The phone, will constantly ring, bees, will carry on their innumerable chores, without thoughts of fame, or reward. Who will fuck? Is it written in the stars, in some honeycomb, battle plan? As the personal transformation, takes place, a few, irrelevant hisses, seem to lose their luster. A couple of choice, curse words, and phrases, don't get uttered, a couple of urges, dry up, and all but, fall off. I'm a closed shutter, has been, they may, or may not, be a common reference. It took someone, from two thousand miles away, to tell me that I'm (finally) wasting my time, that I'm never going to be able to make a living, doing this, by this, I mean, writing. I took out the part about crawling under vertical crotches, or at least, I think I did. A too personal psalm, another Mister, or Mrs. Whom-It-May-Concern, another, bang-bang, rejection letter, further efforts, new wave, pie. Holding hands, passing out flowers, ingesting motion, locked out. Breathe through your vas deferens, feel the faux, fur lining, you'd better run. Why are we running? Constrained jujitsu, miserable failures, all these lonely nights, spent at the Ding-Dong Inn. How'd that go? I don't know anything about vaginas, if that's what you're alluding to. Endeavors, deny, and affirm, at the same time, as trying to make sense of it, were they ferns? Do you want a hickory stick? No, that would surely reveal too much. I can totally see, why I only received a C, on this project. Dressing up, just to try and be something, I'm not. The directions, all point to stop. Tear down the flag, get it typed, become, which means to think you are a big shot. Dozens of nicks, and gashes, chinks, in the door. No money, again, a fluttering moment, of emergence, keep it in your pants. Half a locket, the paper bag, wrap around, scuttling, either way. Uproarious laughter, emerges, when it is stated by someone, that it/that/this, doesn't make any sense. It is taking way too long, again, will I never learn? Crashing ideas, again, about removing mechanical equipment. There were vague allusions, to timing, drunkenness, practice. Anybody is essentially correct, and it takes a deluded grace, much nausea. They all start out, in love. Since there is still some vestige of energy, to spare, I choose to work eighty hours a week, as opposed to, "establishing good credit," or whatever the hell, traps, they set up, and fall into. Let the very last, of my bits, and pieces, of self, be interspersed, into this, and that, tax bracket, because, I am going to get ahead, of this financial pig roast. That fifteen year old girl, was right on target, when she recited prose, at length, about life being nothing more, than endless, putt-putt turmoil. It comes down to this, will we, or will we not, blow our brains out? To cringe at the prospect of another... to have another, "grand realization." I test some theories about standing up, shifting weight, and gravity. Theories get bandied about, none of them, make any sense, as in badminton, bad jokes, stagnant water, pretend lakes. These used to be wonderful teeth. I wanted to say, that my lunch, was positively, delish, but no one asked no one ever does. If you've ever felt the desire, to kill people, harm others, or some, such scheme, it would be best to rearrange your schedule, in order to have a little bit more time, for sleep. The birds went crazy. I collapsed into my ugliness. A dreamless sleep, is better in the long run, than an overload of sensory input. I removed all of the soil from the carpet. It was still, a part of the times. Kick the chair over, smash the glass coffee table, learn from a cat, do things systematically, throw up that rock, or wood chip, as if it were a prime rib steak dinner. You’d better get to work, fixing those broken things. Which is preferable, life, or death, tan, or pale, lamp, or sun? C'mon, no one has the answers to these questions. Give me a tutu, I feel like doing some gender identification, exercises. That phrase that's taped up to the computer screen, the font looks familiar. The frame, without a picture, pay attention to the background details! My x-ray vision, has been shaped, and honed, into a science. Push down, and in.It’s screwed, beyond the point of no return.
