206

Just don't destroy me, yet. Perhaps, this isn't the time to be singing, I both am, and am not, X. I shall not be stopped, by anyone, or anything, anytime, or anywhere. Sure, let's go to Grosse Pointe, tomorrow! There was (like a bong) something about ashes in boxes, in a closet, that freaked me out, I guess. Impulse seems to lead me, most everywhere, that I end up going, so, I think that I need to change my impulses. A great many things, things that I am no longer the least bit interested in? The adulterer, just had another bypass. I want to see/know how, things are interconnected, if indeed, they are, at all. No dull edges, please, I imagined, somehow, actually, fucking the wax sculpture. You know, I want to turn the radio off, but I know that I probably won't, because of this wax-tickling, sonic maelstrom. Bach, Beethoven, Shostokovich, Stravinsky, et al. Make a muscle, feel it pull. This is some hard core, screaming, and that is, indeed, a good thing. I grope your various cancers, and hope/wish others, well. "Just love" talk, did somebody say, detachment? Please try to punctuate, correctly! Just one more thing, in freshman English 101, they/she told me/us, to start keeping a journal, and I'm only now (18 years later), "getting around to it." Invite them all over. Down to the last nail, and the crucifixion, is only half way, over. Oh, how long it takes, to learn, I predicted nothing, I drove around, and I relived a few exciting years, in a few, nice days. Demolition, must occur. The buzz is inside of our heads, programming us. We are required, to lie. Turn the TV in the other room, off. Shrink wrap it. Everything, is only for the time being. The pain I’m in, is so real. Think back to your anti-sexual, mini-masturbation, think back to the things you said to the cop, in the can, after you were first arrested. Think really hard, and try to remember things, that you said, when you had blacked out, totally, and entirely, from too much alcohol. Finish this page, and then, start flipping around, and looking for another one, to face. The water tower, wasn't noticed, even after years, and years, of passing by it. Remember that one night, with the fire trucks, in, or near, Portage? The trip (singular) to the big mall, Aaron's choke hold, my face, in that other chick's, crotch? The vision of the lemmings/chipmunks, on the couch, then, the Fabulous Fresh Flow, showed, preaching, “Southern (make it tight) Strategies.” It’s easier for you, to believe that I am, “crazy.” Breathe a little easier, drink a lot less. Too positive, for being a negative man, eh? Maybe the oil light won't go on, for a while. There is no time for depression, right now. Ask for “Cookie,” if you end up going back over there. See, now, doesn't this beat, driving around? By "down (predict it) there," so much could have happened, so many horrible things, that up is beyond up, and it is more appreciated. Why, though, would I (or anyone) put themselves, way down there, deliberately, just get as far up, as can be gotten? Profile the golden boys of greatness, while they're still alive. Pick your nose, eat the snake, smell, with no booger. The mustache, gets frozen on the walk, keep going, Penguin. For some reason, full cans, and bottles, of various beverages, are being collected. The lamp was first broken, now, stored, over by the filing cabinet, that is not being effectively, used. Who the hell ever knows anything, anyway? It is not morning yet, no, shut up. Shall I start here, or go over there? Ah, now is as good a time as any, to unleash myself, from cliché. That guy is a genius, still, wherever he is, whatever the hell he's doing. Velvet touch thrills, and excitement? The anti-cleaning way, that I "cleaned." College-boy laziness, was in evidence. Did I mention lying immobile, on the floor, for hours? Oligarchy, what about it? Knowing the source of all my own material, takes a lot of the excitement out of it, or, does it? Which intuition is assaulting me, now? I cut out a picture of some clown, or the other, and handed it to Chris. Point of view, is looking down at there, from here, even though this up, feels down. Get some kind of horny, freeway, thinking thing, going! Listen to the birdies, cry in the sky. I’d do anything to just, survive this. Wake up, and get started with what have to be, the best years of your life. It’s all getting much worse. They weren't, it wasn't, so, now, will have to do. All I seem to do, is piss. I have got to stop living my life, like those old people, on the ward. There is a pseudo, voodoo spell, on me, and I'm going to break the code. What's that code? Respectable death, and rotting, and destruction, the tail, it wags, other things occur, as well. Finish our thing, skip around, here, it doesn't matter, but anywhere else, it does, and it will, get out there, into that World, and think it out. Maybe making copies, is all I can do, right now. But, baby, if that is the case, you are going to take all of the horror, and pain, and suffering of your life, and you are going to write it all down, and get rich off of it. We tried so hard, to avoid being influenced, unduly. In this age, era, epoch… She still wore barrettes… Walk it off, sleep.

