198

Your degree is worthless, laughter, gets you through the spite. The smart people, fade away, money is a problem, out of hand. Do not quote me on this, any of it, because in five minutes, I’ll have flip-flopped my position, outlook, perspective, etc. This is all before the bankruptcy, the real incommensurable humor, has been done, this is after the return of the herd, but before, the resurrection. Maybe I should just get on that swing; unspeakable poems, that don’t rhyme, and don’t make any sense. Here comes that cracking noise, the feeling of flitting through, the long way, that exhibitionism, hides, rather than reveals, ourselves, the truth, the matter at hand. I’m nothing, you know this. I know things, I’m lying. You smell like poop, as if you rolled in it, and ate it. Go on, to wherever it is, you want to go. Frisky, and fighting amongst ourselves, in the cage, not embarrassed to draw penises, on the stick figures, not embarrassed to speak, to get to know, to get to love. Smelling our own ears, smelling other peoples ears, scrubbing out that refrigerator, as the drone, and the hum, and the bell-like ringing, drowns out all my thoughts, and my faults, are all two-bit, and forgotten. The animals are scared, and strange, and at peace with the germs, their own paths, and the mayhem. And I bentzalien enuasiours, to people, but they don’t believe a word of what I’m saying, and in fact, don’t ever believe, in anything, that I say, or state, or claim. Hey, you knocked over my book, and crinkled the newspaper, urinated on my only pair of clean pants. The only reason that they don’t look at me, when they talk to me, is because I don’t look at them, when I talk. We are hollowed out slaves, of reciprocity, and then it becomes, suddenly, too late to change things, from the way they were initially set up, and it all stays the same. It is time for something new, anything. We’re going to get to the bottom of it. No matter what the true orientation, is, or was, it is this now, according to the unwritten rules. I keep trying to remember how excited I was, about this, at first, long ago. What does it make you think of? It’s like the shrinks, “well, this is a boxcar, you fit inside it” bit…all bullshit, horseshit, chicken shit, manure. The fascination with the weather report? My shoes are getting fixed, wait, when was this written? The legend, forced us to buy into things, that weren’t true. Who do you think will be the first to manhandle it (what?)? This can’t be it. The fear I have, is the fear of my own life, this life, I possess. When you start bawling, at ridiculously corny, and ridiculous, movies, it’s time to cultivate a modicum of emotionality. Moody shadows, on a cave wall, I cannot, will not, answer your call. There is nobody to show this to, but that’s okay, because there never has been. He’s in one of those moods, where he’ll grab the sandwich, right out of your hand. Fondling who we shouldn’t, at bus stops, county fairs. It is good to order dinner, pick it up and eat it. It is good, and it is normal, to digest food, fully, and shit it out, from your anal pore. Where are those invoices? Alright, onward, farther, drunk, taxes, fined, and fired, and I can’t afford to do anyone, any favors, I need people to do me favors, and yes, the point is to not cease, we know this, at least. As boring as writing is, it beats the opossum, out of all of the alternatives, that I’ve heretofore, seen. Well, I’m down in the gulch, and even though there’s no getting out, the view from below, is a taste, acquired. Sex is like bacon and eggs, I refuse to qualify that statement, with another. I’m scanning around me, for chutes, and ladders, ups, and downs, ins, and outs. The lemon flavored outlook, is bitter, we’re here, and no place else, is quite like it. I see you, wasting time, I’ve watched you, and have decided to waste my time, my own way. The overhead light, allows us to view our cost/benefit analysis ratios, more clearly. My ear is perfectly tuned, to the beginning of this, and not the end. I have said all that I have to say, and I’m damned into, that fact. This is all so extraneous, this is all so unnecessary, and after the aftermath, this is so straight, and obvious, boring, and simple, blasphemous, and innocent, naïve, and unquestioned. No one touches anything, nobody knows of anything, nobody speaks of anything. Rip offs, mama, call, toys, internet numbers, written on matchbooks, stuck in place, in the service sector; delirious, deluded, destroyed. People come in yelling, yellow, and half drunk, unsympathetic, uninterested. Can I sign? The phone does not ring, or if it does, won’t stop, ringing. I can hear the engine starting, I’m trapped in, and this could end up being a nasty thing, how were we to know, how were we to understand, these things, in advance? I can pour my heart out, onto the page, and then, eat the paper, thereby, eating my heart out, symbolically. The plague, caused man, to turn to cannibalism. I may be of “questionable moral virtue.” There is no floor, this is the middle. I can’t smell it.

