There is a certain uselessness, associated with a great, many things, that, however true, must be ignored, in order for anything to ever happen. We want saffron, even though we don’t know what it is. We’re ex-scouts, we don’t camp anymore. Well, I’ll never see her again…laurel resting, is inconceivable, anyhow. What does, gets gone. Dignified, pear asses, look out over glory alley, and wonder why it’s a proper name, with lower case letters. The American canon, is the American cannon. Try to guess our favorite words, not including German ones. Let the political juggernauts, juggle, in their heads. The poppy, frame, the breathing supplement, what they sing is such a mystery…this scar will heal, to apologize, rationalize, read the advertisements, and signs. Latch on, check the couplings, hit the dashboard, incorporate, consume, become. My skull, is someone else’s. Precious, and sweet/cradle, and casket. The bottom of my shoe, looks like 1963. Curve your hands and deal with it, curve your hands! Every second counts, while screaming on a jungle gym, in a stranger’s back yard. Don’t think about the wheelchair, not now. I caught them smoking dope, out of a tin foil pipe. Some people are too creative, to not have an assortment of paintbrushes, close at hand. I had to write this in such a way, one which would make people want to buy, and read, it. It resembles what it resembles. Work hard, and good luck to you. The social structure of the world, is so playground-esque…we want to do ourselves, gently. We’re just not all that relevant, we, as a species, like to think we’re different from our neighbors. Big hat people, sit in front of others. Let us merely bounce through other people’s secrets. We’re troubled, in need of help, there is no one to help us. Look how easy it is, to manipulate a light switch, with your fingers/don’t. You can only tell board results, by tallying up the results, of the chit-chat. They thought, all the while, that they were themselves, the audacity. Are you being followed, can you make yourself, think, that you are? Ideas you might have had, on LSD (these metals are heavily alloyed). Juxtapose your ambitions, and fears. There’s nothing like broasted halibut. Let’s talk about interpersonal, and intrapersonal, collapse. Our very heads, themselves, resemble cauliflowers. Tie off the bung, and begin the process of rodding the weasand, with care. Time is an episodic concern. The slimy tentacles, of the world, are apt to pull you under, in. Every day, we begin, and end, our own solemn, witch hunt’s, for ourselves. Foresee what you’ve relied on, or, don’t! I’m in the crematorium, waiting. Oh, what to say, write, do? There are obstacles, and barriers, we actually engage in the process of minimization, as we blow minor problems out, of proportion. Forget the precipitating events, forget the events, themselves. We need a coherent guide, an easy to use, synthesis, of all of this. Stick yourself into a corner, become the wall, become a painting on the wall, an unfinished painting, an unfinished painting of a broken toy. When wolves are on the run, they usually have erections, it’s the freedom, that excites them, not all the bitches around. The wall calendar, full of new wave, cha-cha, that I’ll never know about. We are chock full, of issues, accounted for, and recounted. Log rolling, shoe tricking, diving slowly, healthy, in. This is definitely, wretched. Get total, go be the river, swiss cheese effect, lots of commentary, lots of cheese. “Give up on Anaheim,” carved in a tree. Life, is just full of fucked-up, shit! I don’t know what to make of it, either. Too much low-blown, so high, condescending glances, being, poor, little, rich boys, with too much to swallow/wallow in, who knows? They know that they’re wanted (the few who are). Then there’s the anticipation of falling off the stretcher, arms flailing, hearing voices, hot water, bowling bags. You can tell who’s sexually active, by the smell of their breath. The only existent version, of a live one, another one. The heavy drive, the long haul, open milleniums, crossed out names, and numbers, in an old phone book. Queer causes, unimportant dawdlings, I am not an asshole, there is nothing going on. The interesting issue, to me, is why do, what we do, and what excuse, or set of excuses, does that provide us with?! Oh, then, that would explain so much, hmm, oooh (this is the shit!), ahh, fucking bullshit! Unjustified, untrue, unwanted, unable, let’s go back to the books. Hold onto the gothic escape rails, exhaust, execute, excrete, exhume….move along. How do you say, who cares, kindheartedly? Astoundingly gorgeous; out of your league. Positive/miserable, negative/realistic. Slides could be used, for just such a purpose, to minimize the glare, off the green blackboard. The mask and helmet return, slowly.
