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Don’t worry, I’ll read this in my sleep. We don’t need no entourage. CAW, CAW, CAW! Take whatever you want, babe, it’s free. To be, is to be multidimensional. All of this sucks, and by the time we figure out what the hell to do with it (sadness is our strong suit), we cross it all, out. Twist off the cap, again. Three years too late, we find ourselves saturated with anxiety, about what to do next. Let them keep the dildo. More famous than…then…able to move another pointless step, forward. We can’t afford to buy a tree, for the one that’s fallen. Well, now that all of these missteps, have been brought out of the realm of nightmare, and into the light of reality, rapture, is sure to be right around the corner. I am not real, but what difference does it make? The new part, is just like the old part. So many years of so, and so, are you sure? Dyslexia-praecox, holy, mistress, alabaster, everybody’s laughing. Well, I tried to do something about it. They are cold. Rooms without board, are for rent, but there is no place to go, there’s never anywhere, to go. We smell like ham, suspicions, jolts, that will pull us into, and out of, the use/misuse, of ourselves (and, the others). Here is proof positive, that consciousness, and crotches, sound the same, and are both a type, or kind, of sin. Drawn distinctions, get blurred. The most important work, never feels like work, even though it is also the hardest, work. The moth king, falls for eucalyptus, shift the whodunit, the other way around. This is very, very, normal. The overall scents, are that of carbon, and ozone, sulphur, tar, and shit. Put [SIC], at the end of every sentence I write (ibid). Shall we lift off the face plate, and peek underneath? Flyers were posted on each, and every, Kiosk. The crowd will continue to cheer. She’s dying, as I avoid doing the things, I’ve got to do. Oh, oh, sorry, I was trying to find the gear shift. We’re full of spite, and bile, spit, and vinegar (but, not really). The goal is to know what to do, and, to do it. Fight biology, unrelentlessly. Give up, on giving up. Don’t let yourself daydream too much. Make them pay you. There is so much bitterness, so much rage, that I think that it’s all rather funny. Pornography is important, good, perversion is important, good. Is it metal, pop, or rock? This goes out to the Indian giver, that gives back. Two hours a day of sleep, is all that seems to…all these postponements, all of these roaring strings. Find some bodies? Question the husband. Think that X did it? X did it. There isn’t one sentence, in all of this, that puts a string around it. Oh, I’ve already apologized, I’m sick of apologizing, fuck you! We are too imbued with luxury. They’ll tell you they’re mushrooms, when they’re really spores, that grow off of shit. Focus on the peculiar sound, of phones ringing, this is moody, spooky, these are our pets, that is butter. We are waiting patiently, for the transformation of the modern era, into the next modern era. Just do it, just say, yes! Don’t give into cheap substitutes, like arsenic, and strychnine. Do you really want to hear about the nature of my craziness, it’s origins? As Socrates said, shortly before his demise, “Buddy, we owe a chicken to somebody.” Like scratchy, dusty, old records, we shuffle, and skip through, our daily routines. Why is that crate, so difficult to move? This book, I have finally discovered, will always be unfinished, due to the fact, that it is unfinishable (we think this is the case with ourselves, as well, but we are mistaken). Faltering, floundering, reeling, grabbing onto the pole. I can smell you when you’re nearby, as definitely as I can smell this putrid mess, in here. Oh, how correct can anyone be, or even, expect themselves, to be? It must be done. The movie of computer generated skeletons, going through their daily life routines (in our world!), including, of course, coitus. You people have determined me up, and down, clipped, and fudged me, behavioral cue, to behavioral cue, response, to response. The worst kept secret in Hollywood, won’t be one for long, just until the next one, pops up. We’re all a bunch of wasted adolescents, drinking milk. Our outward hate, just doesn’t have anywhere specific, to go, thus, it is directed, inward. Keep those thoughts, in order to be used later, when it’s more appropriate, to do so. You know, or maybe, you don’t, which is just as well. Instead of graduate school, I wrote a book, perhaps I chose wisely, perhaps not, but I chose. The new reality, is that there isn’t one, except the one, that we pretend. Bills, payments, insurance, taxes; reality? Show me a molecule, show me an atom, a subatomic particle…I don’t believe you, in you, in it, in them…not anymore, nor will I ever believe in anything, other than my own existence, again. I concede wrongdoing, I am no longer afraid, I’m coming out of the fog now, going down there, and making it happen. I must come up with a fake name, fast. Self inflict, your wounds.