The cream of the crop may, or may not, rise. Lawsuits against you? Well, that’s just cause enough, to wear your best suits. There are gunshot blasts, on the ceiling of this room, there are splotches of red, that look like paint, wedded to metal splotches of whatnot, and buckshot, brains, oil streaks, blotches, and streaks, streams, one big bang, starting itself, over again. I listen intently, to all waiting room conversations, that I might have the privilege to overhear. I can back a hi-lo into a giant metal crate, full of red hot cooling o-rings, without checking the mirrors, or glaring into the blind spot. I’ve been ostracized, and exiled, without knowing the reason, this keeps happening, this will continue to happen. We’re given assignments, and if we neglect to do those, we must do make-up assignments, plus, the original. I am caught in the roach trap, that we can check into, but not out of. I saw the future, of my Saturday plans, I will avoid that part of town. There is nothing particularly weird, about me. If only those were, paintings of flintlock pistols, and not whatever they’re really supposed to represent. We may very well have run out of things to say. Tighten your drive trains, and hold on tight. Now, I smell like yesterday’s beer. What we did, took for granted, just does not occur in the world, at large. Tuck me in, tell me a story, leave the door open, a little. The death notices, attracted no attention. What is wrong with the bike? I can’t guarantee that I won’t do, a series, of horrible things. So far, it’s been long, but there hasn’t been anything really strange, or trippy, at all, about it. It’s boring, it’s degrading, it’s weak, and it sucks, I could be talking about it, or myself, and I am, and, I will, and it is, whatever. Nothing has been burned, nothing saved, that could have just as well, been thrown away. There is early work, and later, and none of it, is any better than, or worse than, the other. There is nothing to being a genius, it’s easy; just don’t fit in, then, stop trying to fit in, that’s that. I counted how many trucks I saw, today; thirty-eight trucks, what an absolute, thrill! Even though, I hear words, and people would appear to be talking to me, they aren’t, really. They are speaking to me, as they would speak to just any other object, or appliance, in the room. This is causing me extreme grief, and torment! I could be the second coming. Most people can’t believe, what is, in actuality, the most real. Deviate from the norm, disrupt the equilibrium. All of my suits, are wrinkled, torn, stained. Now, to make up for all those blown yesterdays, is impossible, we know that, now. And momentum, is nothing real, but that’s what we need, that’s what we have to fake our way through, this whole thing, and nobody will dare question us, about whether, or not, we’re faking, because they are faking, too. Just fill it up? Alright, now, here we go, about that motherfucker, who screwed me over, that bitch, who fucked me up. How to be too spineless, and chickenshit, to commit suicide. It will just happen, full-on, like that, from this, to that, to the other, around, and back, again. I smell bleach, and it smells really nice, really fresh. I thought that I heard them say something to me, or something about me, to someone else, but I was, mistaken. I will not, and cannot, take responsibility for that filthy floor. I watch them hand out leaflets, to one another. Lately, I have had to rock back, and forth, on the toilet bowl, to have a bowel movement. The title? I’m fucked up, you’re fucked up. See, arms length is not far enough away, I used to underestimate the length, of the human arm. Elbows bend, macaroni doesn’t cook, as much as it just goes soft, and gets hot. They stood there, looking like real, live, inflatable dolls, that could stand on their heads, but they did, no such thing. I can tell you taste like cherry; you, like blueberry; you, like cocoa; you, like honey. Hi, my name is Eurbank D. McWallis, I am the President of Live Action Center, Inc., we’re based in our habitat, like everything else. How can I know, nothing is known? The concept was to paraphrase our favorite television programs, to copy their behavior, and mannerisms; and to bring those characters, to life, give me an enema. Please, help me wipe my own ass, and cut my own food, give me a bath, and a quarter, a soda, a candy bar. Blood, from every pore. Cut off my ear, and send it back to me, next day air. I’m my own pimp, whore, and prostitute, all rolled into one. Find a girl, who shares your taste, in fetishes. We’re all interchangeable. Don’t touch it. It was a very humiliating experience, to be sure.