I didn't piss on the seat, or stink up the bathroom. Love is not enough, and neither are you. Crush the impossibility of it all, like an empty pack of cigarettes. Yes, I remember Northland, now, complete with 90's, men's (1890’s) hats! Get further, and further, into the knob. Dancing act, go to grad school? Harpsichord, too much, paints/easels, movie camera, etc. Fairly refreshing, sometimes guilt, or anxiety, producing. I'll get lost, wishy-washy, or way off track, leave reality/ get weird, become weak. Biographies of famous people? Hmm...more stable, a little less nuts...as for a career, I don't know. We’re lost, and alone, miserable, in pain, just ignore us. It’s way over my head (all of this). A movie so absurd, that it transcends absurdity, and is seen, as real. Forward march, or else. Stop talking about transitions, and transcendence. Fire, they are supportive, to a point, maybe more (thank goodness). The fluids have been checked. No such thing, at all. Whatever happens, will happen out of the clear, blue, sky. How could you have possibly, missed all of this shit? Nothing, except I've put myself through such things, before, and they haven't taken; granted, I never did the exercises. I have to do my part, in all of this, and then some. Every single day, no matter what the, however the hell many, miles, that I walked. The last three days, will mirror, the next three. I will also read, as much as I can, study it, remember it, live it, I will get a great job, somewhere/somehow, and will be very hip, with it? No, I don't want one, I need one, yes, I have to have one, but a different kind, than I have ordinarily had. Perhaps, I only write to keep the free flow of thought, going, I don’t know. This therapy part of it, will end, at some point, and something else, will take it's place. Word, by word, and idea, by idea, I will transform, change, I will put it all down, recapture all of that stuff, that was destroyed, in 1992, and things will happen. I will not, under any circumstances, allow myself to stop, doing this. The negatives, will fall away, one, by one, and eventually, so many positive things, are going to happen. Even the silly thoughts I think, sometimes, will be startling reality. The two houses, will be connected, into a mansion. Try to go a little bit further, than these arbitrary goals. Duck into a cheap dive. Drill it right into their heads, take the challenge. Outside of certain university corridors, philosophy is bullshit. Or, is it? No more drinking, until the point of being drunk, and throwing up all over the road, ever again. That one erection I gave myself, without meaning to, was about as close to an out, and out, gift, that I can afford, to give myself, for now. I was kidding, about saying that I poured that cooking oil on my ass, etc. Right now, elegance, is merely something to want to be. Clip, and cut, and make new, of the old, this way, nothing will ever go to waste. Enough people have jerked off, on an approximation of her face, so as to make the whole endeavor, a rather pointless, and fruitless, one. Leave those cheese-ball magazines, on the rack. Don't lose this, or let it fall into anybody's hands. The thing is, with that particular one, was the constant expression on her face, and the sneer to her smile, that seems to say, "I don't give a fuck." The fish went swimming upstream, when she, uh, oh. Great attention to detail, right on. Innocence, becomes maturity, through experience. People would not appear to be getting along, there's an awful lot of envy, and resentment, out there. It's weird, how years go by, and that young actor, is suddenly 37, 38. Milked, pelted, this guy is the shit. There is going to be this crazy, crushed, violent, thing. Light years, can obviously, come, and go, so quickly, that it's as if they weren't even there. Every day, for four months, for ninety seconds of exhibition? Is the dialogue, being planned? Let the archetypes, be, what they may. Thought, really is an aphrodisiac, for me, the greatest one, I can imagine. The scar tissue of my mind, will heal, and new programs, will be booted up, events will take place, and things will occur. I will not let any of this, turn into polyunsaturated, Pollyanna, bullshit. Clicking, chunking, chain-rattling, types of noise, with choo-choo, drum-beats, then, try to describe a butter laden thing, to some lady. Riding horses in a park? The car that was won, in a crap game. Good, stuck, bad seeds, it is up to each individual, what ends up happening. Be so sure you are determined, and committed, to repainting the day, as this has been done. In a year, I am already convinced, that all of this early work, is going to appear to be quite stupid, worst of all, it seems like it's going to look like an exercise. Not even the candy man? I see in my heart, that I’m finished.