These words, are the ramblings of an unmedicated, schizophrenic. The lack of any sort of rewarding…It would, and wouldn’t have, had I called on you. What’s wrong with me, is what’s wrong with you, only soapbox, amplified, 16-18 million? We want to be wannabe’s, UPC coded, given at least, a six second, head start. Porridge, cupboards, twice-told, nearly eclipsed, they, must have been in contact, with them. Oh, shudder to think, wah, wah, and woo-hoo, have been done away with. That last part, the bit about the oneness of thinking, and feeling, being clouded, deluded, occluded, masturbatory? Not all cops are that way, but quite a few, are! Tear flowers up from the roots, perennials. Do not believe what everybody else does. We went wrong, not it, not them, or, did we? Deal with colitis, on your own. Things are missing from this, that have destroyed it’s final outcome. Life is so full of pain, so unfair, just, not right. The one guy’s partridge, had left, before the others, could even begin preparations. A guarantee from me, contains provisions, terms, in short, asterisks. Call me sir, call me Governor, call me St. Christopher, call me now, fuck me, now. Do a pinwheel, or whatever those things are called, it is now time, to go to the State Fair, summer is over. All these boring, formed, feelings, living is work, rest, is not allowed. Want your own piece of everything, lay a claim down, it’s yours, free of charge. I fondled her, over there. Forget/what?/forgotten. Signs, are for safety, and they’ve all been memorized. We will wait, until the next stiff wind, blows, the next evolutionary, step-up. It’s not “in me,” that matters, it’s, getting it out. Sleepless nights, cranked out, fire starting to deploy, surround sound tactics, sweating needles, eating, spreading awful, false, rumors, painting faces, so that any clear interpretation, is impossible. Can we…do you think? Opening this wound, causing this difficulty, slightly ajar, bypasses, unable to, “have fun," trying to look up other people’s horoscopes. There were diagrams about how to effectively, and efficiently, use your central nervous system, but no one’s yet sure if that’s the way that it actually works, or not. The human condition, is non-atomic, show me a molecule! We’re not very outlandish, anymore. Indeed, we must combine these two, parallel movements. What’s with all these doubts, and misperceptions? This helmet is too big, would someone please fetch me a smaller helmet? The divine disorder, is stability, now. I’m a comin’ at you with a knife, and a butter knife. Things have gone down the tubes. Cringing, is a mechanism, human beings have devised, for defense. She said she’s been playing with Scorpio’s, too long. How can we be expected to play our flutes, in this weather, under these conditions? Regarding cessation, reconciliation, the far out, the thread, and the loom. The guy still has to get out there, and finish the… Be out by the ramparts, see what happens. La-de-da, doesn’t mean, well, didn’t mean...the dust, of dust, at all. In a way, we’re scared of it, but there is no fear, no gripping terror, it’s just a game, it becomes a tome, a tomb, a god, a nightmare. He did what we couldn’t do, for us, namely, crucify himself, or, did he? There are always going to be just a few more things we’ve got to do, especially, towards the end. Go over it again, listen to the fifes, and drums. Acting manic, to hide all the all too prevalent, sexual perversion? Are thou, childish, ordinary, deceptive, empty? There is still a long way to go. Part of not knowing, or caring…all the steps, that lead to nowhere, movements, that lead to nothing, behind, not only the eight ball, but most of the rest, as well…you will wake up, tear up your refusals. Signals, electrifying patterns, and barely human, narratives. Where are these “profound differences,” which would blow my mind? The place where people would dump old furniture. Why does this take so long? Humanity is, and mark my words, here, ruined, salted, pruned, opened, drained, bolted, and shipped. It is, to say the least, difficult, to make heads, nor tails, of the tales, that we’ve woven out, of the brim, of that crap. The reasons, those disciplines, feeling not quite up to snuff. But in a way…in a way, well, I guess it’s just been there so long, there’s nothing else to question, anymore. That’s a lie, as well. There is the reality of not being, nor having been, a football hero. What, fake jaw disorder? The people close, to who? Anyway, there are no reasons. So, you want it/need it, do you? This same story, not quite the explanation, that it should’ve been, eh? Efforts, oh, give me a spoon. Nobody will ever be able to kill all of them! Now, nowhere, later, somewhere? Doubtful. What did that /does this, mean? Enchanted by the facts, that we’re taken for granted, we’re in need of some sage advice. Layoff the strident. All we really seem to be interested in is sexual intercourse.