Lice head count, trick or treat, what’s in your bag? You see, I have become her, mysteriously, and now, I have some kind of sexually transmitted disease. Hold on, oh, yeah, on to the next thing, I’ve got syphilis. I walk into the twenty four hour grocery store, just to look around, I’m just browsing, I tell them. I am a delicate piece of folded petal/skin, and if I let go of my stomach, my guts will fall out. I saw all of you. You were all there, or, your forms, were, your representations. Oh, yes, the choice gets made, the new obsession, rolls into my third eye’s, frame of reference. I get all wide frame, and zoom lens, and focus consciously, and you get nervous. I am leering at you, I want you… that way, as well. When we trust our own real/official, guides to the gene pool, we are rarely disappointed, we know the deep end, and the shallow, as well as the gradual decline, or incline, from one, to the other, why not? Our will to live, varies. We’re supposed to carry on what someone else began. We found the gun in the garbage pail. All over it, all over it, done. The goofball/nerd in me, is the only facet, that asserts itself. Burn this thing, right along with me. It’s a good thing, that I never met her. They want it, to be obsolete, see? If there were an easier way, I’m sure that I would’ve taken it by now, if there were a place to hide, I’m sure I’d still be, hiding there. I am so ashamed. Oh, you meant, intoxicated? It’s like being trapped in a bubble machine. It’s designed, to go out of style. I actually had to hold onto the side of the tub, to keep from drowning, and there was no water in the tub. They’re knocking on my door, and that can mean only one thing, trouble. I picked up the electronic equipment, pretended to look at it, and understand it, then, put it back down on the table. You are all, way over my head. I never wasted (or ever/even played with) any time, contemplating chicken/egg origins, and still, I am all about the unknown, unseen, unsought, un-fed. These are all illusions, all wrong, and the sad fact, is that they’re keeping me alive. I can’t believe how embarrassed I am at how many crucial mistakes I’ve made, at times, when there wasn’t any room for mistakes. I drove way out of the way, to stock up on products, that I already had been stockpiling, for months, years; everything I buy, I have no use for. We do it to ourselves, we fuck our own lives up, and then bang our heads against the wall, too little, too late. His hair, looked like a long animal. I don’t miss the dancing. One night, I saw him, in drag. Stare at the photographs, clip, and save, the best, for later. I chart nothing, I graph, sometimes, talk to no one. Do we even deserve, what we have? All I ask, is that you let me bore you. We need a more consistent approach, in regards, to how to go about trying to get laid. Death, is all that matters, sex, is all we want. With the right person, and of the right kind, but really, any kind of sex, would suit us, just as well, as any other. We need to go crazy, and get up on it, or get it, upon us, anyway we can, anyhow, back to our regularly scheduled broadcast. There is a poster on the wall, there are many, they are not my posters, I don’t know whose they are, what do I need here? Let’s get to the bottom of it. I am starting to think that they can watch us, watching television. That every TV unit, contains a camera, video taping, and broadcasting equipment, and that they use satellites, and they know us, much more than we will ever know ourselves. All of everything, that is going on, or, at least, what is currently in our heads, is supposed to correspond, proportionately, within the page/age, ratio/formula. If it doesn’t, we’re going to have to realign our theory, to be more in keeping, with the facts. I enjoy the index, I enjoy the card catalog. So, what’s wrong? I don’t know, and that’s what’s wrong. Whatever happened to parrot woman? I’m thinking back, to the mental hospital grounds, the most expansive, and beautiful, yards, of tall trees, green grass, that there ever was. I’m thinking of those drunken, reeling evenings, when we had enough sense, to leave the car where we left it, and walk home. I remember certain kisses, on certain porches, and even what music, somebody else was playing, in the background. I recall the chases, the thrill of the hunts, and the kills, when they came, I recall the looks on people’s faces, as I crossed lines, distorted borders, and barriers, made shit up, and waxed unique, nostalgic, for present moments, conditions, contradictions. I recall the walks, over to the store, for beer, cigarettes, pop, and food, with new friends/fiends, who weren’t to remain so, for long. I recall the cling of immediacy, with the cursed foreknowledge, of imminent departure, imminent madness, imminent collapse, of all held dear. We will destroy the entire system, the whole thing. It was a new, and different, kind of sky, that we saw that day. Rub your sex, on your own legs. Try it, on top.

