201

Black book failure, all around collapse, flim-flammy, man. My hair falls in front of my face, like the arms of some demented octopus. How can I even attempt, to keep me, out of this? Make what, what is there, to make? We searched through the Indian Burial Ground. Don’t rely, or count on, me, I can’t be trusted. Assign yourselves a purpose. Hypnotized, haphazardly, no one talks about quantum value theory. I can’t cross it out. This vomit, here, why? I never became an astronaut. They interrogated me, for hours. In the throes, yet again, of a crisis, of the now. Play “country.” Erase the parts, that were written in pencil. They have to act cool, there’s money in it for them, I don’t. The canyon bottom? In random order, the secret words, are; immediacy, courage, perseverance, fortitude, power. This song, why? Go forth into the world, and apologize for any spills, or messes, you might make, along the way. Art, is an itching in the loins that, of course, you cannot scratch. There are many reasons, not to reproduce. This is just like a cinnamon line. Scandals get forgotten. Maybe tree limb girl, would like in on the action. What is the connection, between backaches, and sexual virility, again? Fold, wisdom spouters, says who? Strip malls, we’ve got them. Don’t go to sleep, without sleeping. Things are never the same, after insanity, gets labeled, genius. See it, coming. Perhaps, the time has come, to drive around, and…ahem, record a few things. Thanks, Huck, whoa, those people are tangoing each other, wild! Things get so full, so full? Obnoxious “think” booklets, with questionable advice, to impart? Feel better, sit there, quietly, get a grasp on things, find some measure of success. A mixture of everything, and nothing, there doesn’t have to be any reason. You are such a wonderful stylist. Not done, yet? Some men need help, others, need toilet paper. The nun was a mashuga. There was a sort of a smashing sound, at the end. Years click by, like a stick on a picket fence… It’s all getting a lot worse. Don’t be fooled, don’t trust others (or yourself), what exactly is, “finger pod time”? Can’t fake you, him, her, or it. Our big plans, fell flat. There is another solstice, I’m told, one, nobody talks about. Return to the issue of extremes, in detail, later. Fuck ups, have no idea, how much they fuck up, everybody else’s, lives. Do not comply, do not contribute, do not be sucked into the traps, they’ve set out for you. Writing is like sex, before puberty. We thought that a wholly other kind of life, was going to take place. Never give up on your dreams, of having your shit, typed! They call it the notebook of the damned, for lack of anything better, to call it. This room is sort of like the only thing…obligations, masturbation. Idiots endured, we missed the concern, have water/will, imagine. Stretch your legs, be very embarrassed, by this magnum opus. All that dying talk…in-between, senses, working beyond their capacity. Let this be another version, of the same old thing. Indulge in carnal delights, with strangers of ill repute, eat caramel syrup, also. Grab the pole, and swing, this was contemplated, earlier. So clone-like, look up, now we’re stoned. There is a little bit of anger, scattered here, and there. Overplayed inebriation, we can’t see them, much less, know what they’re thinking about. Stand against the wall, for hours, and hours, on end, and observe, that most things, are not worth observing. Purple monsters, worshipped, engulfed, the street itself, is in one of those magic moods. Gimme some of that sniff? Maybe we were talking too loud, but people like us, are all too often, silenced. Crescents are waxing, and/or, waning. Do you see some patterns, developing, here? The culture, the society, the government, the church, seem to say, get down, and stay down. The brain, bellows out its indigestion, oh, sorry, I meant, drain (same difference). Truisms, are tautologies, of one, particular, kind, or the other, to be kept to yourselves. Fairly big buildings, liver spots, if you’re lucky. Hypnotized, by left turn signals? Idea graveyards, should be revived, revised, expanded. Giving into eighty-two, tender, we watched the cars, burn. Take on your enemies, molecularly. Dethroned, let us know for our illegible records. Let’s do some transcribing? Fixate, overanalyze; little man. The sad parts, were all the first person, singular, accounts. What enthusiastic hellos, were you referring to? He is losing his hair, it would appear. We are human product, with no imaginary audience. Keep the wanton sex action, out of this. Yeah, it’s a lot of damn pages.

