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Feel my spongy cortex, live in your thoughts. High volumes, to drown out the sound of our own thought voices! Into oblivion, with no holds barred. Love is a verb, usually used in the past tense, i.e. loved. No one is very likely to start talking, anytime soon. After the long tunnel, you're apt to find yourself out in an open field, with no one around. Buffy will call you back, it's a billable hour. Things become telling. The overflowing, clogged, sink, will give us that all-important, "something to do"...that we've been waiting so patiently for (what's left?). Grazing in the back forty, with a creamsickle, and half a pack of cigarettes? From the inside, looking out, self-hatred is just the incomprehensible feeling, or emotion, of not having enough money. Other phenomenon than the weather, affect our present state of mind, but not too many other things. There must have been some unsuspecting, tree hugger, trying to bash into the beyond, without even trying. The trays all fall to the floor, loud voices, reverberate throughout the room, the decibel levels fluctuate, yet, keep growing steadily, louder, and louder. 222 something’s, attacked me, made me laugh, when I didn’t feel like laughing. Me, circled. The knob is turned, and the door, it opens! Getting bored, just until the next batch of bills come due, the credit bureau, calls. If you could only see through things faster, life would be a hell of a lot easier. It takes a long time, to get over, getting over things. What we need, is emancipation, from needing to be emancipated. We keep running into the same walls, don't we? We demand new colors, and new roads! They don't pay us enough, for wishing we hadn't done the things, we did. The exercises at the end of the chapters, would've taken up too much time, and energy, now, look at what we've got. This is becoming some kind of checklist, of what not, to do, and how not, to do it. There is this tunnel, always, the fucking tunnel! We go through it, down it. Dulled, already, dulled, back then, we simply get, more so, until we, ourselves, are dull, and then we solidify, into our own, ever contracting pyramids, of the mind. As sick as it sounds, there is no cure, for this illness. Beds are for fucking, let the cat sleep it's life away, it’s the seething in the now, that I can’t stand. Behoove yourselves, recall tassels on spears. The way this entire world is, is wrong. Philosophy is superficial, it plays second fiddle, to bills, to chores. An enormous amount of our lives, are gone, without our knowing, that they are gone, in advance. I keep using the wrong tool, for the wrong job, and getting into fix, after fix, when all I was ever trying to do, was regain, what was broken, in the first place! Well, it goes to show you never can, or can't, tell. Why doesn't anybody, sound some kind of alarm? Forced to wear underwear, and a whole host of other things, by social convention. Not looking, not seeing, still saying please, after you've gotten what you asked for? How many sculptures, for how many dollars, tornadoes, and giant toys, slides? Whatever, which means to go backwards, to get forward, there is always a part of us, very alive. A fake aria, a pretended allegiance, false revolutions, thwarted plans, dashed hopes. That is a soft serve ice cream cone. Breathing gets (pause) sideways, and the prayer that things would turn out, or work out, was most people's, last. Not all, but some, of course. Horny teenagers, are for fucking. Isn’t that a jolly, jelly? Drool, out of your mouth. The public is not at risk. Hey, pssst, tick, tick. Then, a giant horse appeared, out of the mists, in the side yard. Will I ever get over these problems, that aren’t even real problems, anyway? People change positions, there is nothing left to do. Why do I say, and do, so many pathetic, obnoxious, ridiculous, things? The apex was reached, and as it so often, turns out, was nothing like, how we thought it would be. The cleaning must get done, as usual. It usually feels as if I'm being heckled, especially, if no one else is around. The barbecue pit, may not be the place to redress your grievances. Subtle forms of slavery, are the kind that work, the most well. All out of gas, for the seratonin engine, take your chances, roll the dice. Acid rain, took care of undue, self-flagellation, on the playground. Our more scientific papers, are the one's that are scattered about, with the most (in terms of), "lack of care." Pick up, shuffle, fold, refold, put down. Just keep the pen moving, is not, nor has it ever been, a good way of writing. Sub-zero, sub-over, sub-Oahu? Those pants contain a pattern, designed to fool/entice the wearer, into wanting to take them off, at the most inopportune time. It looks like there is a dead body, in the corner of every kids room, who doesn't feel like going to sleep, as early as their parents insist that, they do. Very slowly, and carefully, we become more egotistical, in order to succeed. Someone made a comment, asked a silly question; there was an incident. Go get sick, it’s good for you. We… hesitated. There was a whole bunch of shit that was going to happen, but didn’t.