The ceremony was boycotted. Get me wet, then fuck me dry. This is a replica of a thesaurus, step nine; remove the impulsivity. It was more, or less, a campout, for the damned. We’re waiting for the war, the drawing was asymmetrically, sound, the lighting, just awful. Don’t goof off at the wrong time, they’ve all got video cameras. She needs an alternative to fucking, we discover the proof positive, much later. More mincemeat, than all of them! It’s hard to keep track of…partial discontentment, then, seeing it the other way, too late. They are not going to agree. No, no, it’s not one way, it’s never just, one way. The hippopotamus, can’t read. The competent, are still black, and white, plain flavor, neutral odor. Psycho-activate your failure, make a monstrosity, out of indifference. Holy, drawn suffrage, partial abatements, we’re drowning, and if not, we’re giggling. These spasms, are alchemically caused, getting the best of us, yet again. Power, and doubt, the debt/the doubt, clear as water. Self medicated, so-called angels, are ministering to the attractive members of the opposite sex, while they should be studying. Our creative faculties, become dulled, we find a personality in college, only to lose it completely, in the workaday world. This is not the way that things are going to be. There isn’t enough time. She refuses to even look at me, so, I look even more intently, at her, all the while, playing striptease of the mind, tickle me, loosely, or whatever the game is called. She is like a neck. We’re recording now, recording your fornications. The World is compliant, not taken seriously. Speak Greek, at the tractor pull races. Too much macaroni and cheese. Squirrelly nerves, guide us to following birds, in some ground/air, square off. My left parietal lobe, is wildly fluctuating. With all due respect to the feminists, book two. Fuck, is an action verb. There’s a lack of time, there are commitments, difficulties. I am sort of a Rasputin, yet, not really. Let us go to the hexagonal house, again, tonight. But this hectic schedule, this constantly, busy schedule. To the pumpkin patch, and paperwork, be damned! Should we refill our prescriptions? The rage, terror, fury, and fear, climb perpetually up, and down, like escalators. You don’t migrate. Words written by a snack time, lunch food. The perpetual motion machine, stops, these things are too obvious, I am talking about the scream into the void, of the crowd, with more than a Waterloo, in mind. Other peoples achievements, you chose to call it maize, we thought differently of it, at the brunch, in the trailer, all over facts, relationships, opinions. What do they want from the government? There aren’t enough days in one life. No one, nothing, is really, very weird, if you examine the act, or behavior, properly. There is frustration, disillusionment, things are getting militant. At the moment, we want to be so many different people, that how could things be anything but, fragmented? Why should we make the most of this? Climb your ladders, mount your pulpits, sit in your pews, rise through the ranks. The end of education, is sudden, working off tension, cruise…pretend. They had/have the audacity, hence, the spoils. Systems are set up, they are made of pleistocene, we pretend they aren’t. Glorious, wonderful tragedies, await thee, rejoice! They come in here, watch prices, and go out. This whole thing, was going to be so much more. Fink your way through, faker’s.