Well, it sure isn’t easy. I could draw hags, throw things out, but it wouldn’t make any difference. There’s no quick, and easy way, to end the story, save for, the death of the narrator. Spin around to the tones of the piccolo. I’ll never forget that man who took a shit, while walking through the recovery room. The keys, are locked in the safe, the line is out the door, hide those troubles, those glaring hematomas, on your face, the facts, the fixed ratios. There are cameras at every intersection. They know exactly what she was talking about. We’re being watched. I’m not gay, I’m schizophrenic, but if you ask me either question, I’m bound, just to turn away. It’s dogs barking, trains, rumbling, and derailing, the voices of radio newscasters, echoes of statements, of promises, that led me to this self indulgent, yesterday. So clean, so fresh, sculpted, engineered, chippy, chipper, vibrant, alive. Farting my way around the backyard, trying to dig up the nuts I buried, trying to remember what, was buried, where. It’s as long, as it is wide. These parrots, penny jars, and grandparents, reasons why, the impetus, to the whole, jarring epidemic. The arrows that used to point down the street, the time it took to learn the skills, that, once learned, stay with us, like a wisp of fall. Looking out windows, looking at blown up photos, hoping I’m not quoted, for any such nonsense, on television, in an election year (or any other kind). It wasn’t an exciting day, even though it started out, that way. Half back, start, begin again. There were two pieces of bread, left out on the counter this morning, in open ended fashion. Sad, all I can say is, sad. Normal, but you get the rushes. No, I’m not o.k., I’m perverted, impotent, driven, stopped. Beauty? Rocks are rocks, land, is land. The blue paint stains, look like indian papooses. Spiders feel out where they’re going, before they step, fall, spray their stuff, and start crawling up, again. The wrong person, received this document, put in fireproof boxes with the stock options, and television remote controls. No patience for letters, that clicking, kids walking by the house, going to the same schools I used to go, to where everything was yellow, but nothing was cheerful, and exuberance, was an unhealthy aberration. “There is no hope of getting your finger in there,” the chorus cheered, jeered, informed me. I remember those shitty, old boots. So far, it’s fine (it’s a trick). Signing my own name, digging out holes, in a flower garden, somewhere. I’d never seen her before without her uniform on. I suppose it would hurt for a little while, but when it stops, it stops. No more minutes, hours spent waiting, no more bodily processes, acute, nicotine intoxication, so bad, you have to have your stomach pumped. It’s over, or, at least, I’d like to say it is. Dehydration, double pane reflections, that compound imperfections, stretching out limbs, to check if tendons are still attached, where they should be. Old enough to know less, too stupid to resist? I have myself, and want to stretch. In my narcissistic, self absorbed, way, everything needs to be smashed, in a great ceremony, dedicated to disentaglement. The same things, people, events, and words, over, and over, the same sound track, repeated. Everyone’s predictions, turned out true. A life dedicated to substance abuse, occasional flashes in the pan, ideas of grandeur, fool’s gold, illusory eurekas, months working, quitting, getting fired, matches, and lighters, diversions, and entertainment, enjoying nothing. They’ve got a real problem, with my point and shoot camera, no surprise, this thing isn’t done, things are supposed to get completed, but no one expected me to finish anything, six months after, put to bed. This leads straight to the nicotine house, warping, wood stairwells, trash in the basement, and shit on the sidewalk, planks up the steps, that lead to the entrance. Standing downtown, with heads full of other people’s accomplishments. To be electric, in a world that’s passed that by, in its search for cold, steam fusion, it’s all been said, and done, written, and sung, before. The shoes are new, but get ruined, quickly. The thrill of ice skating, on the parquet floor, passes, the sole gets scuffed, and equilibrium, becomes off, the dates, just keep getting crossed off those little pieces of paper. Our preferences are marked, one way, or the other, we have had it with shoes. They tell us we’ve got (there is nothing more) nothing to worry about. What we want to be, is rich. Stop speaking lustfully, about your, “almost cousin.” That fire is real, oh, my gosh, the fire, is real. All I’m attempting to do, is fill in the damn blanks.