What the hell is going to end up happening, more floor mopping? No, but, my situation is not improving, I am flying off the handle, the weather is stopping me, it is Thursday, and I can't believe it, again. My diet, though erratic, is throwing me into fat boy hell. Keep the next day in mind, I do not have any experience, I do not have anything, I am floating through the ether zone, of being. We tried to teach them how to fight. Such wonderful (anti-art) buoyancy, and balance. No molestation (or, coast). Let the champagne chill, indefinitely. Shit on my legs. I insist on my life, being lived, my way. I don't want to appear to be too dramatic, I do need to come off, differently, I do need to reach, for my potential. We worked too long, and hard, at the impossible. This is not my potential, this is crap-hole, shit. Pucker up, fucker. Rely on no more than meets the eye. Losers, never stop losing, they can’t. The line, the homeless/helpless/workless, office, there is no way. Why is this so impossibly, difficult? No, no, and again, no. There is a way, there has got to be a way in, and it is my intention to find it, to get it, to have it. But state so, simply. Talk about even this, and that, splendidness, all that crap, fuck it. We’ve gotten so damn, old, so fast. Listen, all of what I need, is not here, I can't spend any more time, not being ready, willing, or able. I am not a sucker, that is to wallow, for some more years. A soprano, is ceiling welded, there are no parties for me, this is all, taxing. Grad school dreams/chef's class possibilities, low, or high, this is going to kill me. As for the funeral business, leave it to the sharks. And, no, I will not cheat, I will do what I need to do, to get new words, ideas, and phrases, on the fly. Notate in the score, explode, don't trip, stumble, collapse, fall. Make your way out of the heap of nowhere, fix it, don't repeat things, the bread is stale. Your life is over, I need to pursue more challenging roles. Need, is the operative word, in all of this. The salt truck, just meandered in it's own way, at it's own speed, boy, something needs to come from this. I'm already, almost, too late, to be starting. I'll cross any picket line, I'll take any back door, let me in the damn room, I will not rest, until I get what I want. Anything is easy, compared to the tasks the writer has to endure, the thousand and one, different things, that happen, and don't, that should happen, or shouldn't. My snot sniff, is bothering me. They don't get it? Oh, yes, they do. My tube liner, is punched, I am keeling over, in pain. They don’t hand out cards to eccentrics? All I want is a job, I just want I need one, and I think I slipped out of a couple of nooses, and I need another. School, is expensive, and I would have to pay. Time, good, and bad, other tangibles, more good (if you do them). I can feel the pain in my neck, and I do not want to feel any pain, there. I am quickly, and totally, losing my mind, at the worst, most inopportune time, and place. What we’re instinctively drawn to, doesn’t want us, it would appear. It’s like hate. The smell of stale cigarettes, on clothing, isn't sexy. Soon, I will be dead, that is part of the reason I'm in such a hurry, to get what's to be gotten, now. My life is just not pleasant, nothing pleasant, is happening, nobody is going to call me. I have to call them, and they have to know who I am, when I call. Any empty beer cans, are a sign, or a symptom, of much deeper, more difficult, problems. My sweat, smells like a dead body. My eyes are colorless, and flavorless, all of the books I have read, have not prepared me, for this. I am infused, I don't know what the hell I'm lacking; I'm strident, screwed, I am sick of saying such things. No injuries, or (get too drunk) deformities, I've had enough. The bowl will get crusty, its contents will dry, lint, and dust, and paper, will get stuck on it, other things will happen, it will become discolored, things will be placed on top of it, it will become buried. Nobody will, or can, help me (oh, my life), anymore. I have to get the idea across, that I won't take no, for an answer, that I'm at my wit's end, without being pathetic, disgusting, or overly, annoying. There is no laughter, ensuing. My car, is basically un-driveable, my life, unnavigable, where the hell are people going to/where are they supposed to go? People's dreams, never happen, people must all graduate from college, and go into menial servitude. This is some kind of something, and I'm not getting off on it. Where are the notebooks that I need, and have been using? Am I a social reaction? This is no era of good feelings, everything difficult, is avoided. I'm not liked, I'm a victim/perpetrator, small/big, strong/weak. Get stoic, get stoned, get what you need, get nothing, get fire; leak, lust, lost, smart, dumb. Square people, trying to fit into round holes, let's get really detailed; soft, feminine, flowery, oblique, tragic. The history of death, may be the wrong angle to take, on it. What I’m sick of, is having to sleep. What have you been doing all these years? Ideas must be generated, and followed through on. The teachers knew I’d never amount to anything. Riots can be fun. Feet, youth, height. Leads must be followed, quotes, and names, and dates, must be accurate, everything must be arranged (by me). Nothing but browsers, in the XXX magazine aisle. It is a curse, that’s all it could be. This is not going to be a good morning, is it? It is, whoo-whoo. The kitty loves me, I do get silly, stinky, ugly, weird, down, so down. Is suicide the next step? I mean, it's obvious that I am useless, for the most part, I refuse to live, if I'm really not going to do anything meaningful with my life. Give me a medication, it won't change my thinking, one iota. I don't have the luxury of starting slowly, I don't have the medium, or big dick, syndrome, I'm swishy, but not a swish. I wipe my ass, from back, to front. Don't get me started on sex, you don't want to hear what I think about that. Editorial assistants: You must arrange the words on the page, in a frustrating order, in a creative way. Every comma must be placed in the correct spot, everything, spelled correctly. That was, my last go (fool the machine).