Sounds like the title to a cheap B-movie, that goes straight to video. Say yes, to no, hello, to good-bye, shiver in the warmth. I recently received your note, and photos, which I greatly appreciate…all the more so, since “the accident,” of the haircut. There are some fantastic happenings, going on here, at the moment, bizarre promotions at work, and the like, I’ll return to that, later. Hope that all is well, with yourselves, and your kin. Funny, I keep (sinking into it?) beverages around the room, as decoration. Agamemnon? Shit, there’s so much to say, I can’t envision, saying it, but it beats keeping it to myself. There is not, nor has there ever been, anyone around here (this is an asset) to throw the football around with. So, there is a sort of a wo-woo, in regards to correspondence with you. Never you mind, all the shit, and scabs, and tears, of previous incarnations. Yes, there is this weirdo, yes, weirdoes do throw out more than perhaps, is appropriate. I heard change has taken place, I was conjuring up all sorts of images, in regards to levers, and steam, lab coats…now, I imagine it is talk of baseball, and fast-food nutrition, I don’t really know. I think I relayed a few choice tidbits of wisdom, from these guys in the back ward, that I used to work with. Vis-a-vis, “Who’s the cat, kid?”, “blanch”…crazy shit all around, all the time. Hopefully, it’s at least somewhat entertaining/intriguing, where you’re working. ‘Cause, as you may know already, the most noble fields to work in, the most difficult (in a different sense) jobs, often pay the least. What you imagine I’m doing, at any given time (what I’ve always done), I am probably, still doing. The titles of the books I read, change, but I’m always reading. Yes, driving around, for no reason, working like a maniac, at whatever job I happen to be at the moment. In short, I’m the same as ever… awkward, cryptic, mad, reclusive, subjective. You know, interesting things happen, once in a while (not that often), and I make my own scattered, yee-haws. Wounds and pus, words and songs, I just don’t care anymore. Book news; I am approximately half done, with my second book, Little Yellow Fish, is the name of it. Join the sky club, we meet in the book room. She was in some panic, to light candles, I didn’t get it. A two million dollar, cone? A job well done, beats any other option. Call it rock, paper, scissors. Some things, we’ll never get over. It’s a continuation of sorts, from the last one, and it, in itself, will be the last one that I do, like that. In other words, it is farewell to this particular prose/poetry format, and onto something different, probably screenplays, but some kind of narrative writing, nonetheless. I don’t know, in fact, there is nothing, whatsoever, to say about writing, or to write, about writing, except to say, that I’m still doing it. As usual, I say I don’t know what to do, write, say etc., and then, blow out pure conundrum, tic, tac, toe! No women will, good boys don’t…where the hell am I? I don’t mean to put any adverse pressure on, you by any means…but if you do have any preexisting photos, or writings (the shack at the ramp stuff) that you wouldn’t mind sending me a copy of, I would be forever indebted. I…believe me, understand the constraints of time, and working, during every waking hour. If it’s easy for you though, what the hell? See, as usual, I’m more interested in your wanderings, than my own, because, for one thing, you usually wander in better places, where more shit is happening. How are the photos, coming along? How is married life? Are you in grad school, down there? See, small details, make up the quilts we weave, whatever that meant. I will enclose writings, recent writings, that are more hell-like, than heaven sent, but only because doom seems to be more notable, than high, manic delirium, and delusionary bliss. Maybe not. Lunge and feint, at the library. It’s a slightly narrowed down version, of everything.

You are the littlest, vittle. I can’t remember doing anything else, but this. To many people, the mall, is a very important place. Life loses its color, its meager meanings, we are the air force. Nobody ever said that it was gonna’ be easy, but no one said it was going to be phoenix dive, after phoenix dive, either. The key, if there is one, to understanding any of my writing, is to read between the lines. Sixteen hour shifts, forty-eight hour shifts, ninety hour weeks, then, unemployment. Of course, with no savings in the bank. Disappointment, is like planning an elaborate surprise party for yourself, and you’re the only one who shows up. Swarm around like insects, to get a better look at the digestive process. When self-esteem is gone, you start to think that maybe it’s you, they describe as a suspect, on news reports. Guilt, no matter what guise it takes, makes it nigh impossible, to tell whether we’re the perpetrators, or the victims. Ah, Spring! Meaning, the ubiquitous smells of dead fish, smashed snails, and cheese. The lost film, the lost friend. To “figure it, or oneself, out”…you’ve got to give up the search, you have to stop looking. At that point, there is something there. Perhaps, we’ll