We know so little of each other, I don’t mean to confuse matters, it happens, despite me, it always has. The brain has this black box inside it, causing people, to never quite get that key, inside. Scream it, our hands are turning pink, I didn’t want to say hello, then, I did, I was jealous, in a stereotypical way. I told twenty people, but that hid the fact, more than it revealed, anything. We fucked, it didn’t feel like. Veer the car all over the goddamn road, even though there’s no god, to damn. All right, over milk, I may have said a few things. Kissing, until lips are sore, things are supposed to progress, from there. They didn’t, don’t, most times. I suppose, I could, write all kinds of vile, filth, I suppose I could, play in the sandbox, for old times sake. See, to the Shakers, where you work, is of the utmost import, I saw their chariot room, I know what I’m talking about. Could’ve there, even underneath that fake rocketship. Ride the tricycle down that big hill, and crash into the cyclone fence, and chip your tooth, glue it back in, yourself. There was this insanity in the air, more than people, just standing around. Oh, nasty! Cross the bridge! Ejaculation, orgasm, if you prefer that term, it changes people, their whole state of mind, improves, there’s a quick medicine-like burst, of some kind of reptilian state, of fighting, fleeing, only for an instant, but that’s all that’s required. The car troubles, brakes, these things happen, will continue to. Then, death, but, so what, see, we cannot let this halt our forward momentum, for even one moment. Books all over, books called, The body with a head, and, In the realm of sanity. No words inside, are necessary, just these titles, these orange covers, blue, and orange. To amuse ourselves, is always the best way, to deal with not being able to handle this, or that, right now. Evil, snooze button. Pay extra, for the e-z close bag, then, tear it open, at the top. Implement a plan, to take over the oil change shop. I’ve got to make this, more resonant. A best seller, or nothing, I cried to my reflection off the water, in the ditch! I want it all, but, in my own, strange, way. Sweat forms, in the folds of my blubber. The secret streetlights, shine on us. It takes an awful lot of words, and pages, to accomplish, very little. These twisted marriages, of convenience. Nothing is ever really, going on. Try acting like a chained up, maniac. Things are not quite as “marvy, or terrif,” as they seem. Try to sleep, a lot more. Blow your clarinet. The same as patrons, of the twenty four hour a day, grocery store. Stapled feathers, ruffled, strained, pulling out seeds, on a new venture’s sidewalk. The momentum of being in one place, the beginnings are half assed, no endings. I can give it to you both ways, or down the middle. The garage was a kind of a lunacy. Pulling nose hairs out, again, in the car, as good a place to do so, as any. Brilliant, genius, Warren G. Harding? Total, and absolute, mental collapse, happened to me, many years ago. Something has gone really wrong. The first one of those half fish, half reptiles, to make it onto land? Well, I don’t brush my teeth, blowing into the methadone machine. He’d go back for the forgotten hat, but he doesn’t know where it was that he last left it. Gravity peels, momentum, that is, is in no way, monumental, or Herculean; doesn’t roll like Sisyphus, or hold, like Atlas. How could I have forgotten the drained eggs, that we picked up, and stared at, with looks of arrogance, ignorance, and consternation? It’s easy, it peels, she’s something else. These antidepressants, they don’t reveal things, to me. I am so damn, fake. Thousandsof paintings, that “rock and rolls,” seem to like. The dog follows me around, I stop, look at the dog, he looks at me. See, I dragged the dead raccoon home, a long, time ago. I still keep the damn lanterns, lit all night long, don’t care about most things. But I should know better by now, what I like, and dislike, approve of, and disapprove of, put up with, and shouldn’t put up with. Dilute it, narrow it down, fly into the aperture. All eyes are on the coat rack, as we push it back, and forth, across the room. He goes to kiss his crepes, and they recoil, in disgust. Pull out your handkerchief, and wave it around, this signifies, approval. A body of bent steel, hardwood, rotten sausages, that look like a drunken erection. This is for the bigheads, turn to the page. I’d just have fondled you, driven around, wasting precious hours; went to the place, and sat there, looking at a plate, with snails on it. The can, looks like my new idea, for an electric ring buoy. Cradles stacked over there, say, we’re on a budget. Turn the page, look, drown, caress, ask for it, at truck stops. My breathing is getting panicked, funny, hardcore, and tender. Oh, I’ll show off, by skydiving off the front end, of the hillbilly car. Oh, grant me some gelatin, give me back my cheap plastic toys, that floated away, in helium balloons. All we sell here, are baskets, and cards. Renew interest, in saving the tarnished doorknob. The fence post, played a trick on me. No free samples. It always makes so much more sense, in my head, before being written down. It’s easier than we think. Becoming a new race, entirely?