Thinking of new things, to do, or say, is like flushing a toilet. Go be a star at the mall, but first, by all means, finish this lousy, glowworm, vibe. So, you’re gonna’ party, good for you, good for you. Turn up the static on the radio, in joyful hope, that perhaps, it won’t reach your thighs, this time. We’ve discovered some very strange things. If you arbitrarily decide, to cut this in half, I’ll cut you in half. The doorknob has incurred a great deal of damage, over the years. Go on, as is. You have just, got to do it. I do not choose to wear that ribbon, as a hat. We’re due for a win. I was slapped. Every stick, gets pissed on. I am sick. Our practice, has come to an end. My opinion may be the last thing you need, or the first. Again, for the third time in a month, a big car, almost turned into me. The smell of pine, is not as comforting, as it once was. The canoe, is like a quintet. Nobody named George, is stopping by here. Oh, my woman burped, and farted, I’m afraid to be charged so much money, not to even get anything. The cleaners doesn’t give any deals, to anyone, either. Try to cash your check, at some convenience store. The important thing, is to just shuttle between, the in-between. There isn’t very much to say, right now, which could be considered to be, clever. The 1960’s, didn’t change anything. The gross disorder…hey, don’t play. We’re talking quality, and decency, Germany, versus France. Our favorite songs, never get played on the radio, if they ever were. Try to still believe, that the rooster will crow, in the morning. We do not want a fire, to destroy everything. Clumpy joy, half feelings, broken breath, style, and floaters, found, and ground, dusty, and eyeballed. It is so, hard, to have any confidence in this “trash stuck against the chain link fence,” world. Try to tune into, a psychological hailstorm, of ballads, not knowing where we’re going, or how cold it is, outside. Pave the street, with a new kind of plastic, so these omnipresent potholes, don’t ruin our cars suspension systems. It’s awfully disheartening, to find out, late in the game, that you’re a full-fledged, idiot, and to know, that that, explains everything, every trouble. Take it off, take it off, would you hand me a need? Sweat a spell, from your ass, to the fabric, and fibers of the very seat, you’re sitting on. There aren’t going to be any tinkle bell solutions, for us. Automatic pilot, can’t save us, allow us to accept ourselves, hone ourselves in, on how much work this duo/trio flophouse, is. The bass, flew up, and around us, and seemed to incorporate the grey, more politely, into the black hair weave. The salt, is some kind of poison. I’ve got to rush down to the mall rat, mouse hole, place, again. It will be awhile. Use the remote control. This is embarrassing, and piss-poor. I’ve got to find some inspiration, fast. To pretend that anything, may happen, to live such an elaborate fantasy/Dixieland jazz, world. This is not Baltimore, tell all the comedy club comedians. Let the stiff bacon, be crushed, and sprinkled, over the eggs. So much, has to do with the direction that you’re facing. Every step, that I trip forward, from, merely reminds me, of how many things that have to get done, which are not. Today, would have been a great day, to send out résumés, again. Turn the/foot the bill, thing over, or up, lie, or, oh, never let anyone tell you, that you’ve got to act all, big dick/little pussy. I thought that there was an encyclopedia, nearby; I was, of course, mistaken. Am I wearing a hat, or what? No guests, no duties, no incoherent talk/talk. Perhaps, a real project, should be undergone. I’m moving, trying, this is no easy sort, of sausage, this is as satisfying as…no more overwhelming increments. What we are in need of, here, is a typist, some endowment, a scholarship, or partial, something, or the other. Why does it take so long, to caress the individualistic, sharpening stone? Why did he attack you, while you danced? There aren’t any grad students, anywhere near here. Shake it out, this is going to be just an ordinary, Saturday night. Should I do some cross-country trip, without any money? Once more, with background music (applause, please). I often wonder, why we even try. The boat could crash into