This, is yet another thing, I don't want to do, these are all like the kitty cat, and hot chocolate, symbols, high signs, flip the tape, turn the page. Vanity, exceptional; kick over the laundry basket, the dashboard, tear off the rear view mirror. Whatever they choose to call you, moniker-wise, in Costa Rica, the city is half burned, I don't know what they're planning to do. Screw this place, who needs it? It sucks, to waste being chipper on the possibility of an Eisenhower dollar. Skylab, is going to fall right on top of the elementary school, I'm convinced. Turn it down, sleepwalking, skywalking, to peanut butter, and/or bowls of cereal. The bottom of my foot hurts, the soul/sole, the only one of those, I possess. As an experiment, as a white noise experiment, an establishing, of subtle trappings, sell-outs, pay, that got retracted back. All of the facts, that he spewed out, about the Ottoman Empire, were wrong, incorrect. Spaced out, looking at crossword puzzles, that really aren't, underneath a yellow searchlight, sodium. More, and more, psychiatric, as time wears on. I spend my time eating animal crackers, that don't look like any kind of Earthly, animal. No correction, sexbook collages, performance artists, late September, way into September. When these drives, became full-on, wanting to do this thing, this crazy thing. Think about moving, think about financial analysis, making a living. Hearty hamburgers, went out of business. Turned off, turned loose, and turned off. No more going home, and becoming one with the couch, dualistic, with books, must be a sweetie-pie, must be a honeybun. As missteps take place, as the dates, and correct addresses, are stuffed into little boxes. This one goes out to all of those, whose hearts are no longer in the game. It only goes two ways, but there's got to be more than just two ways, to go. Where is my outline, regarding the telephone call? Fractions, roman candles, remedial classes, lockers, tranquil, cured. Binocular vision, the basement, full of asbestos, can't draw the proper symbol, down off the ceiling, into the dog food bowl. It's so airy-fairy, it's so dabbled in, already tunneled. Take these sightless slits, shove them. Just cum, forget about all the groaning, moaning, sighing, and fidgeting. This is more cut up, than cut up, because, it's not, cut up. Things are benign, staidly, unconventional. Janus/Jesus, spends his time being two-faced, smashing delicate, espresso saucers. Do you honestly believe, you have these esoteric, "troubles"? Her name is Liminal, the Buddha girl, a throwback to more exciting, right turns, more titillating things, to look forward to, revel in abandon, in each moment; rash, homeless, mechanical. Float in, on betrayal, read, shit, lousy, false, lies. It's time to hush, or revolve/evolve, into the combination of adverse, and dispassionate, elements. The metaphors are particularly interesting, because they require the reader, to read into, what they are reading. I shattered the label, overcame the abstract, in a limited way, um, crossover, sometimes, occurs. Sex, and violence, are like waves on the beach, tiny apples, that flourish, then recede. This is all simple, easy, basic, homemade. Revealing dreams, the myth of. A notice, to those who are a touch more clever, in their imaginary worlds, they create for themselves, rather than the plastic, and concrete, idealism, of somebody else's, trip. Chances are given, and taken away, the community, of those who supposedly... Regardless, I've learned to condense experience, the now, then, what, maybe’s. All that was, even a short time ago, has absolutely no bearing, on my life, right now, not a whit, or trace, remains. Throw the empty bottles into the hatchback, throw out the cellophane, and cardboard, cigarette packs, don't vacuum anything, use your hand. The talk in the back room, sounds like conversations at a funeral, clipped, and clichéd. We’ve got to find a way, somehow. Supposedly, surrounded, talked about, crossed out, fake wood paneling, donated items, pot luck suppers, and conversations, bizarre combinations of letters, and numbers, that represent human life, your home, and financial status. Digitally condensed, bitter, immune to the catcalls of the crowd. The dull, is what disorients us.
The exact number of inches, in between words, is not what's crucial, here. That dream of someone actually being touched, by something I wrote, now, that's an ideal, to live up to. Crucified, on a soft drink stand? I don't think this is the time, or place. Their shopping bags, have handles, for convenience, the laundry bag, smells as awful as the garments, inside it. The lady riding her bike? I shouldn't be surprised. Some of them get blasted, and what was with that snide smile, on that one guy, that looked like the stoned cat, in one of those kiddie books, on what have you? Things, are. This obsession, this sickening feeling, about getting all my hair chopped off, my need, of a mask, and a helmet. The horror of something, so absolutely meaningless, being somehow, all meaning, being more than a mere statement, but an entire world view? I guzzle my beverages, in clear bottles, only, so that the guzzling, looks like water going down a toilet. I pull on the strap, finger the crank, test to see if the equipment still works, become sexually attracted, and know immediately, to back off. There are no more years, to wait, muddle through, watch the calendar days get torn off, one, by one, flagged over. There is no "looking forward to," there is no "maybe by this point, this date, next year"... If it hasn't been at least, nibbled at, by now, then, it never will be, this includes, all my dreams, hopes, and aspirations, garbage. To recline, is to practice for lying down in a casket, to rest, for even one instant, is to turn your back on all things, worthwhile. There is no reason to be sober. To indulge a whim, or a fancy, is to relapse back into addiction, and dependency, diversions, of all kinds, and varieties, that spell but one thing, nothingness; a tormented disposition. Hire me, fire me, keep me guessing. Be scary, to