Nobody likes my final thesis, eh, Lifsey? Everybody's worst fears, are going to be realized. These are predictions, I don't wish these things to happen, but, sincerely believe, that they will. I will live to see them, and then, die, by them. There won't be enough food, or water, soon, overpopulation, will make dozens of families, live in a one family, colonial house. My index finger, is frozen, or paralyzed, the clock is wrong, messes, are currently, being made, or, in the process of being cleared. Flatulence, and nausea, belching, and stomach growling. It is so, so, cold, there are so many things to do, perhaps, I should consolidate all of this. There is so much crap, to throw out, I feel so ill, and bloated, I know this isn't very interesting. A kind of exhaustion, does happen, from time, to time, however. Somebody put that photo of the statuette there, so that it could be seen. All the miles, that I blindly drive around, don't lead me anywhere, don't uncover any profound, and buried, or unconscious, thoughts. To say that everyone suffers the same way, and has the same problems, doesn't do someone who is suffering, any good. Once the unsafe dam, breaks, everyone is sure to be flooded to death. Who won that grant? Whatever works for you, use. The perfect place to put a table, doesn't currently, have a table there. The more coffee you drink, the better you'll feel. Who knows what would've happened, had we not done, what we’ve done. To be honest, no harmony could ensue, there aren't any folders, or places to put...someone else's alarm clock, going off, every five minutes, is more sickening, and annoying, than listening to our own. The malady, is probably your strongest point. Let's get cracking, on the real art, the art of crossing stuff out. This present, this unacceptable now, does not bode well, for the very real future, that awaits. If you're not "in" the wedding, don't worry about where the rehearsal dinner, is located. Bag me, beg me, lose me, win me, sing a song of groovy hopscotch and front lawn. There shall be smoking at night, we need glass objects, and plastic canisters, that do not currently, exist. Diplomacy, doesn't work, everyone's opposed to everything. There...well, it looks like there are snakes, at the bottom of that large jar of oil. Marks for lesson #7, are correct, but should read 16/26, it's unknown, if this will make much of a difference, or not. Let the squeegee kids, do what they want, despite the safety, maneuvering. There are too many things that are not allowed. Well, yes, I would say that my memoirs, were figured, wrongly. No one should be scheduled, until that allotted time. Don't lose control, while holding hair clippers. How dare we, even ask? There is so much, to remove. Start rewriting the pages, that were removed, immediately. This went through the mill, a little bit, don't you think? Suddenly, things have become pretty odd, to say the least, challenging. Why, of all times, would my health start to fail me, now? When the animals start bounding from side, to side, you can be sure, that you're going to be in a bourgeoisie mood. This feels like hitting bottom. It will all wind up happening, the contract, will be rejected. It is just the slightest bit, overwhelming, sure. Repeal all of them, everybody. I claimed to want to go somewhere, once, but was afraid to. What you don’t understand, is what’s ruining you. There was no way of knowing, why they were there? Get me on the bus, then, off the bus. The taxpayers, fund each, and every, wicked, immoral, stupid, wasteful, absurd, and ridiculous, stunt that this shithole, evil, government, pulls. We're people, apples, leave us alone. Nefarious, it was. The free range chickens, have been killed. We remember being told that one either, rules, or reeks. Thursday, just barely, happened. What the hell is this all, leading to? We've already made plans for after the reception, and there isn't likely to be any reception. Honey, what we need, is a brand, new, floor. Someday, someone, somewhere, will disallow us, from driving. There is just, not enough to go on. I will not be made to feel ashamed, because I refused to dig the middle school, make-out grotto. We've got sudden urges, to eat biscotti, we demand, vinyl underpants, and plungers, that plunge. The roof is for jumping off of. To the sick, and unruly, Alaska, is for you. Play this backwards, I want to be able to fuck anyone, and everything I want, at will? The way that we interact, with our household pets, says a lot about us. Is it really tea-time, for goosey, already? All some people do, is make a fuss, fix this, fix that, corrupt, correct, connive, con, conjure. Use your brain. Perhaps you're right, about those right brain/left brain, abnormalities. Stop eating paper, be more Russian, learn to say good-bye, well, like a rubber woman. Finish J, before you go on to K, and so on. There isn't enough thickness, there's too much sickness. In court...dancing? Well, if somebody is interested in Tunz Tunes, I will be in compliance. This little mess, must come out, before the end of the century. Put that back in there, there is no reason whatsoever, to remove something, perfectly composed, for convoluted, half-reasons. The skeleton, had a tutu on, quite a lovely figure, and there was an orange in the background. All of this sighing, grunting and groaning, isn't going to get any of the things done, that need to be. Everything in this immediate area, is filthy, and fucked up. Every single day, things get worse, and worse, every single thing, that could go wrong, has already, in the last month. Things could simply, not get any worse. There has been debt, multiple car breakdowns, unemployment, ruination, the inability to act, fear, shame, pain, crashes, how can I put this? How can I put, how absolutely, out of control, things have become? Greed, and no heat, no alternator (three times), and stupidity, from everyone around, and since they're louder, they get their way. Everyone has fucked me, I can't get a tit, I'm nowhere, in terms of publishing... typing, anything. Jail was the only place I ever got treated, just like everybody else.