something, and sink. Do you believe that you’re beyond, or over it? Listen to the particular tones, of the dog barking. Damn, there is definitely, something happening, here, now, that has never happened before. Let’s not start dropping bombs, or think about tic, tac, toe. What we all want, is an old-fashioned, ultimatum! Do not light anything on fire, without first considering, what all those weak, given-into impulses, are, or are not, going to get us. Shoot, I’ve got to do, what I’ve promised, gotta’ knock this chip off my shoulder. People won’t talk. Whatever it is that I end up doing, is going to get done. Be your own thing. They (real trouble is like this, but, add a crisis) honk their horns, constantly. We got lost in thought, or, the lack thereof. You cannot punch in, until you put your nametag on! Just a little bit longer, and there is going to be disco dancing, unlike any other kind, there has ever been. My vicious, evil, nature, will come out. There is a toll free number, we could call. I’m a mind-reader, which is why I’ve got all the problems, that I’ve got. Mosquito love? Don’t spoil the operatic performance, with all that shrill pitch, screaming, and yelling. Let’s give up on wearing yellow sweaters, and counting down the years, to our very own, private, and personal Armageddon, revisions. We are really going to have to work more quickly, to do what we need to do, now. Don’t let bygones, be bygones, be stubborn. Reveal the lies, let everybody know. It was like a strange museum.

Hurry up, you’re already hours, and days, behind schedule. As far as work is concerned, I really don’t care, I’ll work, or I won’t. Unemployment is actually far superior, to stupid, worthless, workaday, life, anyway. Sometimes, all that is necessary, to feel better, is a car wash. Nothing that I’ve been saying, means very much, lately, or, even, means a thing. I have a great many, worries, sure. But most (not all, but most) of them, don’t make any difference. The itch to get your ass into graduate school, goes away. The drive, or ambition, to get a job, is usually the first thing to go, when you really sit down, and assess things. I don’t belong here, no, it is true, but, there isn’t anywhere on this Earth that I’d belong, any more. I should call you back, but I just don’t want to. I may very well, have court, in two weeks time, which could go badly, meaning, jail. What a historically, grand year, this would be, if such a thing as that, would happen. Saturday, is a day for the normal people, of the world, to do their normal errands, and…everything is different, now. Another hour has passed, there is mildew, and mold, in the car, everything, and anything, is tilted, nothing is funny, we’re all doing something, wrong, very, very, wrong. There isn’t anything at all here, that is silly, or creepy…the money is gone, it’s too late for prevention. After I throw myself off the cliff, we can play dollhouse, and dick off, and all the rest of this shit. Drinking? I don’t think this is a very good time, to even be thinking, about alcohol. The hardcore, dovetail dive, isn’t going to put any shit over, on anybody. How dare we ask, even pretend…this is not the time…shit! Eighty hours a week, is only the beginning, only the beginning! My nausea, is from the chicken coop of failure, no eggs laid. Floundering, and watching others, just glide along the path, and enjoy themselves, flopping over the sides. How do I know you? Drama kings, and queens, fuck it in, tuck it in. Perhaps, rubbing some grit on the shaft, will work out some…writing, notes, explaining the shifts of slop, out of the crust. When we start dying, the whole up, and up, comes crashing, down. Once breast cancer, finally attacks, the dimes, hidden in the elephant sculpture, don’t make any difference. Where am I going to put my anger, what am I going to do with it? This is so tedious, and it’s not living up to anything…shit, there isn’t any death crotch, innuendo. A welcome mat, is not an option, to welcome people, but, we must wipe our feet. Slide down the pole, onto the other side. To the hip, happening, who believe themselves to be cool, in the know, alternative, and… We carry maps, because we need to know where to escape to, after we leave here. Twist your arm, from left, to