hell with it. Well, I used to get drunk, and then go on little strolls, "punk rock walks," I called them. Some things got broken, some things, got stolen, some, a little of both, never anything of monetary value, anything, that anybody, would actually miss. I'd always come home with an armful, of completely useless, "goodies," that I'd proceed to carefully hide, in case the authorities ever tracked me down. Who hit me? This was a question that I would often ask myself, incoherently, as I was escorted out the back door, all I'm saying, is that there were some eras, and epochs, trials, and tribulations. The trials, weren't really, but rather, part of my whole mind game way, of making zig-zagging molecules, conform to some partial base of fluidity, with a rock solid, bottom. Put the pennies in a bowl, sell individual cigarettes, the pizza was wonderful, and I thank you, the game is over. I'd like to write those words, over, and over, again. They have the whole sturm, and drang, twang, and whistle, it sums it up, lays it down. Listen, absolutely fantastic! Open the cupboard, where the cleanser is kept, okay dokee. Back in the day, I mean... a few years behind. There both is, and isn't, time. The high life, has it’s down side, just like anything. Is this all you’ve done, senor? We're left with a kind of hope, and yes, I know that hope, isn't anything at all. All that the death threats did, for that one jerk, is sell more of his books. It's a blind leap, not a faith, which would mean, we had a sort of, self assured, confidence. Why people scream, outside the bank, isn't any of my concern. Life on Mars, is like, life in the digestive tract, of a man-o-ray. I do believe, that I'm going to have to resort to being dishonest, in at least one more, no, I will not, I will stand, with a blank expression, and say that I refuse. Or, I'll cozy up, and act cutesy, silly. We held the record, someone else has it, now. Yes, these situations must be faced, and no, I don't like faces, theirs, or mine, but one way, or the other, things need to get done. Baffling, laying, like a headless horseman, on your twin, in hopes that he'll tell you what to do. Blind conjecture, followed/swallowed, we’ve been pulled too far, one way, or the other.
Tear off, and out, the parts, that aren't your own. I have a roll of masking tape, on my person, at all times, and it never seems to come in handy. Could anybody do this, why don't they really? It seems important to me, for some reason. Distraction just doesn't cut it, for me, the window, sometimes, sure. But, as for a lifetime of continual distraction, heaven forbid, no! Yes, a mid level, slow, omnivorous, crisis. Sometimes, I get the sudden, irresistible urge, to assert myself, whether it's appropriate, or not. I like to have some subtle feedback, just to remind me, that I am, indeed, still alive. This is not to say, that I long for affection, far from it, I know I am exactly like everybody else, we all have the exact same problems, and lack of solutions. Similar traps, and drizzles, slings, and arrows, sales, and advertisements. It seems wimpy, to write! It's all a matter of degree, I mean, happiness, really doesn't matter, we can get along completely fine, without it. Loneliness is a little bit more difficult. If we don't have anybody, or anything, and I include memories, here, things could get pretty briar patch, prickly, in short order. We need some substantiation, of our existence, at least, sometimes. More than just hello, and less than a sex act, how's that, to measure how much, of other people, we really need? Writing, is like a dying man, who keeps moaning, but never dies, no matter how many times, he screams out, that he's dying. This "book," is undying, in the exact same way: never finished, never alive, or dead, just a general hindrance. Many fainted, straight out. Scratch, to satisfaction. So many years, in between states of frenzy, a condition, that in it's unpleasantness, is pleasant. A state of creative torpor, and angst, pain, pressure, but in the right degrees, and measures. To write about writing, is to take away yet more, valuable time, that you should be spending. It is really nothing, like sex, and bowling, it just occurs, it occurred to me, to write a book. It is not my aim to keep this to myself, though, common sense, would dictate, otherwise. I am a nobody, published novels (hundreds of them), do not a somebody, make. See, it doesn't matter, any of it, but, more specifically, our lives, and what we do, or don't do, with them. Life demands nothing, except, that you take a little look around. There is no pressing urgency, it's a muse, I conjured up, like all muses, unreal, imagined, ingrained, to a point, built up, in an artifice, around a set of contingencies. If you're blind, wake up, see what you're missing, then, you can go back to sleep. Really, there is nothing to do...because there's nothing to be done. Sometimes, I have the sudden impulse, to stick part of a large, coat hanger, in my ass. The hour is late, like that time, we walked all over, the clean, wet, floor to get to the products for sale, that we didn't really, want to buy. Get in your car, if your brakes are working properly, and just drive around. Do, in other words, what you would do, anyway. The pus is leaking out. Ignore your damn fool, dreams. Listen to it, loud, if it suits your fancy. Why do we (I said, egg cream) act the way (mislead me) we do? They only sang, in German. If you're one to imbibe, have a drink, life is too short, to be hanging onto branches, afraid to come down. It gets to be just, so upsetting. There was a gigantic toad, down in the sewer, and it hopped away, down a pipe, before that kid could catch it, the snake, got caught. There is a vacant building, across the street from here, and we wrote our names in the dust on the windows, instead of using spray paint, because we had it in our heads, that we were free, and responsible, as opposed to, reckless, and impulsive. Mountains are climbed up, to climb down them, again. Every day, is so like the others. This amounts to extortion, no, I won’t pay.