The witch hunt, waiting to happen, can begin now, for all I care, I wouldn't say I'm doing well. Is this a gift, I have a gift? It is so important to have a career, a life; a planned, organized, and controlled, life. Route your experiences, into the cornucopia. License a victory, spread a yellow place mat, that name sounds familiar, the role is crusty, velvet, the lawn is mowed, the symptoms begin, and end, and then, tubes come out. The little girl, half speaks/half sings, through the alphabet. Expos, what I really need? What the fuck was that? What just happened to me? Why does shit only come down, when I can't handle it? Pain, huh? Well, I don't feel it, I'm a hurter, not a feeler, I'm not together, I don't know what sort of life I'm trying to create, or make, I'm up, then, down, no one can, everyone is. What if all of this sucks, I know this does, but what if it all does/is? I have wasted so much Goddamn time, that yes, it is already too late. The vacant lots, aren’t vacant, anymore. I've already wasted too many years, time that would have been perfect with which, to write a book. The books that I have written, aren't any good, I don't think that they are. T.B., lard, more forms, and transcripts. No one says this is, I don't think. What do I want to do with my life, what can I do? In other words, what will they let, me do? Every book I've read, hasn't made me a complete person. Proceedings, can screw up the whole works. Nothing matters, and when I say that I mean it, but can't, and really believe it, and don't. No one will help me, no, nobody can. We are all on our own, and we're cold, we're hungry, broke, and worse. We used to lock our keys in the office for a reason, on purpose, as they say. It's snowing, and that means trouble. No means, fuck. Never trust me, never. We sit on pins, and needles. I have needs, and where I am at, they will never be met. We waited so long, for this? The tri-county area, can un-do itself, the whole world, can end, and to hell with it. The plan is to reach out to people, who will agree with this, no one will, everyone will wonder, “who is this sick, psycho?” The current conditions, suck, everything is impossible, I don't know what to do, or where to go. The pen is lost, the opera, is about to begin, everything takes way, way, way, too long. We’re all terrorized, vague, and vacant, vapid, discouraged… There is nothing that I am able to do, I'm crushed, and flattened, wise, and stupid, hardworking, and lazy. We’re all grandiose, delusional, assholes. I need, and I don't need, a damn thing. I speak no foreign language, and refuse to learn, even though I can speak English, I usually don't, there simply isn't anything to say, to anyone, ever, nobody cares, neither do I. When I see that this society functions, I am amused, I am beside myself, with amusement. The cylonic sounds in my head, have made their long awaited, presence, known. A note about anger, I am an extraordinarily angry person. I am sort of a bombing suspect, a conspirator, I have a lot of really, horrible anger, that hopefully, won't come out someday. It won't, because I won't let it, and I am stronger than myself. But my life is so pointless, and miserable, difficult, and impossible, that I want to shout, shoot, I want to strike, like a snake, I want to enact some kind of revenge. Let the chorus laugh at me, think me a fool, find fault, and error, and show what there is to be shown, about the countless errors, I make. The only thing that's blocking me, is myself, and I go around thinking, that I'm doing the best I can. I am a laughing stock, of no known origin, I have received tremendous support, none of which, seems to be enough. My editing skills, could use some sharpening. More needs to come out, and better things, need to go in. No book is quite where I'm at, because I am nowhere, i.e., not anywhere. Darn your socks, don your hat, stinky, slinky, two dollars, greeting cards. My obsessions all have to do with basic survival, I fell deep, I can't get out. These are not songs, to sing, these are obituaries, to recite. All of these cooks, are dead, they're not even books, they are weak attempts, to stake some claim, in the literary world, that will forevermore, be barred, to me. I shift suddenly, but don't move, I waste my own, and everybody else's, time. I need to do ten pages a day, and can barely finish, four. I understand what I understand, have high hopes, like some drug addicted, narcoleptic. My future looks bleak, indeed, it looks like early death, and dark clouds, disease, financial strife, and indecency, as well as whatever, descriptive words, that I have forgotten, and stated elsewhere. I am dying, right now, and my curse is that I know that nobody is going to throw me a lifeline. As far as all the wonderful things in life, where, are they, really? I don't see them! I'm not feeling, looking, or acting, very top notch. The hours that other people put into my shit! I, myself, do nothing. To work as a clerk in a bookstore, alphabetizing, might just be the best, and only place, for me to begin. My sensitivity, must end, this all has to stop. You've got to get in your car, and go over to the wherever, right now, and get a (because, just, because). My hopes, dreams, and ambitions, are all deferred, snapped-off, screwed… a hundred different ways. The garage, may not be, the place to be right now, I don't think anywhere, is. An elephant took a shit on the steps of the National monument. It came out of my ass!