right…the very next day, we’re screwed, again, thrown out of the pleasure garden, for eating with our mouths open. Just get it done, at this point, admit that there isn’t going to be any grand meaning, behind any of this. Wouldn’t you think, that the grief, would go away? That constant use of such, and such, a muscle, could network some kind of new, electrical power, out of this. Dye the curtains grape, waste the expectations, invent a new grafting process. Get intense, or you’re going nowhere, scratch your nose, until the scar tissue, falls out of the holes. What does anything, have to do with any other, thing? Nothing! This doesn’t match the other, it never has, never will. Suddenly, all that can be done, is vacuuming…just don’t pretend to be a hippie. The smell of chemicals, is some kind of endorsement. I do not write for my health, please (tomorrow, you work, fucklick) pay at the next window. My fears, undid me. None of our garments, are real, either. Petals, fall off of, all flowers, not just the kind that you don’t want the petals, to fall off of. Nobody will ever read this, anyway, so, make it totally radical. We don’t know what to say. Squeal your way through, piglet, squeal your way through. You can’t smell the hops, downtown, anymore. We’d better be patient, because we will wait. Too long, too heavy? Ah, go ahead, and act all sexy/manly/in complete control, I know it’s just some kind of reaction formation. No, I don’t flush, if it’s white, only if it’s yellow, do I flush. In some kind of creepy, sex comedy, tear down the shower curtain. Damn, I’ve got to finish this. Savings, so many different ways, to save? How about a nice, chocolate reindeer? Whoa, what are you doin’? When I have time, I must clean this pit/hole. There are all night things, happening, that somehow, or the other, I’m not a part of. Please, don’t talk to me about the new, automatic, phone answering system. Take a flying leap, into all the work you have done, in order to prove, if it is, or isn’t, even there. Every picture I see, reveals more, and more, of…well, maybe we shouldn’t…um, um. The important thing to do, is to finish doing what it is that you’re doing, oftimes, one doesn’t know, what that is, at which time, you are required, to guess. Put some upbeat music on, it is far, far, too boring, in here. There isn’t anything else to read; later, I’ll do it, later. Lo, my anger is such, that I nearly pissed my pants, driving home, from the wherever the hell it was. Don’t put up with it, any longer. This is definitely a sign, that I have lost my mind, it should, indeed, be obvious, by now, that I am crazy, that I’ve always been (and so on). Breadlines, are very utilitarian. The mayonnaise, made a sound. The first one, is always free. Who can stop it? What I want, will never happen. It gets very complicated. We’ve compromised, quite a bit, already.

Years of ejaculations, into the void, of our own, adjunct, pleasure centers. The entire, blurry result, is as straightforward, as it gets. Filth, has a lot to do with soap. We know not what we do…ever…still. Leave the lamps behind. Any more hate, and a crime is going to be committed. Long since dead, appraised, blank your blank, into the blank. Currently merging, cataloging. Fortunes you’ll never have, are being spent, by someone else. When the fist is shoved into your ass, it isn’t the excruciating pain, but the shame…the shame of letting it be done unto you. After I destroy myself, please, forget me, take things seriously. The bank, plays songs about the ground. There is one thing, you must do. Leading/guiding is/ is not, tolerable. We run out of things to say, soon enough…and for the rest of the time, we merely, suffer through…reeling in the torpor, until there is no other recourse, but to give up, completely. Nothing of any consequence, is ever going to happen to me, or, by me. Unadulterated, bile, squirms its way around your insides, keeling you over, and making you want to die, be disturbed, sneeze. As stated before, everything is everything. Bellow, kind of like how the fish, can’t resist, the bait. Death, and destruction, sex, and disintegration. The sick joke, is that the vortex of nothingness, is your everyday life, what you’re working so hard for. I don’t want