become a little less full of shit, with a more obtuse side. The trees fall in, and out of, hibernation, changes take place, all around us, it is we, who seem unable to change, that is, until we look back, years later. These are events, those were events. To “find out,” to “look;”…ring buoys, porcelain tipped, turkey plumes, dreams of peaches. Saturn takes the supper club, wrong way law students, with beer in the car, pressed clothing, awakening at 12:30 P.M., in the county jail. We are death, sideshow poets, slow us down, give us money. Sometimes, after pulling the fuzzies off of my socks, my shoes, self-destruct, because of gravity, mileage. Finishing messages, asking for a grant, or more time. Perhaps, just to learn to appreciate things, more. I’m trying to stay alive, in vain. We present a shoulder of lamb? We are forever growing up. There isn’t going to be anymore hand holding. We are our own worst enemies, and so on. We give ourselves overhauls, perform solo, we think we’re doing just fine, on our own. I can’t take or stand it, anymore. We think about it, all the time, but will never follow through. Do it on the door stop. It’s still a little bit early, to be getting evicted, excited, interested, intrigued. For real, we don’t need anything. Change a few words around, cross things off, add other things. Visitors are not welcome, not that it would take more than a thumb, to count them up, anyway. Smoking in the backyard, then, the front yard, all night long, for some feeling of variety. People with good jobs, who earn good wages, don’t say anything. Storm the room, with a vengeance, finish it, tonight! Shit, I forgot to empty the lint trap. “Wanting to be movie star,” flashy type-people, with all vested talents, lost, and/or, wasted, on things, that aren’t ever going to happen, I probably should include myself, within their ranks, but I try to hide it, incognito-like. To show up, blow all chances, and footholds, break another window, or electrical power box, they’ll replace them again. Is that the unmistakable sound, of claws on linoleum? Olympians, resting on their laurels, labored breathing, glory, gone. Fuzzy recall, of basement incidents, long ago. Laughter (so crinkly) becomes dollar bills, to pay for medicine, to provide some relief to people, that ends up proving to do more harm, than good. If you need to take a crap, take one. That’s about as far as I go, in terms of advice. That, and don’t drive drunk, it’s just not very polite. Waiting for some unspecified award, to drop into my lap, for all these desperate hours, of thrashing around, smelling like hot tar, and feeling like an avocado, at best. I think I’m alive, but barely. What the hell are we doing? The most real things, get called absurd, in the DADA black sheep, strange kind of something, around here. We learn what we have to learn, only when we have to. Chasing money, putting it into a hat, with some vague plan. There is piss all over the clean clothes pile, and I don’t know where it came from. Nothing goes as according to plan. We don’t attain, we do the Charleston, for maybe a week, before we get bored, and move onto something else. All the greatest ideas, regarding what needs to be done, or get done, always seem to arise, when you’re stuck at work, with seven and a half hours, to go. Beans from the back of the taco, will dribble out the back, and stain your favorite pants, they are designed to do that, always, when you’re late for some important meeting. The accidents, will keep happening, let’s try to keep them happy, rather, than the tragic kind (but all too often, tragedy reigns). I claimed to have torn my pants on a fence. This is some test of my sanity. Slap-like sound?

This doesn’t roll, like it was supposed to. The rapture, is only your bowels. Fickle, fickle, fame, will come, and go. Walking into that bread shop, just might be the smartest thing you’ve ever done. Those are feelings, the hotel, did not provide me, with a wealth of hot, and sexy, feelings. My intentions, are to rise up out of this quagmire I’m in, and give everybody a slice of “old-fashioned,” apple pie. Give me the hairnet, I’ll wear the hairnet. Okay, everything is wonderful, I felt the thrills, felt the thrills. I could get here, or, little round face, squishy little round head, and bloated, fatty, baby face. Right now, being here, trying to get oval, again. The parlor games, the mysteries of drunkenness, the possible reality, of sliding through the magnificent grey, without getting any white paint, on your black pants. Myriads, and idiosynciacies, abound, flips, keep flopping, eggs, get beaten, masters, and servants, do their two-step routines. As the theme turns to hoe-down, the lipstick, gets smeared, folding chairs, get stored away, credit references, are checked. Learn to properly pronounce, ethereal, again, storm up the steps to that one room, then, boldly cross, from one room, to the other. Specificity, does not allot/allow much space, for compromise. Once that target started revolving, every which way, like crazy, there were some doubts, as to where to aim the gun. Let’s get totally manic, not get up off these chairs, and just start