Nothing can be less fulfilling, than figuring out that you haven't been doing, what you thought you were. 6.25 to start (oh boy)? Not much else, can be said, about this, it's all too ridiculous to even mention, anymore. I have no idea what it takes, no idea why I feel so ill-prepared, why this is all happening, and not happening, quite the way it is, and isn't. I have had an insanely, difficult time. This is just not working out, and I don't know why. See, they're all comfortable, it is only me, who isn't, who's fucked. It's so hard to say what all these problems I'm having, are, or what, or if, they even are, at all. Our prayers were unanswered, we weren’t all that surprised. I drive around, put in applications, it takes hours. Yeah, but see, these days, beauty, is a rare thing, indeed. I've lost all respect, for the employees. They're all idiots, unpublished, at ease, no worries. It’s hippocampus perplexity, in the thorax. Remember the July, with fangs. Don’t stop, not yet. These are the sterile catacombs, of thought, I was mentioning, earlier. They know every move you make, they keep track of you. Zen bowling, was funny, clever, original, great, etc. My own life is at stake here, thus, I trimmed my beard. Will I cook, at some joint? Perhaps, but whatever I do, I gotta’ do it, yesterday. The car is going to cost a lot of money to fix, I don't have any! If it's going to cost any more than that, I'll do without it. What the hell else, can I do? My...no preparation, no planning, no forethought, I never thought that this would ever happen, and now, suddenly, here it is. I pretend to be smart, after all things loony, from his own point of view, great idea, already done. As for dishwashing, I hope you're not seriously, considering it. The things that I do, daily, are silly, extra things, to most people, I have made them primary directives, took a bath, still overweight, still confused, scared, nervous, and have no self-esteem. It seemed like the woman wanted to tell me something, but that's likely my disease, talking. The inside band of the hat, is already stained. I never call first, I just barge in, feel foolish, go home, and wait. In about a month, they'll need people at that other place? Well, I can't wait that long. I am expected to do without, to really suffer, to play it safe, or take it easy, or engage in some kind of minimalism, a purposeful directive, simplicity? I'm so weak, and pathetic, that I can't even say that, anymore. Everybody seems to know what I have, and haven't, got. It's so easy, for an established person, to say no to somebody, who hasn't/isn't. Write your own damn story, at least I have a pseudo-earth sign, that's fake, and improper. We collect things, what are we? Blink again, my friend. If you don't think this is rock bottom, and you don't start busting your ass, to get your book done (because you know how hard it is)… This is not the book? Wait a little while, here/now, before inserting anything, into any girl. Oops, and if it's gonna’ be all bi, and/ or strange, well, then, so it is. What little there is to hide, can't be kept hidden, long. Being ruined, wrecked, and defeated, is not all it's cracked up to be. What was the name of that publishing company, and what the hell would I do there? Should I go to some grocery store, and work in the middle of the night? Should I clean theaters, at the same time? How can I even be asking, these questions, lying about what I've been doing? Wearing a dirty, stained suit, around town, that's too nice for the places you're applying? What's this guy’s line, and why should we hire him? He doesn't even know how to use any of the equipment. I figure I'm too smart, to be suckered, but I already have been. I’m what I fogot about. Sandy at the bookstore, means the news has already traveled. I creeped myself, out. No one knows what it means, neither do you. My hands look lilly-white, and clean, I don't know where to go next, but, I'm going to go there. Make me be something else. She slapped him at the community pool. Jazz up the résumé (what résumé?). I've gone off, this is all too much/too little, for me, but I'd better lower, or raise, myself up, a space, or I'm through. There isn't anything for me to do, but write, and I cannot tell what, if any, skill level, I have, or haven't, achieved. I never thought of myself, as a cash register person, before, my, how times change, and people, don't. So unprepared, that I can't even believe, this is happening. I have no lies to tell, there is no way to explain, why, or even what the hell, is happening. To try to get over your problems, is a hell of a lot easier, when you're not able to close your wallet. I may very well, never achieve the level, I did. Oh, well! And it still might not be over, with the courts, I could say that everything is legitimate, but it isn't, and won't be. Yesterday, I almost started crying, I took several, small, tiny shits, I had the keys on me, again, when somebody else needed the car. When you're boring, and ineffective, in short, when you have no skills, or abilities, fake it, fake it, take it. I've never had these problems, before (sort of). Childhood, is all it is. Everything is not “fine,” with anybody. I suppose you could say, that I don't want to go back in time, but I'm not sure. All that I’m interested in, is unknown. Let somebody else, score the goals. A condo? That's not even funny, right now. Speak out against what is wrong. Heart shaped head, again. Had I, this, and if I'd, that, better become a goal for a work in progress, really soon. They took our lives away from us? Now, my student loans, are going into default. Who has been taking care of them? It is high time, that I take care of that, but see, I can't even take care of myself! Listen, what I am going through, is real, there are no games, being played, here. All the work we did, trying to improve ourselves, was for nothing. We want the big score. Correspond to the synthetic.