anything, anyone. Blackjack, different lines, different names, freaks, jerks, thoughts, ideas. Wanting/wasting; not able to tell the difference, anymore, if it isn’t one thing, it’s the other. Terrified mice, cat swapped, only appear to be tame. Trying to create a talent, now, are ya? These are words, not mud pies, and even though they don’t touch you, in all the super conscious, parts of your head, like that dead guy’s; this is real, I am alive. The books we read, might as well be pap smears, for all we get out of them. We’re more than divorced, if such a thing, were possible. The stupidest people, have the most advanced degrees, as if trying to prove some moot point, to themselves. Failures, wholeheartedly, refuse to win. We never seem to get sick, or tired, of thinking about sex, do we? The disturbing allegations, are true. Devise another TAO. Maybe things will be different, someday, soon. So crisp, immediate, rewarding? Madmen, are the only sane ones, among us. There aren’t any notes on paper plates. The terrible, economical difficulties, will persist. Notice given, whatever…inconsistent. Pistols work; just as drugs, work. The shame, is that we’ve got the years, to lose; lost in nothingness, and less, meaninglessness, and beyond. Putting in sky lights, is a big mistake, with a peeper in the neighborhood. Prison is no place to raise a family, or start a business. You are an accordion, in storage. There is nothing amusing, even the slightest bit, living in the horror, and oblivion, these deathless, existences, we are pretending to enjoy. Thrust forth, turn out all the lights, try to recover. We tried to be clever, for a while, make the most of it, just endure, until such a time, as those defenses, collapse. Total insanity, equates to no turning point, no turning back, no government checks forthcoming, conflict, on this insecurity, low self esteem, paranoid delusions, manic episodes, obsessive compulsive cleaning. We’re asphyxiating, looking at photographs of attractive people, in magazines, questioning our own abilities, to attract objects. What was it, that we were hoping to get, after all those wasted years, are gone, now? It’s like a 100 watt current, passing through a 75 watt, bulb. The inside savvy, will dim the desperation, of our damaged brain/language barrier, systems. Leak your essence, tear the ass out of the kitchen, turn it inside-out. Savor the look, and feel, of a fresh coat of paint, until the gas, has all diffused out of the garage. Certainty, is debatable. Those who did it, didn’t. Without knowing, we keep going. It doesn’t happen much, surprisingly. We would seem to be wearing mittens, we may, or may not, talk about the neurotransmitters, in our brain. Scarecrow pumpkin, we are commended. There isn’t anything to do, that needs to be done. The smell of being burned, keeps us close to nature. Want to be a millionaire? Fail. Paraphernalia, double threads us…take the structure apart, and then, rebuild it. The jokes get told, people laugh, politely; not really thinking anything’s very funny (already over?). Tears flow, vigorously study, become a wholly, altogether, kind of (the road, is very long), someone/something, else. This entire book, all this work, all that time, will pass, unnoticed. We’re down in the hold.

We want to know more; much, much, more. Such a vague, discontented, and confused, life, this. Words, are a stumbling voyage, through atrophied states. We know that there is a very complicated order, that it’s not all chaos, but we could be wrong, about this. How to publish your own book, volume one; count on a posthumous bestseller, great success, that isn’t great for anybody, except the profit people, who always have their hands in, or on, or around, other people’s cookies. Read it aloud, right now, question the perpendicular aspect, of releasing the tempests, from within. I am a steel shadow, now, an iron phantom. This is looking at the flunked quiz, the math problems, left unanswered, on the paper…see, this one is dedicated, to the omnipresent ability, of people, to forget. Help me, Veda, I think I need more information. The dish is being shoved across the floor, and I can’t hear myself think. Saliva is all over everything, sometimes, we drool on ourselves, as well. People, begin the next sojourn, the