wriggling, and thrashing, talking about the future, as if it were really something which could possibly happen. Letters are being written, as we speak, kind of. First of all, it is important, that we set about the task, of looking through all the garbage cans. Let’s use some skin care lotion! Is there a will, or a way, or are we all just fooling ourselves? The important thing is money, this, we must have, the rest, we can do without. Wait, don’t be a goosey, silly, uh, uh…a chubby (oh, chubby). Maybe there will be an explosion of youth-oriented action, maybe not. None of the pens work, there are no beauty products, there is a fiscal drizzle, a wonderful theme song, a résumé, ready to be written, of course, there is a mosquito, that somehow, has gotten killed, smashed onto the bottom side of the toilet, the part you lift for the girls, etcetera (dead, dead, oval, peculiar). Finally, dear readers, a moment of silence. I was so eager to write something, and I’ve forgotten. Hide out in a ticket taking booth, or shack, then, emerge. Delicately handled things, break. Slop down on the jelly. Let’s begin, and end, a festival, without involving any strangers. The date, the correct time, the amount of money in our bank accounts; does not matter, when compared to seeing as many elephants as possible, in so short a span of time. The dance will begin, an independent counsel, will be assigned, ribbons will be strung up, and the women will wear white, from head to toe. Become present, and accounted for, wear the cleanest underwear, possible, encourage some sort of epiphany, to occur. The taller, the better, you know what I mean? Try, and fail, even if you should break three ribs, and a hoof, you must golf, again. The more you do, the better, whatever it is. The budget, shifts, and slides, there are chutes, and ladders, both sides, will not come into agreement. Yes, it could be mistaken for a UFO, but it is a stationary object. Jealous, envious people, are their own downfall, but they make a lot of noise on their way to the basement, the bottom, the darkness, the sump pump room. Once the pants are removed from your body, they can be properly cleaned, not a moment sooner. Once the fabric tears beyond a certain point, the use of that fabric, is limited. Pillows, the stains on pillows, say everything there is to know, about the owner of the said, pillow. You can be a reader, or a writer, not both. If you don’t get off your ass, and do something, there are going to be a whole bunch of blues songs, that you’re gonna’ think were written, especially for you. What I’m trying to do, right now, is two things, at once, it is not likely to work out to my benefit. The farted in the sepulchure. It was so much like velvet. Now, I’m suddenly getting antsy, almost giving into the urge to stand up, for some reason. Church, is not the answer. The only reason that I want money, is so that they don’t have to suffer anymore, at the hands of this. No one knows what’s going to happen. Soon enough, all these broken down cars, will be towed away. The extent of your selfishness, is what repulsed me so. Get high, not on drugs, but on the sight of your own face? Instigate some kind of inroads, that do not exist. Throw some jam, and maybe some pickled foods, into a basket, and go building, to building, demanding an audience, with human resources directors. Some machines can do all the work for you, the trick, is to find the right machine, at the right price. I don’t know anything about goblets, or turkeys, or the proper way to undress a hipster. It takes a certain amount of panache, to point in some direction, and have it mean something, as well as…just, put on shoes, and walk outside. Paperclips, are probably the world’s most forgotten, or taken for granted, great, invention. How can I take something as uninteresting, as my life, and make it interesting? There is no hope for any of us; sorry. The sufferings, are not indicative, of what we’ve got to work with here. We’ve got to stop waiting. Invent a new soft drink. It’s not worth going into detail.

Cram your big, into her little, if that’s the way it really ever works out. Cram, ream, push, insert, shove, adjust, slam. No one will really care, or notice, that I’m there. Count on it, I will be there, I will achieve, closure. Fly little helicopter, now, we are going to do this, in a different way. No talking around a table, about Postoeusnyie, you haven’t read him. The glory days of art, the forgotten, and lost eras, when things were really happening. A time when real tears flowed, real artists, walked real streets, where shit was happening, when buildings, were worth building, and people really lived, and loved, and died, in style, not dead, forgotten, and buried, behind prison walls, or their approximations. I want to help, but I’m stuck in my own shell, I want to walk up to shining women, with an erection, and say something, to dance, despite the stiffness, get more out of a boring experience, than what Lenny’s, can provide. We don’t know any of the answers. The bedding is oh, so luxurious. I heard a bell! I could make a phone call, and there wouldn’t be any… What I’m getting at, is that there