Tuned in? Turned on? NO. Aha! Go forth! Manage to manage, asshole! If you say one more time, how hard it is to write, I am going to kill. This isn't hard, this, isn't the end of you? If you don't start putting hours, and hours, of productive work, into your novel, you probably cannot make it, out there in the real world, at all so, get your book written, now! Cut the one, into three, and rewrite 'em? Great idea, now, go do it! How could it still be, 582-584? It’s not difficult, it’s impossible, so there. There was the letter to orbit, and the script, at least. I know I took the yellow, out, already, put those together. Oh, that's it, two less pages than I thought there were, lo, and behold, lo, and behold. Three books written, that were (?), one, finished book. It's what's called, cutting things down, into doable steps. From here, get them typed, and above all, keep writing, always. If you call yourself a writer, you'd better be. Fill in with old "funny sheets," and shit, the 46 pages, that you need, to make it into some semblance of a whole. This shouldn't take too long. Keep putting down ideas, outlines, etc. Oh, of course, learn to write a normal letter! How many times, do I have to keep writing that? Until you get one, and until you learn not to constantly, fuck-up. Always read the fine print, be leery, careful, cautious, bold, determined, direct, crude, confident, assured, glory to be, in the highest, etc. I am an atheist, I always will be an atheist, come what may. When you're nowhere near, done, get started. The difficulty in doing, whatever the hell you're doing, is never, ever, to be mentioned. Also, there is no payoff, per se, it won't be "worth it," necessarily, but you will still, keep going. You will keep going, until something happens, i.e. a stroke, heart attack, mental collapse, and you will have been ready, and prepared, for all of that! All of us, this whole group, has a bit of flop to us, a flop, that must be stopped. Flop with the hand, you dig? As far as basic, biological, inheritance, well, you got lucky (maybe), simply in terms of some of the proclivities, and possibilities, but we do what we can, the best we can, at all times, everywhere. Carry the fire, build the water, you know the drill. Oh, those sick paintings, on the cover of those porn books, with the muscled up sailors, etc. A sad song can get you from the left lane, to the right, usually, quite quickly. There is nothing to do, but this; so, go to town. And keep things in mind, if you would, that you ordinarily, wouldn’t/don't. Get smart, is no longer a drive-in movie, at the old TROY WORLD, or whatever, that they tore down, twenty years ago. Funny, how the mind works, and doesn't, like, I'd really like to j-alai right now, but won't let myself, for fear of ruining this pair, of partially clear, thoughts. Some women, are absolutely striking, and pull you into the picture, others are just as striking, but it takes a bit more work, to see it. It's in, and it was imagined that (where?) it was, too, as I looked at every nook, and cranny, of her it, felt her, imagined my control; but then, it was enjoyed, for that very reason. That’s in her eyes? Oh. Ahem, ahem! Well, that, amongst other incidental reasons, is why I like her. To be still breathing heavy, action, funny, not caring about the stain, if there even is one. Really imagining being coupled, and fornicating, ideas about porno, are forthcoming. To imagine being given an assignment, to research, and write, really; live, almost, at this point, stolen stories, for cheap little books. Things happen, but, do not. Listen to the corn grow, watch society fall. There is no reason, for me to live, anymore. That you live in a fantasy world (flushed face), is a challenge, keep going on, to where you were going, and it better be somewhere, at this point. The only difference between you, and those in prison, is that they did, what you, thought about. You’ve got to do a lot of nothing, to be able to handle, everything. Now, it takes longer to write one of the typical, old, "letters," but, so what? Shit, almost a week! You better start using this, to get to that, sometime, real soon. Milk, causes cavities, when you don't have any cigarettes, the whole afternoon, takes on a different element. Already excited, about books that haven't even been written, yet? Big mistake, but, write a quick first draft, and then, add to it, along the way. Just as you will add to, the other two "done," books, and the "almost done, one." Get going, boy, those little droppings, are only to get the blood moving. You'd better have something to show, after all this time being allowed to live at home, and buy books, drive, and dick, around. When the end of the...and the fabric is united, at a particular point in time. Just give up? It’s as if they don’t want to miss any of the nothing. Whoa, that’s a vibrator! So, that better not be what I think it is. It got to be too damn much. Wipe off a few smiles. Why the old, scout shirt? You do strange things, at strange times, for strange reasons. Cream into your own death, southern. Wear a dress, mingle. Putting things in order, and walking throughout a store, are not my idea, of thrills. Nobody, might want to, I will make them see things my way, I will force myself, to be the greatest in the world, I will gas you, and I will oh, oh. Gnash your teeth, curse under your breath, fill up empty spaces, always, filling up empty spaces, on the racks. All three of the jobs that I applied at, today, I did not want, none, I want something where I can work (sorry, I wrote, write) independently, without anybody else around. Just a quick turn, and a screw. The hen laid another egg. Tick out of the dispatch hut.

She's got liability, responsibility, what? Accountability, huh? BRAZIL? What's his name's, movies? Doc’s book, was good, his sister, I said uncle...humor. Left my name, one never knows, I no longer have to prove that I can run around, and do fifty things, at once. Let the woebegone, have at it, for a change. I will die, not having lived, despite knowing, that things must be the opposite, for many years. I have to help out more, around here. Will never live anywhere where cars, are regularly, stolen? Estris? As if Fidel, flower, by the River Styx? Tipsy, triptease, the coffee shop fad, will die down. I guess I'm not going to be any of those things, at any of those places, that I stopped by today, but there is always, tomorrow! Positivity, does seem a little silly to me, now, but (no camera) something else, has to be tried, after years, and years, of stuck, fucked, mental degradation, and suicidal indifference, depression, oxy-rage, out of mind, wild, screwy, negative, rancid, woebegone, etceteras. Is this recovery? So be it. Statues, so adored, sexually, that