Cramming things, where they have no logical place, being crammed. The bagel with two bites out of it and dunked, rubbed, in butter. Smell washes off, but to take that kind of time, who do I look like? Shit, that falls out of the realm of my concern, I’m trying to be, other people, not look like them, or act like them, I have these theories. All to pass, but the clearest focus, falls into… I have nothing to say, I’m chattering, endlessly. Surprise plates, goals, plans, associations, off of associations, mumbling to myself, repeating myself, incessant questioning. Keep an eye at constant attention, observe, let one eye drift, and wander, undress strangers, etc. I’d almost forgotten, hard, puttering cheek. Wipe the thing off, dust, clap, hurtling onward, and trying to expel some kind of reflex action, so, fuddley-hey! You, and your grab bag peanuts, I love you. All of the sudden, the undying, stark raving mad, I’ll have none of it, alright, then, it’s an epic. He will dance again, should I stand here, and wait, ring the bell, sit on the couch? They are talking at length, about capitalism. Oh, don’t let him come in here with a gun. You can see that I’m smiling. Head lolling, from side to side, I could do something here, now…break violently into your conversation. I’m going to punch you, and you’re going to feel that punch. The belly folds over, and in, maniacal laughter, I am not a very attractive, human being. We aim to prevent tragedies, not cause them. The geese were somehow, saluting the dead. The entanglements of our selves, and plans. My head is like a small, misshapen, foot, my face, is smooshed. Come here, I have a right to a hearing! See, I have no idea what’s happening, but I cheer along with the crowd, anyway, well, many such faults, but I can show you some tree trunks, some ice cream counters. I’m feeling like a rubber toy, you’d whirl around. Those letters, what was in them? No more of this, puff-puff! My album, of nature sounds, didn’t sell very well. She will not sustain, any such injuries. Can you reach the tuner, from where you are? The beer belly, is a recent addition to my joyful, radiant, life. The extremism, is the consequence of my desperation, which stems from a lust for life, born from nihilism’s low/high, stress quotients, addictions. The path, there isn’t any. The search, is no stretch. Some fun, titty pleasures, old songs, wow’s, oopsy, and so on. Check on it, now. I want to write songs about songs, after all. Is it a film? No, it’s a series of flickering images, of erect penises, and parted, moist, vaginas. Why do they show so much skin? I’ll show you, by hitting. Dropping the juices of ham, the drippings leak out of the plastic bag, all across the floor. The trail of ham juice, like some ritualistic, Indian, blood path, but, ham. The pen is in fairly good shape, I’m not giving off any propane emissions. We were dazed by the going out of business sales, that were going on. Those little, wooden, modeling things, you know, that you pose, they always looked like dildos, to me. Fresh, clean girls, unused girls with innocence intact, then, later…well, yeah, the joy of things, lies in the doing, but you can’t prolong these things, endlessly. It gets done, gets re-worked, becomes a burden, but there’s nowhere to unload the it, without appearing weak, nevermind, that we’re all sissies, underneath, and not very far, under. “Astonish me,” they’d whine, looking the part, but not much else. Tune in the end, blow holes in the side of the incinerators, shit in the middle of the busy intersection, anything, but. Scratch your fig dish. There might still be a way. We continue to try. The cross is bared, the hole is always empty, the top end, higher, is never realized, it just keeps going, going the way it has. This is life, and it’s a real good thing, running from it, tying one on, as they say, is not good. To try to reconstruct this building, this bridge, but there’s no way, forget it. Revered, facets of, the guy in the car behind me, is doing cocaine, off of some ladies breasts, while driving, these roads are unsafe. Now, as for my stumble, this shifty pose, a way to blame others. The hair will grow back. There is plenty of time, to work on these… there isn’t any fucking time! I need a head sling, real, or fake. Not a word, can I recall, from the classics of twentieth century, psychoanalytical thought. As for, “I come so fast, and hard, this way,” well, these things seem to have a clear place. Now, the “other, other” in my head, the one that’s wanting more alcohol, once the palate is just the slight bit wetted, torn out, revealed, like anguish. Stoically, we receive the shaft. Do we even have a choice? The neighborhood, is just an idea.