I can’t keep fighting these (save your breath, everyone knows this already) invisible, phantom battles, because, for one thing, nobody wins, or loses, them. There are painful indentations on my fingers, there is the smell of peanut butter on my… something. I am an absolute nobody, I am not a chemical dependency survivor, college professor, physicist, evolutionary biologist, or an expert on, anything at all. We end up wishing that (I’m as fat, as I used to be) more pictures were taken of us, before we went bald. You, and your staunch, strong holds. I pretend not only, to have no, special knowledge, but no knowledge, at all, nothing important, or crucial, or interesting, to say…you will not publish me, you will reject me, sight unseen (and unread), and, for that, I proclaim, fuck you! I’m interested in speed, efficiency, and turnaround, look ahead… and you jolly, cash cow’s, just like to sit in nice offices, with salaries, picking food out of your teeth. I am not interested, in waiting any longer, and playing your games, of tit, for tat, toe, for tock, and full of vitamins, and minerals, and fortified with iron, steel, uranium, the sweat, and blood, of the victims, all around the world, that the power mad, drive into that last, black hole, that they’ve created. Since I am the product, the commodity, in question, is it any wonder, that all parties involved, in the dispute slowly discover their egos, in the boardroom, or down on the dotted line? Well, I’m aiming for a very closely cropped, niche market, I’m looking to create a new classification, to forge a new mold. I am a something, the unasked question, is, what kind, am I? The answer, I think, is a creature. This is all on Descartes’, this is limited to being forced, and bloated, high, and not high, enough. I feel like going over to the dresser, opening up all the drawers, and looking in them. Nothing I say, ever makes any sense, a little bit of what I write, makes sense, sometimes, thus, I prefer words written, to spoken words, before snowmen, fresh air, new jobs, and stolen garden hoses. Let’s go back, and re-live, our most horrific moments, frame, by frame, shot, by shot, cell, by cell, negative, by negative. I will reach down and I will pick up a beverage, and I will drink it (you will keep your glamour to yourselves). We don’t know what we need, we don’t get it. She doesn’t usually discuss her problems with clients. Big zero’s, are crowding the room, making high decibel, whirring, and whining, noises. Look at the way that I look, it says a lot, more than I’ll ever say. Lock me up in the mental hospital, again. Let’s own buildings? What if a complete, and utter, loser, a total failure, attempted to write a book? That’s going to end up representing a lot of moods, and movement, time, and death ticking, blood, siphoned energy. What is your idea, of where to go, and what to do? What is more touching, than spread open, legs? I tell you, epiphenomenon. I can see the water on the moon, and the disappearing face, that can be seen, sometimes. Now, I see the weasel, then, some other kind of curled up, small, mammal. Ceasing, or stopping, is not an option, talent, or total lack, thereof. What I tried to write down, but kept resisting, was more of a demand, directed at myself, to take off those women’s undergarments, at once. This is entrepreneurial poison, no speech, has yet, been prepared, the seedy side of motivation, is still, very much, in evidence, in place, like playing pieces, left out, on a board game, in progress. Someone constructed that puzzle, and she dumped it in the box, and I don’t know whose side to take, or even if I’m required to choose any one side, over any other. No one will ever know, any of us, anyone else, anyone, ever, anywhere, period. Here’s how it starts, there’s how it always used to, now, I hear the engines, in quadraphonic sound, this is like methadone, like a paperweight. Our long mortgage reiteration, blew up in our faces, we converted, from oil, to natural gas. We got a new cat scratcher toy, and sold the instrument panel, out of the car, to pay for the sand, to put in the brand, new, sandbox, which takes up half the bedroom, by the way. It’s not modern, it’s not anything, really. Let me out of these gas ovens, I’m not crazy enough, to make sense of this world, in any way, shape, or form. I haven’t spoken that way, whatever it was, in many years. Gone, are the days of searching for dark, old, abandoned places, in the middle of nowhere, gone, is mostly everything, but that’s okay. We do not need any more stars. It was made legal. I’ve fallen into my own trap, I do this all the time. This is all fine, the way it is, the way things are, and, of course, that’s not the case, that will never, be. It’s comical, how tragic, it all is. Just tell some lies, about things we did in bed, and leave it at that; dried up, and over with. Perhaps, I should have left more, out of this. Your little mix up, set me back, two years. We’re not quite alive (amen).