is a life to lead, that I’m not living. Don’t act cheerful. Put on your butchers smock, the zip code has changed, yet again. Get back to the island. I’m on my own, to sit here, lie here, dream about doing things, missing out on serious experiences, talk like how we were supposed, to talk. What is the matter with the sink? If I’m so weak, die, if I can do it, swing it, make a difference, any difference, get away from my faults (this is one, of two, things). I can only sit here, the night after the big show, and wish I had been there. So many things I’m cut out for, yet, terrified, to change my path, even though I did, what I did, in there. There’s got to be somewhere to go, something to do, someone to talk to, at this point, I am not a whole, and complete, human being, I have no relationships, that aren’t superficial, one-sided, with myself, at the wrong end. Turn that Jesus Christ TV show, off. Listen closely to the opera on the radio, reverse the one direction you’re going in, forgive yourself, like, now. Spray graffiti anywhere, and everywhere, you see fit. Understand your own little niches, in your own little, lonely, walk, down the street, while people live large, get into, and out of, cars. There are greetings, and hello’s, and how are you’s…interviews, center lanes, counters. Crush the styrofoam cup, and throw it into the mess, in the middle of the room. Dingo, as a respite? I’m gonna’ burst my own bubble, I’m gonna’ inundate a Bernhard, wear a turban, use paint, ravage her feet, explore all contours. Imagined moaning, clutching, screaming, words to the effect that, “you’re the best.” It goes without saying, that insane acts, need to take place. We want to hang up the beautiful draperies, we are having yet another national crisis, we are figuring out, that true, and false, is, and isn’t. Where this smell is coming from, deals get made, personnel, walk in, and out of shacks, and lean-to’s. There is a subculture, in the junkyard. When you’re in the quote bag, you’ve arrived. I mean, if it’s gotten that far up, up, to down, sort-of, you know, freedom, and all that. Stay awake. Bring many charges, not one. Throw a carrot in the front yard. There are still problems/troubles, in Ireland? You don’t say? Look at the used, and chewed up, gum, on the clock, look at the useless, torn, broken, pile, of everything. It is as if I were a virgin. Is this some sign, that I don’t have anything to say? What happened to the free associative flow of ideas, that used to come so fast, they couldn’t be written down? Forget the entrée, you’d like to serve, your middle school French. She, and only she, knows what I mean when I talk about icicles on cars. Fix a supper for your housemates, think back, and try to remember something, right now, anything. This is a better wakeup call, than last week. The more you suffer, the more you know; and the more you suffer, the more you’re paralyzed, the less you do. There are a lot of sacrifices being made, speeches being thought up, scandals happening, unknown futures, being secretly, written. If and only if I’d win, tales will be told of how no one can really help anyone else, with this kind of thing. I am an alcoholic, remind me of this, if I try to order a drink, okay, baby? I am allowed, and by necessity, must be, alone. As for my seeming inability, to rise to any sort of occasion, and affect any kind of response; yes, I am guilty of this. Now, being alone, is good, and bad, better than the other, but still, a little strange, sometimes. Sex is like…well, it’s better than fighting with Lou, every night. The people who get noticed, are the people that do things, hours can be spent destroying evidence, ugly/geeky/terrified/violent. Listen to the tinkle of the ivories, as you continuously, practice your scales. Do everything now, enough time has been wasted, too many of the good years, have been lost, too little real experience, of anything, at all. I am never where I’m supposed to be. There are very fast/quick chances, to do something, they came in by the electrical air, while I sat at home. Just push the plunger down.

A packed house, at a wrestling match, not taking any phone calls just now, the paper was a mistake, as are most things. Try to do this exercise, one-handed. To want the big Tudor, is as silly as not wanting it, there is so little time left, I’ve gotten so old, this is taking way, way, too long. We all have too much time to think. Now, my hands smell like a wrought iron fence. They put us through the hoops, and the wringer. How can good people, fall this far into the abyss? This is plain, if nothing else. Eradicate all government’s. The end, has already come, and gone. Thirty, is the cutoff point. It’s silly to continue doing something, if nothing is going to ever come from it. No, I don’t want to come out and play. Whew, this is like a new kind of popcorn. In the summer, you can smell the boneyard, from here. Please see to it, that you have seriously done, every possible thing, that you could, before the cutoff date, arrives. There is never anywhere to put my feet, people know where to go, to get their hair cut on Sunday, coats get hung up, tapestries, get