Involvement is something, you see? We are sorry, and deprived, but we’ve got our lustful crush. No such thing as lost hours, weeks, years, etc? Once the thread is cut, on the picnic basket past, things can truly begin, in earnest. Who was it I was trying to explain the twin cam, dualistic nature, of intrapersonal psychic space, to? That, and series, after series, of stringy, neuronal associations, between this mood modality, and that idiosyncratic, tunnel thing? It goes without saying, that there can’t be any people around, for any art, to be created. Most are in the game, to finally be accepted as, “cool,” by the pretty people, who sit in bars, and talk about some esoteric, subject areas, or themes, in the realm of film, or music. Well, as far as I’m concerned, and in a different way than how I used to think this, other people, do not exist. And I’m not one, anyway, more of a spewer. Now, primary observation, is in some cases, impossible, but for the few, small, ways, in which direct, natural, instrumental, learning, can take place, there is no pretending to look interested, as things are presented, from the bottom of the list…I remember someone telling me, that someone, or the other, had died, was dead; and my reply, that, “who isn’t?” The timetable, the way things get done, the schedule, if I dare call it that, is creeping forward. Well, sure, the goal is to “get it in their heads,” but also, and more importantly, to get it to move it around, and rearrange priorities, for lack of a better word, while it’s in there. A dictaphone, or megaphone, can symbolically, represent the case, that these things are being broadcast, but more subtle methods, would probably prove, in the long run, to be more effective. The agenda is an impossible one, but one in which we must endeavor to, attempt to, accomplish. White males are inefficient, ineffective, foul, disturbed… I will not go, I am finally beginning to understand these mood units, these cognitive traps, tin cans, and structures. It doesn’t feel so empty, anymore. There is the hot cider/fall moment, to look forward to. This thing is moving, happening, I will allow no diversions, to set me off course. I saw the kid alive, and I saw his dead body, in a coffin, with everything slicked back, glued down, and/or sewn shut, and it’s inspiring, in a way that only six, or seven, things in the world, can be deemed to be so. That place, the business with the arms, and the frantic, stifled, flailing, well, it’s a release, an expression outward, of what’s inside, but what it is, at bottom, is that there is no bottom, and it is, what it is/was. More staples, at all cost! You’re so Warren, that I’m getting an erection, an almost immediate erection, that screams to impregnate, even though, no actual screaming, or noise of any kind, takes place. The windshield wipers, swipe rainbows, on, and off, quickly. Arrghgetoffamyface. Let them cornhole you, with only their hand. Magnetic, relaxant, products, are what ease our pain, with no nasty side effects. From alternate plan, to alternate plan, we flit, and flip/flop, wonder, worry, we do not go to church. When smiley faces look that smeared, when you’ve run out of ideas, freaks feel pain in sharper registers? Consecutive microphones, demolished, they know too little, too much, too late. You’re not fit to govern, you’re oblique, you’re low physics. All show, no go, can’t paint pretty pictures. Another perfect day, spent sleeping, another paternity suit, gone awry, another seven hundred, or so, dollars, spent, before it was earned. There simply isn’t anything left, well, there are ballerinas. Wind up the music box, and listen to the textbook definition, of hearts content, and content, but that’s another story. Very small things, survive, us being the occluded, melancholy, sensitive, and nostalgic people, that we are. Amazing, for someone to have timed their steps so perfectly, to make it to the bus stop, right on time. Everywhere I look, stars, cars, parking lots, buildings. The minimalist contingent, got complicated. There is some anger, directed at the government. Lead, into the ditch, we await thee.