next semester, sabbatical, black tie, necromancer, tuna fish sandwich, on the lawn. There isn’t enough time, only because, I don’t make any use, of the time, I have. This is a mistake, that was a mistake, so was that, and that, and that. But, so what, such, is the way it is. I can't get over it, or comprehend it, or make sense of it, but only because, I guess, I don’t want to, even though, I need to, needed to. We spend our money, indiscriminately, on things we do not need, and then, cry in our beer, about not having enough money, to pay for the things that we do, in fact, need. I cut the eye out of the beast, with an exacto knife, and placed it, neatly, on the piece of wax paper. Why must we doze off, in air conditioned rooms? I ask my questions, quietly, so as not to arouse, suspicion. Russian/Swedish, fuckfests! That lackadaisical walk, that passive-aggressive way, that I just accept, all the lies, that they tell me. This is more serious, than a quadruple bypass surgery, but doesn’t have the same, tangible, results. Whoa, pills, can do this? Toilet bowls, become fish bowls, with piranhas in them, and elephantine testicles, hang down, part way, into the water. Our scars, are stained, we didn’t ask for this. Yes, some of this, is a bit unclear. We sat down, and ate lasagna, in focus. I am not going to allow myself, to be a homeless, vagrant, who dies in six years, in a charity ward. All of the sacrifices that I have made, have availed me nothing, save for the lack, of that, which was sacrificed. Anything that can be overdone, will continue to be done so. The cement, seals the casket, in an extra-protective way. Low, rumbling, thunder, is there, to remind us. Do you know, the people who know? Did you ever position an air conditioner, too close to your ass? Never say never, indeed. Shrink me, worm. Forgotten statements, fragments, words. There’s a hair in my mouth. I spent part of 1963, in a burn unit, down at the old Veteran’s Hospital, they’ve torn it down, since then. If I weren’t as ugly as I am, things would be decidedly, different. This is kind of like a back to school book, for the dissatisfied, disaffected, disappointed. Our papa’s, and the Roosevelts, don’t recognize us. Alone, so as not to have somebody, constantly, worrying about us. The wind, is blowing all of last year, and the year before’s, bird, and squirrel nests, right out of the trees. Now, we can closely examine, their artistry, and handiwork. Hoping for a vision, of a new hallucination. Hoping to hear actual words, directed at me, and not playing crossword puzzle, with the sounds in the air. No matter what, I still, do nothing, no matter where, it’s still the same, my dreams, are taking me farther away, from where I am, and to a place, that’s even more sandy, murky, wet, and swamp-like. My literary foray, was over, before it began, and I don’t mean that, only because I can’t, mean that, or even, this very sentence you’re reading, would have never been finished. Things are usually, just about as boring, as they may, or may not be, liberating. Down fall the pages I need, down falls the smell of cigarette smoke, off the jacket, and into the couch. I kicked everything over, and I did it, on purpose. My verve, is gone, my lights, are off, but something, peculiar, remains with me, still. I ask about the world famous, onion burger, and for, extra ketchup. I put exclamation marks, at the end of every sentence, as if this all meant something, and I erase them all, later. It’s a bit of a curse, you see, to be so far out of the loop, that you perceive the sphere, for a rectangle, but, in all honesty, I prefer things, this way. Cord cut, incomprehensible, immaculate, synthetic, wasted, humiliated, and somber. The idiot comet, that rushes by, without being seen, in-between Venus, and Mars, on the twenty-seventh, periphery. Flowers, dangle from our sexual organs, and we bathe in holy water, and we drink, for a lot of reasons, we drink, to kill reason, within us. The ends of my fingers, are unraveling, for lack of a better word. I know all the streets, and legalities, associated with navigating them…at least, around here. And for some reason, or the other, I’m seeing that sideways lightning, again. I wanted to write something that had no meaning.