Gorillas, looking at monkeys, take that thing off your keychain, here's your receipt. The work I do, gets more hardcore? A different state of mind, is a whole other continent, forget it. A quarter hour, goes by fast, the phrases you coin, will not last, stand the test of time, things are burned, or buried, with us. It was pointed out, that the mysteries of love, are none too, mysterious. There is something wet, on the napkin, I suppose, it belongs there. Every kind of wood, imaginable, ornate etchings, silly string words, that make no sense. Surrounded by the river, no divisions, no part. Put a black frame around it, make it, build yourself a better bookshelf. In a way, it represents anger, in the way BB bullet holes, in the middle school windows, or spray paint, on the high school walls. Moss on the tree, that looks like mold, letters in the mailbox, addressed to somebody else. When the way things are, can't be that way anymore, you look like shit, so what? Three parasols, a repeated refrain, ticket stubs, from some movie, or concert. It's already way back there, less than near immediate. I don't have anything to offer you. We're almost at the halfway mark, we agreed on thirty, but that doesn't mean anything. After being gone a few months, even the name Adams road, seems strange. It's a feeling, like relapse, and one that arises, far too often. The ties that I mean to sever, are endured, for old times sake, and endless rumination, is all I'm left with; nostalgia, and hangovers, bagel toppings, stuck in my teeth. Fat, and buttery, broke, stuck, keys, lost, integrity, shattered. There will be no vacation, again, this year, the next vacation I take, will last a real, long time. My breath is pure vapor, full of ammonia, and torpor. Clapping hands, in unison, this arena, doesn't identify with me, anymore. Wadded up pants, that smell like seminal emissions, no clear words, spoken, see, it's all an open mouth of, “we've got to do this more often.” Tibet, is a Calcutta, of it's own variety, lift it up, sell it out, conspire against yourself, run out of ink, and excuses, film, and watercolors. Knocked out by the turpentine, fly strips. Call out to me, softly, last week, was last week. Looked at, constantly, like I've just stolen something. This can't go on much longer, my fingers bleed, but I never figured out any chords. Two crooked eyes, that can't see straight, wrinkled suits, hello's, to people's parents. The more you do, the more that's gonna happen. The end already happened, you missed it. Act handsome. Even though it's right here, in front of me, there's nothing to read. A short lived foray, into vampirism, back, and front porches, of rented homes. Yes, it's a pose, well, more or less, uninviting buttons, that are just for show. They put the same shellacked vegetables, out, every year, with first, and second place, ribbons, attached. It sounds like an African tribal rhythm, a Greek, urban, mime troupe, I didn't take your belt. Straighter than highway one. Curled up near the back exit, cringing, at what I'd just said. Two, or three days, in a row, of the same dances, faces, duties, rules. Illumine them, set them straight, exhibit avoidance. It's like a wraparound box, a grip, that says something, actions, more than words, and exceptional invitations. I've had it with this, so, on to that, but that, won't receive me. What do you hear under the subliminal waves, and seagulls, with their own, unique variety, of fame? They won't last too long, if they keep doing, what it is they're doing. When the bee’s die, we die. What do you think about, when you’re gardening? We must become much more real. You call it method acting, I call it, an early grave, another "mistake," that can't be called back. My will, is gone. Invent a new persona, for use at work. Hugo, perched atop an east bound, taxi. It used to mean a lot more, now, it’s liability insurance, and penalties for early withdrawl. No more failure! It's a trick, she plays with her eyes, it's like, you can’t get a real clear fix, on what she's thinking. Her eyes seem to look up, before they actually do? Her roommate didn't seem to notice, or mind, one way, or the other. Pregnant, leave me (hasta la vista) alone, debts, got me sinking, I just want to go home (wherever that is). The key to understanding most poetry, or prose, is to appreciate, or learn to appreciate, what's not (there) said, not written. It's always an exciting day, when they come out with another one of their avant garde projects, with overdubbed, overheard, conversations, and their lack of influences. It's a rant, she doesn't work here, anymore. Stop the atheists, from believing in it, more than devout worshippers! A three hour drive, without traffic, it lacks the passion, and clipped quality, of the human voice. It's symphonic, but not in the way that sex talk, is. And tomorrow, things are always the same. They’re dying, as such, but if you try to hold on, you've missed the point? Back into our uniforms, back at the gas station. If a series of events, could ever constitute a whole, for once, all elements would/could, work in conjunction, with each other. There is something about a piano. Failure is not an option, at all. We’re too damn miserable.