My degree is in philosophy, help me, I've had enough strife. Put some honey on it. Don’t tell anybody who I am. Twelve screenplays? Wanting peace, shuckin', and jivin', this really is turning out, just to be a therapeutic milieu, for me (but, whatever, I know all the words). The power elite, does what it has to do, to get the job done. Down with people, hmmm... A couple of hand clasping rituals, will get you the house on the hill. Don't let yourself go, or experience, not fitting into clothes, people are pissed, about no 24 hours, let them be. Things are? C'mon, it isn't more epiphanies; exclaim more percentages, get it, as opposed to just subtly, wanting it. My picture will not adorn this book, but pictures that I’ve taken, will. The weird woman, and daughter, might be an everyday thing. Got to keep walking/running, the dog, will have its leash. Figure something out, on the calculator. What's forgotten, though, is that most of this, is worse than fluff, somehow. Keep your focus, or you're wrecked, keep it up there, let it shine. This is some kind of wonderful totem, for you. It's a three month program, that I thought was four, it's actually, a lifetime, so you'd better learn to trust yourself, right now. X, didn't come back from his vacation, and he's too lazy to do what he says, repeatedly, that he has, to do. The beginning, and ending, and processes, are all just as difficult, as any of the others. Rubbery, is starting to happen, a little bit too much. People's wallets are getting picked, no one wants to work. This is an impossible situation, becoming, more so. Ask yourself why, you're not doing the shit! 900, now. Look, forget what everybody else is doing, the rash of bank robberies, I've got my own problems, my mistakes are big enough, to squirt out bubbles, farting in the tub, fixed game shows, trouble, sex, safety, difficult breakfasts, practical responses, to threats. The coat is on, be not surprised. Clean, my hamhocked lover. Wipe your face, do your mind/mental pictures, obsessively, incessantly. Nice guys get stranded on the side of the road, and nobody picks them up... the riggings are loose, the rivets, busted. Everything, and anything, and how they're intertwined, do, as well as, don't, happen. Gulp beverages that have no calories, watch the pets respond to cleanliness. A lot of stuff, is just too ridiculous to even comment on. Next step, could be bankruptcy. Get a vacuum cleaner, cook short order, do what you have to do. They won’t invite you in. At this point, just do anything at all, it doesn’t matter, what… You smell like urine! Hey chain jingler, long drive to nowhere, let's help out the lamb, the one that bumps the kid over. Like the wings, on a plane. Make out with the slut/tart, for the simple fact, that it can be done, or, so we're told. Europe blamed me. What the? First you have to have an idea, to be put on paper. I dislike technology. Don't be skilless, don't make any (fly into a Christ)... Important messages, are sure to get left on machines, of some kind, and played back, later, with the flashing, digital, one, two, or three. Slime into the morning, if that's all you can do. The fact is, that I don't know why I quit that job (totally). This person, I blame, this one, I praise. My mistakes, are causing too little vertical hold. As the yard becomes infested with snails, I worry about how much attention to pay. More than this, I shriek, like a pregnant woman, discussing finances. See, for now, gloves are not needed. Collect people, and ideas, however it ends up happening. Do those lists, sharpen those points, go forward, and go faster. There will be no "sex life," there will be published books, that I have written, and typed, edited, rewritten, resubmitted, and finally, had accepted, and made a little money off, to have to start from scratch, again. And finally, once, and for all, you will write stories, with ideas, characters, things happening to them, and between them. Tarantula marks on my hands, no halo, no sights, seen. Just get up in the morning, and do what has to be done, immediately. Please, you're immunized, please. Where do I belong? Paris, Istanbul, Caracas, Florence, Italia, Utah, and all of the rest of those places, that the real people go? Or, maybe not. Hey, look, trains aren't doing as well as they could be doing, financially. Tell me what my disorder is, again? What flavor was your kid? Floor me with a technical pencil. I was the last, or, one of the last, paper boys, in the area, perhaps, further. They all have daughters. The time to become a recluse, is now. Never, in a car, cold, ice, dark, shitty car, knowing, brakes. It must have been a dream. My swollen hand, condition/syndrome, it is time to deflate. What else was there? No, I am not “sick” (liar!). I saw a prosthetic limb, on the side of the highway (it was a foot). And mirror gazing, who are we kidding? No annual physical, they don't have to pay, hardly anything, there is no real way out, except, out. From here, going to there, no one knows what's going to happen, or what's hidden behind the façade, of the Chinese restaurant. We are not going to drive you around, and entertain you, and do whatever you want, crazy drunks, wander the streets, cold, homeless, become cunning, cruel thieves, robbers, killers, not me. I am never going to have to worry about anything. See, I know, that I'm in a large part, a loser, so I need to obey the game, and the only way to be able to do that, is to begin. Until the game is begun, you can't know that there are games, within games, in which to undergo. Before turning the gun on yourself, do something! This time, it did take months. Share, you big shit! Everyone is arguing.