Sing African tribal chants, whatever your color. Don’t delay the departure, of anyone, from here, be a log. Natural law, becomes unnatural, if it is not followed, ask Abe. The less sense it makes, the more it ends up making, that’s the honest truth, right there. I don’t want to know, what the starched out, bleached, pages, will eventually look like, or how they’ll read, or what that will lead to, as opposed to this. Cans, and bottles, and warning signs, all gone, not heeded, and I’m in trouble, and should’ve known. As usual, there is no one to help me, anywhere, and I feel it, deep in my peripheral nervous system. I feel like I usually do, and no different, panic stricken, desperate, intangible, and ephemeral. There was supposed to be a surprise, hidden in the middle of the cake, but it was just a rumor. I stare at my college diploma, as if it were a television, and I keep my door closed, I’m embarrassed of where the things I’ve done, have taken me, where I’ve ended up, what I’ve become. I avoid all potholes, I shun all extraneous responsibility, I avoid, most things, I owe nothing, drive around, try to be seen, in my try not to be seen, way. I went to the store, did the long, pointless, drive around, pulled down a few books, and leafed through them, wrote a few more, in my head, that will never see the light of day, the prescriptions, the outside world, the going out of business sales, and demolition crews, with hardhats, who like loud music. Unfortunately, I need to know that I am nothing, more completely, than the average person, I need to drink a little more, get into more trouble, overshoot a few too many targets, to wind up even close to the ballpark, of what I want to become. I fantasize about tombstone engravings, and factory lives, nude strip joints, hookers, fast food, and slow digestion. Well, is there a better word, to describe what it is, I’m trying to do? It seems like escape, but, it seems to me, as if there should be more letters, and it should be a tad more difficult, to define, and pronounce. Folly, fooled, etc. It is all passing me by. We are poor, we want to be rich. I’m down there, low. To be honest, there aren’t any more tangents, to go off on. You are my reason for (let us cash checks, and horde money) living, and I love you, beautiful stranger. There is a very exciting project, in the works, namely, the denial of all that has been done, before this. We’re all sick of being crooked faced, and blue booked, slabbed, and married, checkered, and mismatched, dropped, and broken, in that way, where you’re still usable, but not quite the same, again. The reason she drinks so much, is because she has this strange idea, that the sound of air, escaping from the top of the beer can, is an analogous, or identical, sound, as the sound of the soul, escaping from the body. There is shit on the handkerchief. I am not a writer, I am only what I write, and I write, this shit. Tell all the grag queens (flee her infernal, sex traps). There are a million fat people, making right turns, on some street, somewhere, right now. I am leftovers? Well, to get pissed, is a waste of valuable energy, that we need to harness, and use, for other purposes. I have a great allegiance to the unknown, the undone, but no one knows, or can know, what that, will be. I need my time, this time, and despise from the fulcrums, and folds, of my digestive tract, anything that chews up, and spits out, my time, with no swallowing, no satisfaction. It’s not that satisfaction is any ideal of mine, far from it, but working your ass off, for anyone else, is equivalent, to turning ones back on oneself, if such a thing, were possible. I saw the rock star, with his latest girlfriend, in a dream, carry on. The intention, if there is one, is to learn to enjoy static, not to tune, and re-tune, the radio, incessantly. Yes, our self confidence, is oftentimes, merely, deluding, leading us down a trail of unemployment, financial dire straits, disillusionment, and desperation. Give me what I ask for. I can’t even describe, my fury. Pull out my medulla oblongata, put parts, and pieces of it, underneath the microscope. I saw someone behind the grocery store, who recognized me, although I didn’t recognize him. It’s usually, the other way around. My hand is beginning to cramp up, and hurt. If there were a secret kit, that I could purchase, to enable me to only anticipate, molecular trajectories… if there were a passcard, an emotion lotion, a makeshift sex juice, an unidentified psalm, witch trial, cortex, of thirteen generations, I’d buy it. Anything exemplified, standing in front of you, has already been done. To concentrate on the road, on our perceived weaknesses, our strengths, is to tumble, backward. You fished me, and now, it’s my intention to fish you, back. The lighting went sideways, too. We are, and aren’t, it is, and isn’t.