folded, kids/young adults/old men, get anxious. Crush the cars, forget about your trip into funland, the song you keep hearing, that buzzing in the inner ear. Do continue, it’s the only way to improve. Get into such things, intently, intensely. The drive with no heater, became vanity, and anger, a treacherous lift, into a poor man’s world, of no hope, and nothing to do. Return the products that you have borrowed. Don’t let them screw you. Close the trunk of the car, whisper/scream, read books that can’t help you, don’t even think about freebies, breaking even, debt, and debt consolidation. We try to keep our lives simple, and carefree, pleasant, uncomplicated, and the opposite result, is achieved. The street is packed with cars, we want excitement, short story collections, are not acceptable, come up with some serious/good ideas. Even cake eating man, probably thought I was crazy. Bodyguards in the limousine, one act play; fourteen, worship, slavering, consummating. There are satisfying things, that people can do alone, that would be more satisfying, in groups. The rich will remain so, the poor will be bitter, angry, violent. Write a letter to the editor, all about our crumbling, self-imploding, systems, make up some kind of collage, to explain, at least to yourself, what you’re going through. The dog vomited, I watched a show on mailmen, I shouldn’t have, felt so alone, couldn’t, wouldn’t, can’t, won’t. There are small shifts in perspective, there are years of mopping, and dishwashing, yet to go, I just can’t feel real good, about six dollars an hour. I do not do the things that are ordinarily done, that may, or may not, ensure success. I take the long way, and I get really lost, then, scream, yell, and cry, about how it is, that I wound up there, at which time, it’s too late. This book, my book; sucks ass, which is not the way it was supposed to be. Wondering about fluid (?) in your feces, means you have too much free time. I’ve never actually timed myself, but the goal has always been to do things quickly, and perfectly. There is plenty of room out there, for me, all I have to do is gently, force my way in. Sometimes, it is quite easy, to fall asleep, other times, sleep, is the last thing that is going to happen. Please, develop a style, before it’s too late. Crumple paper, and stuff it into a garbage bag. Where is that nice music, coming from, with violins, and whatnot? Please, sir, please, get a grab-bag of surprises, before it’s too late. Become interested, in grandeur. Next stop, Buffalo. I had my train ticket, and everything. Gothic gala ball, and swing, honey, great, true, great. Let’s look a bit more closely at the key chain, and try to figure out what kind of weapon is on there. Let’s think back a long time, to the feelings that we had, in, and around, the elementary school. I’ve been up, but I’m in a fog, of some kind, or the other. Do you want to join the club, get a better piece of ass, explain things, in easy to use…she was there, the other one’s, nearby. Your fantasies, are all possible ones, It might be better to invent yourself a unit. Why in the hell are you so hungry, stop it! You’re over the line, as it is. After this, you are to walk briskly, for one hour, then, you are to come back, and read the want ads, the help wanted ads, so that tomorrow, you’ll have a whole agenda, in which to begin, and end, goals, determination. Stare through the page, and the thick, guarded layers, of your mind, and lift out, secretly steal, all of those veritable tracings, of worthwhile thoughts, and interesting stories, real world overtures, that need to be honed, rather than, I hate myself, etc. The air outside smells so fresh, and pure, and clean, wonderful, and in here, it’s so stale, stinky, scary, and crazy, give me a fresh shirt, and a clean pair of pants, underwear, that isn’t torn, in all the most embarrassing places. Flip off the whole head. What has happened, here? We’re fully aware of what (I just, can’t handle it, anymore) we do not know. Who you hate, tells a lot about you. I thought I just saw a figure, it was my jacket hanging, so much, right here, to do, and I look out there. St. Jude promised me the grand prize, I walked away with a shoebox, full of lint. When I’m out there, all I can think about is being right here, doing this. They asked me where the blood on my shoes, and the shovel, came from. We don’t even know how what happened, did. If I had some iota, of skill, or quality, to what I did, and could actually be proud of something, for ten minutes, well, fudge, is a lot like chocolate, but there are subtle, differences. What I do need to do, is slow down, take this more seriously, and take this, as only the beginning; not the end, of the day, for me. I shot off a spurt, and wad, and convulsive spasm, right into her tight, young, clean… whoh, whoh, hold on here! Her Russian-little girl face, was contorted, the way they always are. I don’t want to be a sick, cruel, asshole. This is the way it should be, not a “sin”? The plastic bag, contained human ejaculate, part of a femur. Let’s sin together, with each other, ahem. Change it to pants. Blow into the fudge whizzer, comtemplate vowels.