all the kids on campus, climb them in strange ways. I could've been delivering papers, steadily, by now...I will not return the VCR. To my knowledge, I was the only one on the staff, to do any research, to bring in an outside source, with statistics, into any of his/her assignments. Buddha is pissing on his own legs. Fireworks are being set off, and as far as I can tell, there is nothing to be celebrated. At any moment, that bizarre structure could start flapping it's wings, and just fly right out of the children's picture book. Fog overtakes the oak trees, on moor-like landscapes, and there may, or may not, be wire mesh chairs, nearby. Alcoves, and other kind of doorway hiding spaces, aplenty, are to be found, there can be peek a boo, or ha ha, or any of it, any of it. Someone thought I was a girl, and I pushed him into the bushes (some younger kid)? That was about the extent of it, that one incident, why that one? I could consider this a false memory recall. As for that, uh, well...certain...nah, let me think that over. Wild, roaring, psychic waterfalls, going backwards, and forwards, at the same time, so that they would appear to be, "standing still." Make doggone sure, that one tape, that busted, or whatever, that happened that one time, long ago, was. That guy looks like Dostoevsky, in some old-fashioned, daguerreotype. I’m telling you, there are crimes, in my thoughts! Waves of ambrosia? Start a fresh, new page, the teachers always used to say, back when they used to let us start over. For kicks, dash off a letter to (hear them roll) someone you’ve long since, forgotten. Life is not good enough, for any of us. Now, I'm the teacher, and even though I'm often sick of me, I'm all, I've got. We walked through the gravy and, every single day (we fucked there, occasionally). To have been real generous, in the past, betcha’ wished you had all that money back, now. The paper fluttered down to the ground, like a dry leaf. Give yourself a change of venue. Do not sit there, all day, and do nothing, don't sleep until noon, again, ever. Stupid people, do stupid things (I must be stupid). Figure out some dialog, that would be interesting, for someone to read, here, and, write it down. So, I have to learn to delegate better, I have to learn to do a whole hell of a lot of things. Che-che, and Fe-fee, got what they wanted, so did I, but it took too long. I did extra shit, and ran around (or, so it seemed), I swept, and mopped, every day, this seemed to be the biggest, most important, thing, I did. Everyone here, is sick of me. Some lint, a bunch of insurance forms, for canceled policies, with writing on them. Instructions from Bird, on what to do, yesterday. It wasn't very (fall apart) different, or effective, productive. Hours for orientation, to some 3-D Xmas party (didn't go, didn't want to). Two checks, one blank, and one to me. Notepad thing, the shit hit the fan, while you were out. That...did not work, we were blown, and blamed. We swear too fucking much. He is published, I am not. I didn't do nuthin'. SRI LANKA, SRI LANKA! Swoon on the shuttle bus, Mummy/Mommy. On to the creative zenith, if there is one. I can't imagine, that he has had ten solo albums. In these pages, feel free to name names, you can always take them out, later, if there is a later. Slick slots, what were the rest of them called? Write more legibly, more clearly, take more time, and be more careful. No fear of control/ being (it needed it) controlled/ or, control issues. Everybody reads the liner notes, to all of their/our, favorite albums. How sane can my writing get, after all that crazy shit, I've written? Night, swans, and incoherence, don't plan your acceptance speech, quite yet. Whatever happened to Jamaica? Divinely violent, great family, wonderful possibilities, no dilettantism. There are going to be thrills galore, as I heal, but, I must work. The Chicken Room, big buses, and journeys, hello, fake burger! Hopping wanting to live, not have this discovered someday, to be ordered, or ordained, as insane, thrown out. Thank you, for the thank you note. My family, and friends, are ready to challenge my artist's life. I do make a great, many, mistakes, and I probably get on a lot of people's nerves. Maybe the room is too small, I don't want to be dysfunctional. Gum on the radio, cum elsewhere, maybe I can make a few people laugh out loud, maybe not. I need to get to the bottom, of getting to the bottom, of things. A hand, as it is, better start being seen, as a doable, challenge. My vanity, is reaching egomaniacal proportions, secretly. The backyard, the background noise, the thank you (TANKA), let us ignore this infantile anger, and carry this thing through the discotheque, like a torch. The cast of characters, changed, from year, to year. Beware letting any projects, slip into mediocrity, or worse (no strokes for me). There is no room of the shelves, for any so called, masterpiece. Wetness, that wetness, I need, underline, need, to get my act together, real fast. I’m going to leave a few mistakes in, by accident. What separates me from the "successful," is that they've solved the issues, that we're, trying to confront. Wilt right into the psalm. Word salad, no consequences. Let there be some masterpieces, no out of context blurbs, from the art of skimming. Deeply disturbing forays, into darkness, and dank labyrinths, that need to be plumbed. The depths, are where the light is hidden. Go back into hammer swinging, too many errors, made. This is not proving to be very interesting. There is no such thing, as having written too much! The mess, will not clean itself up. It is going to be a really low-key, weekend. No one can help the helper, especially, one who can't help himself. Cocktails, on the barstool in the kitchen. Manuel, keep it simple. Odd, what does this mean? No matter what, the goal is to not go astray, into any criminal areas, never commit any crimes, under any circumstances. Make your way through your inevitable mistakes. I don't know how good I am, but I hereby resolve, to improve. The rope, climb, you weakling. Maybe it was too loud, but to pound on the walls, like a maniac? Energy is required, only after you’re all out of it. The goofy boy, I acted like, most of the time, all those women, that I thought that I wanted to fuck (blow your own mind) (most of them were girls, but no matter), none of this, was ever going to happen. Why did she do this to me? The goal is to blow the readers mind, affect them, transform, wound, and sear them, give them something, love, cuddle, stroke them. If only I could find a proof, some record, of what I did, when; in the last couple months, to see where the money went. Look for new perspectives, on the same old thing. The only way out, is in. the famous, won’t be so, for long.