I want a new life, this year! The fairytale bus, has long since, crashed. As part of the maturation process, we must fail, abysmally. All of this… isn’t even that creative. Smear it, the action takes place, on the borders, in the margins. Sometimes, the greatest bits, and megabytes, are missed, the first time around. Buy low, sell high, re-incorporate, redistribute, recollect, repossess, all of your dead selves, that you left, back in the boot camp, library, cutting room, butcher’s shop. There isn’t anyone alive, on this planet, that I’d really like to meet. All the people who have done anything, that mattered, that set up the oblong box, are gone, blitzed, shucked. The view from inside the cornfield, looking out, the view from inside the vacuum sealed, salmon can. Something horribly wrong, has happened, is happening, we don’t know what it is, or was. The smell of underarm, body odor, is what inspires me, and keeps me going. Now, after all of this, after we thought the worst had to be, over, another tragedy. Something, that not only disrupts the nest, but overturns it, the eggs not only have fallen out, but, they have cracked, and all of the fluids, have seeped out, and are drying up, and/or freezing. Relief, is only a word, written on an index card, there will be a delay, things are going to be delayed. These nonstop, flights of fancy, these discount rates, free peanuts, cigarette butts. Right now, we intend to disrupt the entire performance, of Whistles on Ice, or whatever it’s called. Our intentions, run contrary, to our expectations. But, we can, and will, read aloud, maybe that will be enough. Should I, or should I not, venture out, and purchase food? These are the critical issues, and questions. I heard the wires, crackling against the pick up conductor, and it reminded me, of exactly, how old I am. She didn't hear me, the truth can be told, now. It shouldn’t take years, to figure out these simple things, but it does. It has, it is, right now. I shall not let them die, until I can repay them, for all they’ve done for me. I admit to being the first one to smash the window, and crawl out onto the fire escape. Stupid, senseless, years, and ideas, specifics, and overreaching, grand, unifying theories. An addiction to liquid, any liquid. This phylum, is moving backwards, and the reptilian brain, still rules all of our actual actions, and determinations. Good thing they found out, or, is it? Fling the mystery over your shoulder, wear the mask of gloom. Up my pussy? Memorize contours, use the images, study the divots, and divisions. Getting away from it all, is a myth, we hold dear. That, and hard work, leads to success. This book, or, the last one, any of them, will never be published. Much, of four years ago, remains with me, to one degree, or the other. We will not propagate our genes, we will do the dishes. There are a half a dozen bullet holes, in my car, the ashtray has been stolen, off the porch, there are inhuman (go, cueball) sounds, coming from the basement, from the back porch, which is collapsing. There was a perfectly good wicker chair, out in the trash, in front of some house, on that one road. Information is quite easy to come by, in fact, that it makes no difference, whether you got the information, or not. My happy time, ended with the first lawsuit. One man had a nervous breakdown. You must discover, why!? We want out. They knew what I was. Anything that’s easy to come by, you see, isn’t usually, worth having. I believe strongly, in the exact opposite, of every single thing that I’ve written, in this book. We, from this point forward, are not going to let anyone, mess with us. Are these thoughts, even my own, anymore? It’s a disaster, already. For some reason, when our favorite song comes on the radio, we usually, turn it down. I guess, we already know, those. This will take near forever, it will be almost forever, way before, I get anything done, the way it needs to. One problem, is that no one knows that I exist, even