How useless we all are, engaged in tasks that have no purpose, other than being, the image of a purpose, of some kind. Well, I found my hat. A whole new world, is in order, and overdue, at that. There is nothing at all, to look forward to, that we won’t wonder why we ever looked forward to it, once it has passed. Stifle, no, gag, all priests: we needn’t be associated with God, Church, or Istanbul, you understand. Just get on a random train, pull out your pre-typed resignation notice, and look at it, again, and again. These interminable ages, we wait, for nothing. The money is never enough, in more than one way. The thrills are all short lived, and (gruesome) inconsequential, the path is already laid out, and we are all just following it. There is no breaking out, getting free, from these kinds of traps. Even the gangplank, is better than this, because being the exact same phenomenon, at least we know, from the first near instance, what the result of our behavior, will be. No such thing as magic, of any sort, or kind. Blow into her strawberry flavored, hide and go seek, spot. Sonic fuel, may drain us, rather than fill us up, in any way. All of this stuff I’m writing, have written, will write, is one tick over the tock. People, with their words, take our time, and time is the commodity, that we can’t afford to let be taken. Don’t put too fine a point on it. My last screw, was not… I am one of Dr. Swahilie’s, burn out cases. Page numbers that no longer apply, haunt me. Don’t even try to be happy, anymore. Vampires exist, but not in the form in which popular culture, would like us to imagine them, as being. Kick down the house of candy, throw stones in whatever kind of a house, you wish to. There isn’t anything better to do, than to collect these little, green, strings? Go out, and do something, because there’s nothing to do. The experiences, with the foreknowledge, that nothing at all is being gathered. It is as if I lived inside a gelatin mold, that’s as close as I can come, to explaining my life. The only reason a lot of us haven’t already, is because we, quite frankly, cannot get up the nerve. It’s a spiritual kind of impotence, and I use spiritual, in the broadest sense of the term. Our problems can’t ever be solved, and won’t be, why should they? It’s a work of great merit, entitled, watching the sift. Our tastes are as bland, as can be, we special order l.p. record albums, like dangerous sieves, by dangerous sieves. The more mistakes we make, the smarter we become; the weaker we get, the stronger we are; the more isolated, and alone, we are, so, also, the most protected, and nurtured. In Limbo’s, like Eliots wastelands, we dig for treasures, amidst tons, and tons, of refuse, and, surprisingly, we find them, quite often, but not often enough. Money, the worthlessly, most valuable, entity, that there is. The “anti” attitude is, scratch that, never was, a viable alternative. Revolt, at least internally, against external conditions, and constrictions, would have been a much more effective, guise. I hide, I kept hidden, I try not to be a burden, I tried not to create any kind of disturbance. My math, is a name brand, sponge. What starts off fresh, is soon to be spoiled. Total, and absolute, death, within the confines, of one living, (sort of) life. There is no reason, for my having done, what I have done. We, oh, sorry, I, am in dire need, of help. It’s what’s bothering you, revealed to the world. And if we don’t belong in our own homes, where can we ever belong? Can one person, be so cut adrift, that…tomorrow is too late, to commit. When drunk, some people become engaging, some, become belligerent. How does one live? My hands shake, as well. Where’s that foot powder, where’s the deodorant? Miserable, forlorn, people, are often the most able, to make other people happy. Sloppy in-house investigations, they enjoy the fact, that you take everything out of context, without even knowing my name. Well, it seems a few amendments in the policy, have been made. Say no, to college. Phosphorous, phosphorous, sinners, now. The more we try to escape our pain, the more we have to endure. I hear people talking nonsense, and feel content to stay quiet, and unassuming, in the back of the theater. Why didn’t we just fuck, bitch? You can all rest easy, there are many people who will, for the sole reason being, so that you won’t have to. The car windows act as frames. Was it really all that inspiring?