We are just putting our dicks in the hole in the wall, that “the people at the top,” suck greedily, at. Everything seems clean, fresh, but we know, that’s not the case. Drop, without knowing that you dropped. Stare at the pink tile, bathroom walls, and wonder if you’re falling into, or out of, some kind of madness, again. Work harder, shun luxury, hit play, take a few steps backwards, bathe. Scratchy, and itchy lives; wanting, but not being able to have. The headlines of the day, are not interesting. Some people have six, or seven reels, going at once, but get stuck, on just one. It’s not a very mysterious, mystery, is it? We’re fucked, and we’re, in the fucking. Things are getting crossed out, now. Subsist, off of the barren, the illegible, knowing the problem, does not imply the solution, to that problem. To ruin, and destroy you, to look up/lift up your skirt…the tragic element, a little bit of risk, to everyday (stale beer, pitchers). Mr. Vagina, feigns empathy, talks about a great many, emotions/scars, of his own. If only this cigarette, were really dynamite. Unplug your eyes, mumble something, about still being able to leave the room. The “left out” teenagers, are gathering varieties of experience, that the “cool kids,” will never, ever, understand. Thugs, and fools, oil spills, in soft drunk cups, most of this, is not worth saving. We have our own ideas, on why straws were invented. Indignation, indigestion, elevators, everything (rig the drive chain). What was that one part, about Gemini infrared, and being afraid of heights? We are entertained enough, we justify, aplenty, we sing, when nobody’s around. Long drives, to who knows where, await us. I’m so unhappy, that I don’t want to recover, I don’t care, anymore. I can’t, either, but, I do. Have a different impression. I told myself to be realistic, and the delusions took over, again. Time is crucial, time is not free, who would have ever thought, that what we think, is the end, is really, the beginning? We don’t think about dollars and cents, but rather, pussy and cock (this may be a big part of our problem). You can’t expect more, or less, of anything, without a hell of a lot of effort. Blatant poets, attempt to handle their enigmanity, with cherubian abandon. Lurch into a diatribe; misspell idealism, misspell, misspell. Wait for the laughter to subside, eggshells, with little holes drilled, for your viewing pleasure. This is sheer madness, there is no other way to put it, except, down. This is a different shade of wet. We live our errors, we should’ve been gone, all being said, and done, we are like cats, in heat. Think about the one word, that describes you, decode the entire, obligatory, jump in, all the flowers, are asleep in the greenhouse (turn around). Adlibbing at one time, try to listen to the silence, for a change, axiomatic blue faces, a denial of gravity, pencils, in order. The lines were too long, outside the roost, violent masturbating, socialistic, in many aspects, several things, in many aspects. Fun with sexually transmitted diseases, part two: shampoo reminiscing. Journal articles, that had something to do with quests to entwine, entitle; measure so and so, with an instrument. Notice, misappropriate, yin-yang, and other stuff, too. They’ve had my number, for a great, many years. Nothing but, bulk rate, there are still a great many things, we have to wait for (impatiently). I must have done something, very wrong. The guilt, gets alleviated, my invisible friend. Find God, coursing through your own veins, like some sort of hemoglobin. Static, is a term for imbalance. Wearing garments, best kept hidden, pretending to listen, one of the five minute party drop-by’s. Seals, cry with their eyes, whether they’re sad, or not, and tattoo’s remain, long after, they’re no longer relevant. Let’s worry about the end result, later. The tilting away, the glory, sounds like a flying saucer, crashing. Every time you consider quitting, keep an eye on how much harder, you start, working. Staring up at the ceiling, or looking out the window, is pleasant, but it takes you away from what you should be doing. It would be very unfortunate, if it were necessary, to just copy things, from one page, to another, and have no new ideas, whatsoever. Flex your muscles, turn away. Great movie title: Wait For the Video. Oh, the blood! Open a book at random, live/play out, whatever thought for the day, your eye, or finger, falls on. The indigestion, comes from sustaining a level of workaholic binges, falls, and get back ups. Atonal straightenings, effective links, out of the amplified reason, the source of rejection, hired, what to do, now? Armageddon talk, coupons clipped, twelve hour recuperation’s. And if we should crack, electricity, will become anarchy. We’re listening to a cartoon, in progress.