those near, and dear, so, we start from that point, usually. Let’s begin that abstract, exhibitionist, dance number thing, that we talked about doing, but never, actually did. They have us talking to the supervisor, now, they’ve found us out, somehow, we’ve really got to get out of here, at this point. The trouble is, that everyone, is firmly convinced, that I am an out, and out. Anything that I ever do, no matter how stupefying, extraordinary, or great, will never be perceived, as being anything but, the ravings of a madman. I want to inspect her vulva, but the whore, has taken leave, there can be no more falling down, no more crashes, or sympathies, contagious, and communicable, diseases. We can’t avoid our lack of clarity. This, despite the fact, that I have the disease, I am the disease. Maybe I shouldn’t have passed out my writings to strangers, so freely, I can see where some of these self-inflicted wounds, have come from. The people don’t smile anymore, they know the score, they know the parameters, the facts, the true to life, woven trail, the act, the disfigured mask, and that talk in the back room, with the flickering, fluorescent, light bulb, off, on, off, on. I cannot bring myself to dial that number, and hear what would be heard, for having done so. Right now, I really need to smash something, that, will do! Crawl your ass to safety. Of course, the best stuff gets deleted. The world will end, because of our greed, and selfishness, period. Arthritis in my hands, emphysema in my lungs, a gun in the closet, just in case, there, is here. Nice, kind people, are taken advantage of, as a matter of course. We want to hear the sounds, we want to. I am you! The barnacles are attaching to my testicles, and even though they tickle, a little bit, I don’t think they’re supposed to be there. I feel so much like a boat, without oars, or rudder, sail, or engine, that this all, makes perfect sense. That dog shit, out in the snow, stands out, and looks like a dead rodent, or a rotting banana peel. They say I’m still young, but I’m not so sure, they say that there’s lots of time, and I disagree. We honor you, and find you trustworthy enough, you’re not like those others, that group, over there. There is an umbrella pattern, to all of this, it’s inspiring, and hallucinatory, it can lead to strong influence, coercion, new jobs, credit cards, rebuilt transmissions. I’m not exactly welcomed with open arms, I’m shouted at, from windows, up above. How can I get this thing, into that, other realm? Preserve the trees, do what thou wilt, but preserve the trees. She was all about fuck, but unfortunately, she was only about, fuck, there is nothing wrong with fucking, but you do have to say something, in those stretches, of interim time, between fucks. It doesn’t have to mean anything, particularly, but there must be at least, one other, common interest, every pore on her body, was pure, ahem, I’m getting an erection just thinking about it, and I’m not imagining any details, either. I can remember when I used to draw lines through the sevens, when it actually mattered, how the homework assignments, appeared, not to mention, whether the answers were correct. All I used to want was freedom, and now that I have it, I don’t know what to do with it, or that I have it, or what it is, or if it is. There are dead ends at both sides of the argument, thus, nobody wins, but everybody keeps right on playing. If you don’t have your shit together by thirty, they say, you never will. So, now, I guess I’m going to keep doing my research work, keep studying those books, by dead people, with some vague hope, or wet dream, of “getting it all figured out." No one would help me, if they could, and from this point forward, that’s fine. Things get harder to resist, jail, or no jail! Can’t help it, eh? Love can tear apart a twin cam, turn it into triplets, and put it back together. We are not the people that we thought we were, at all. The disease is spreading, and will kill us all!