Once again, I’m torn between two conflicting ideas; of course, I arise late. I want to get this done, fast, but at the same time, want to write with a brilliance of quality, take my time, and get it right. Finished, the actors handbook, and 1,818 ways to write, etc. There’s too much here, for there not to be, something. The little, blue room, huh? What do I want? I don’t know anymore, either. Something burned in the toaster, someone slipped on water, coffee spilled, the cat needs to be fed, and the dog’s already eaten. Once discovered, it’ll be an, “I’ll be darned.” Don’t waste time, Doc will be here, within minutes, and some plan of attack, most definitely, needs to be formulated. To hell with forced simplicity, with eight bucks an hour. Also, to hell with this; sitting around the house, sleeping in late, casually strolling, lumping, not thinking. So many cellophane wrappers, so many dollars, spent. As far as plastic bottles, don’t even get me started. No relationships, no matter what. There’s a way to write, as well as a way, not to write. It took forever, just, way too long. Don’t cheat, or look for ways to cheat, don’t contemplate copouts, or easy ways out/in. This is the last peek, sucker. The brush looks like a toy, the world is still spinning, I’m pretending to function, for now. Once that part is put on the car, the damn thing, had better work. It’s a whole convoluted, rip-off scheme, but shit, something; at least that, has got to go my way. My problems have more to do with self-esteem, and self-confidence, than any real, or imagined, psychological difficulty. Reconfigure, rewrite, reform, reintegrate, keep in mind, your ride is going to be here, shortly. The hours, the midnight hours, are the best for some reasons, the worst, for others. It is of the utmost importance, that I keep going forward, moving, not getting panicked, at the recognition of all the work to be done; but, to get to work on it, one thing at a time, and make the absolute most of it, do your best at, each, and every, thing. The encounters will occur, there will be meetings, surprises, shocks, and stability, later. To hide, or to be presented, to go back, no, to go forward, yes. You don’t need that in your pants, right now. To watch almost an entire football game, when you don’t have any interest in football, is a sign of very bad things. Get moving, stretch, get a shape, scream, quit smoking, get that thick paste out of your mouth. So depressed, and distressed, horny, confused, unwilling/unable, what to do? If I could write a book of my sexual perversions, and dementia… Make it start, or stop, whichever. The land has been sold. This can’t be, all this is! Take a sharp left, realize what a fool you’ve been. Make it look like you’re doing something? What the fuck do you (think/not thinking) believe, all this, is? Some silly game, you’ll win, in the end? No, you’re on your way out, stop sliding, before it’s too late. Make gratifying progress, rebuild your destroyed self, thing. To even think of an erection, won’t/can’t happen, now. Why are charges handed down at some times, and not others? The government is screwing us, and the tuition, is way, way, too high, high enough, so that you can’t go down. You’re 67, not 17, go to work, with that in mind. Here comes the snatch/scratch/meow. This miserableness and aching, you’ve already had a cigarette, you’ve already slopped in the pails. Open your mouth, but refuse to put food in it. One year goes by, like a horseshoe. That was never there, before. Accountability, and efficiency, then, disillusionment, death, destruction. It seems like people are so busy taking (pick a starlet, and, fuck) care of their lawns, and gardens, they can’t do, or think, anything else. Find those lost ideas, rediscover those buried parts of (don’t be late) yourself, that are fragmented, chopped off, buried, subconscious. It becomes clearer, and clearer, the fact that I have to hurry, and slow down (at least here, with this). What I do at the beginning, the logic is there, if you choose not to believe it, scratch the surface of this, there, without accompaniment; hopefully, I’ll be able to stay truer to the text. A masters in creative writing, doesn’t offer anyone, anything, save for a place to hide, for a couple more years. If you can’t do it on your own, write from hell (postcards, whatever). Then, where are you going/what are you doing? An emergency at Fung’s, could mean a lot of different things, when billable hours, are at stake; take, rather than leave. I am very embarrassed, in a lot of ways, for a lot of things, but primarily, it’s the stigma of being unpublished, it’s like I’m not a writer yet, as if I am not yet, a writer, after all this. As for magazines, newspapers, contributors whatnot, and the other, they all pay, better than anything else. Don’t stop those shaking hands, from doing this, rather than that. Don’t worry, no one else seems to be, though, that could all change, for the worse. I am really taking my time, however, and not a lot is getting done. My philosophy of what this is, keeps changing. Mayfair, wandering, wandering. Okay so, ideas can be generated, dates can be checked, all but one, have been read, the one, at this point, that I’d deem, the most important. Do the exercises in that one, slimy. Find some get up, and go, in your stay here, and lie. When I (it doesn’t work) contemplate my lack of concentration, lately, I get severely nervous, that I’m not taking life, seriously enough. If being in charge, of this, or that, doesn’t mean anything, make it mean something, for a change. To whom it may concern; please, please, publish this! We might as well have a mineral water. She is death, this is not art. Trembling subtly out in front of the ice cream stand.