There’s just been, too much time away. We would’ve tried to live, the things we wrote, had we not written them. Shuffling, folding, re-folding the papers that represent us, are us. The time for being patient, has passed. Where does section sixty-three, fit into the book of the damned? Uh-oh, I didn’t meant to discard that rubber band. After toil, more tolls, until your pockets are empty, and miles, become States, and sweat, becomes dried up, softens the skin, ever so subtly. We’d go to jail, if there were no other way, and there they can be found, those who had no other possibility, but to wind up where they are. There was an ex-girlfriend, I don’t think about her very often. They are advertising penis pumps, in this trade magazine, I’m thinking about that. So many antidepressants, to dull our pain, and help us to look at the clouds, and the streams; solvent, stuffed in the corner tables, to hide the fact that the paint is peeling…the painting, the beige, prominently beige, paintings. The sky is brown, however that, so happened, to have happened. What if the applause were, for us? All the questions, seemed so insurmountable…now, we live with the answers we have found. We are really interesting people, inside our own heads, in our own fantasy worlds. Beer? Beer spills! This slow-motion kind, of stupefied drift, from one possibility, to another disappointment. We, sorry, I, am a gigantic, thumbless, hoof. This is of such low quality, there is no focus. Her tits, were floppy, and her pussy, was sloppy, and all of the boys, were randy, and ready. Get on the wobbly cart, the wheel bent, so that…the off track, feel. The coffee is cold, my hands, unsteady. We have one life, this is it. Now, almost a circus atmosphere, erupts! I refuse to work in a computer store, ever. Our names put together, spell, Khcersivn. Count the swings of the pendulum, before it slices in. They say that I’ll never be anything, until I’m published, and I will never be published. Vacant occasions, manic outbursts, the facts, being quite clear, the illusions, beginning to float away, like fog, like the rabbit in the hat, trick. Draining the fluid out of the plastic bag, take up a hobby, bitch about the new area code, the lattice work, was unique. The quality of exemplification, cannot be proven, not too much, can, if anything, at all. Too late for us, poor dears, that we are. Years of French lessons, came grinding to a halt, once we met our fine, young, Russian princess. We run out of ideas. So many different eras, and epochs, crowded into one. Pets snuggle in, with paws, wrapped around. Flustered out of Alberqurque. We are so, so, safe, where we’re at, that the possibility of any danger, is the furthest thing from our minds. Her ass, the turn of that ass! The dirt on the…in the…rows of…row, after row, of whatever the hell crop, it was. The lampshade, slightly crushed, is over there. Lambs are binary, fruit is loud, tusks, are something that elephants, used to have. Short-wave, short-term, solutions to problems, or burned out fuses? A pocketbook of phone numbers, only 6% of which, belong to people who are still alive. Jump into the synchronized, and homogenized, way (to get through life). This cake was baked, by who? We’ve all got to work through the tedium, just a bit harder. Eggplant tits, are good enough, let’s go chant some religious hymns. Soon, I will be bald, and won’t know how it happened. You kicked the floor mat, in anger. Block those thoughts, pretend the circumstances, didn’t lead to the twists, and turns, that we took as a way of avoiding, what ended up happening, anyway. Wipe your ass with your pants. I’d like to dedicate this, to the last, spastic, heave. As far as I’m concerned, those pages are all dead, and this is the end, of the end, the last page, of a lot of pages. The fear of being sued, prevents any real creative activity, from flourishing. Tainted blood, can change your mood, from happy, to sad, right quick. The war (which one?) in the middle east, rages on (and on, and on). The late baseball scores, are in, the records have been tied, or broken, things have happened, or not happened. We live, and work, in deplorable conditions. Very soon, a test, which isn’t, which never is. The end, is the beginning, for us, poor, sad, sacks. After you’ve done all that you could, to help make an impossible situation, possible, give up, give in. You will caress my big/little tits, the depressed man, takes another pill (now, we’re having fun). Pull out all the stops. That’s not the view, anymore. The law, caused us to wilt.