Can you see the greyness, on the horizon? I did my string bean dance, to the delight of the audience. Put on your own, song, and dance, revue! The train cars, always seem to be empty. Remind yourselves, that it’s all bullshit. I took the long way, the really long way. We have all of the materials, and none of the requisite, talent. Pregnancy is a painful, and dangerous, ordeal, in other words, pre-life, is as dangerous, and painful, as actual life. Is it any (be desperate) wonder, that we still live, for the most part, in the dark? Here comes the torrid metamorphasis. Frenzy comes upon me like an itch, and I just can’t help scratching it, until it bleeds (so that I can see what lies underneath it). I want to go further, much, much, further, than anyone has ever gone before, and my trip is inward bound, only. I have grown corrosive, and radioactive, I’m all isotope, and petri dish, frozen epiglottis, and discount sale. In quick succession, we are the proprietors of solitude. I don’t mean to imply anything, about irrigation thresholds. Husky, strapping, and wanton, in, and out, of rehabs, and ice cream parlors, barber shops, and dentists chairs, buildings of all sorts, and kinds; houses of shame, habit, cramps, ringworm. Eyes, look really weird, and spooky, freaky, scary, upside down. Try it out for yourself, and see, it’s a miracle! No one can bowl like Marge. Our desires, are mostly, juvenile. Be sick of comfort. What is? The dark, squirming, crawl out, of where we are. All of your limbs, will fall asleep. I am confounded by these variables, these infinite, complicated, variables. Laugh at night, or, try to. It just comes out of my head, from the inside, but it means so much more, to me. We need more songs, longer, and louder, better, bigger songs, to make our own stories up about, notwithstanding, what the musicians thought it meant, or it meant, or means, to them. We need more wood blocks, and carousels, we need to keep our mouths shut, even more than we already do. It both is, and is not, a mess, that I made; so, since responsibility for it, does not rest squarely on my shoulders, I refuse to be the only one to clean it up. The one you want, most times, wants nothing at all, whatsoever, to do with you, that is precisely why, you chose that person! See how we work our magic? For the last couple of years, I have been saving the rejection letters I receive, I’ve got quite a collection going. Basically, I thought I was smarter, than I really am. Our good qualities, positive attributes, are what we most despise. Fail, but fail, through and through. An occasional glance, reassures us. You will land on your feet, stumble, but rise again. This is here, now. Disattach it, dilute it, water it down, so that it will be more palatable to the hop-bop kids. I don’t expect anything, and I don’t get anything, it’s as simple as that. There is always going to be some master of public opinion, who will say this, reminds them, of such, and such, or so, and so, and I’ll be relegated back to the role of charlatan, scam artist, plagiarist, pugilist, and would be/can’t be, poet. The masters, know not, who they serve, of course. But see, that doesn’t make any difference, if it tastes good, people will eat it, if it doesn’t, no one ever will. Where it is damp, cold, dark, and bloody, you’ll find me, one of me, or a couple, a group, a whole disco, full. Nothing changes, we just call things by different names, now, than they did, then. She says she knows “the streets.” What, asphalt? White and yellow lines? It’s funny, I’ve never once found, that anyone, under the influence of alcohol, or drugs, had anything interesting, or creative, or different, to say, and they didn’t do anything, interesting, creative, or different, either. They didn’t, and don’t, seem to say, or do, very much, of anything, at all. That is, except, cause problems, but I’ve never thought of problems, as being all that interesting. See, there are going to be scores of problems, whether you’re fucked up, and out of it, or not. Nothing all that creative, or generative, about that. Nothing beats the thrill, of imagining ancient Incas, eating chocolate, or trying to picture what’s underneath those snake-like, burial mounds. The suture has been removed, and I still have automobile insurance. My vehicle is taking on a ghetto-like rumble, I’d forgotten about that huge, early morning, auto crash, on the interstate, the far reaching effects, it had. Avoid all trendy things. Use both of your thumbs, to hold it open. This is what we believe, at this point. It is very important, that our bodies take in nourishment, and wear clothing, they tell us this, while holding clipboards, so, it must be true. The illusion of progress, has got me down. I sense that there is some kind of interference, taking place, some plot to distract me, and undermine all of my attempts, at getting out of this basement recording studio/masturbation chamber. After the jury comes back in, and gives their opinion, we’re all left, with our own. We had awful lot of fun in the motel, before it burned down. Covet a encore, a mullet?