. Lets give up on their game, and play our own. Put up some barbed wire. Enjoy your springtime of the mind, during whatever season it occurs in, if indeed, it does occur. Go to Las Vegas, and have blue, with the berries. There is no need to breathe, why take your pulse? To never have a true feeling, or a real emotion, is, for the first time in history, a possibility, in our time. Why does everything that I write, remind me of a dentist’s waiting room? It is always the first step, we aren’t moving, going, getting anywhere. Don’t hover around, like a zodiac. This is still the beginning, the preface to my life. Stop believing in everything, entirely. Remember the worst. There isn’t…well, how to restate the obvious? Most people, haven’t had a real thrill, since they were children. There are those who create their own problems, there are the delusionary types, the paranoid, devoted, extreme, conspiratorial, types, there are many types; but the most common ones, are the ones who are, just there (the millions upon millions, who are just, fucking there). Time is a contingency, that we forget all about, until it’s too late. With a wink, we understand that it is our lot, to see, and understand, but to keep our mouths shut, be quiet, unobtrusive, very still. Raise a glass, for all the profound, earth shaking, ideas, that were seemingly conjured up, out of nowhere, and are quite definitely, (lick my chops) irrevocably, forgotten. Eternity, if decoded, with the universal language of mathematics, means, enslavement. Scream out, with wanton abandon, inappropriately. There is something wrong with my brain, and as strange as it might seem, I can feel it, feel the feelings, that are not feelings. Wake your self up, solvents can cause skin irritation, or inflammation. So screwed up, so, messed up, we’ll soon see what will happen, and will be very unhappy. Very boring people, are vulnerable, just let me spit on my own thumbs. I don’t know why I felt such an overwhelming compulsion, to be a woman, to put my finger in my self. Ignore all bad advice, by never accepting, any advice, live on your own, for yourself. They are wrecking the farms, and countryside, with these unsightly, godawful, rancid, monstrosities (condos, million dollar houses). I want to corrupt, and defile, myself, put up the chairs, and sweep. Things are sometimes, styled too well. No more deli trays, and chairs? Violators, will be (prosecuted) severely punished. Hand over the money. The chemicals, and electricity, inside my brain, are not co-existing peacefully, but, are rather, terminally at odds, with one another. Whatever you see in me, is wrong. I know exactly how much more I can take, and please, believe me, when I tell you, that it isn’t much. Heavier cotton blends are being invented, every single day. Sewing bee, sex, fucking, violence – put that, in your search engine. You don’t understand me, only because I do not want to be understood, by you. I said fax us, they said, fuck you. My bowel movements, look like manatee's’ after the propeller accident. I scratch my own itches, bury my own food, speak about the stolen this, or that, from here, or there. Battered, bruised, and nauseous, we pranced, down Madison Avenue. Was that supposed to improve matters?