You're so Norwegian, baby. Six months, just disappeared, little dances, sickening sorrow, expanding guilts, proper, proper. How will you ever get drunk, drinking as slowly, as you do? So self-centered, most of us, that we never, realize it. The question to ask now, is why am I, what I, am? In our prime, is hamburger. Doctor, I'm far too easy a target, for you. Whatever it takes, I love you all, like Roman numerals. This is my badge, thank you for your kindness, and understanding, thank you for the badge of Honor, which I wear with pride, which in some way, gives me pride. Every day, expresses itself, the molecular structure changes, in ways, shapes, and forms, that refine, and re-augment, the plan of action, reaction, antecedent, behavior, consequence. To pay our own tickets, to go our own way. They give us an extra set, of sew-on, buttons. Why, oh, why, did I open my mouth? Served with Texas pride, running out of gas, the great revision has, begun. Let me try my hand at that lyre, he's not drunk, he's no weak character. As for what the liberator eats for breakfast, it really, shouldn't matter. The next phase, is to rule the world, the next stop is Albuquerque, and it's many miles away. Bits of candy, bits of time honored, philosophy, bits of dog biscuit, blood on the front steps, subjects, effects, attempts, suggestions. This is a random life, this is the explanation, of the assassination attempt. I am a co-conspirator, I, in some form, or the other, allow such things, to happen. We’ve all got to stop fucking up, now, before it’s too late. It does all equate out, equally, in the end, whosoever we give our gifts to. The stuff was dripping off my hand. Be as subtle as a bus. I was stopped, don’t let this happen to you. You’d better have a few things straight, early on. The end, is the end of many things. Angst, is no longer in style. Tormentors, torment us the most, before we meet them, it's just the beginning, most times. It’s like a broken dish. This orgasm will shatter the control mechanism, that I have heretofore, rejoiced in. An enigma, is a crown for a king, of some other world. The palm of palms, justly deserved. Hours of laughter, at chaos, days of stubborn, and unshakable, paranoia, counting on what adds up, lying on the death bed, thrashing our heads, from left, to right. Images can be fascinating, but the real thing, is all that's really interesting. The thesis itself, became far too convoluted, to try and prove. The apertures in our brains, that filter experience, do far too good of a job. One of the first waysides, is suffering, and it is one that keeps on appearing, only to reappear, a little later, a bit further down the road, after a few miles of smooth sailing, good crosswinds. We began a bizarre, series of tests, to attempt to explain ourselves, we wound up going a little bit too far, again. Let's put it another way, nobody wants to know, let's say it again, let's find the evidence, that the product was, indeed, consumed on the premises. This is just not working out, at all! The old school, still smells the same. We want (another dash, more ellipses) to be crazy, because it’s more sane, than all this. The lighthouse, is dilapidated. Glue your dreams, onto this, very good. Supplies are limited, estrogen levels are declining, health care pamphlets, are color coded. Evoke big reactions, from tiny schemes...of nothing in particular. Inconceivably startling, startling, pudgy! Put me up on the stage, and let me attempt to fake my way, through it. Broken light bulbs, in our faces, phone numbers, found, oxygen, breathed, I need her, like the smelling salts, they wave below my nose, like a habitual fire hydrant, that is on, to relieve pressure, to perform other functions. The only goal is to ejaculate, into our already, filthy pants, once again. The transmortification, of the light in the room, use the rag. There are still many unwritten pages, and it is my sincere, and humble, hope, that what is written on them, will have more value, than what has been written, heretofore. Short on runways, plenty of leftover pastries, plenty of free water, looking for help. Rumors, that spread, and take over, whatever the central reality, of such, and such, a person, might, or might not, be. Quite the uncommon find, if you know what I mean. The bathroom handiwork, was appreciated, the freak moniker, a subtle way of being reminded, that thou art, a freak. None of them can write, I can't write, we are all retards, and pussies. This is in regards to the Golden Age. Erase all those lavish ideas, about picnics, probe the dirt out, examine, examine, study, study. At the still point, it will turn, it must turn, well, it ought to turn. To contemplate the silicon age, of which we are a part, to inhale seratonin, to emulate moths, stand up to questioning, no real feelings, per se, that we feel, because we're too tightly tied into, their manifestation. He never had a problem with me, or, so I'd like to think. The point is not made, in our protestations, but, in the in-between. Fell a victim, at the march, the perpetrators, stay in Pompeii. Going to the outlet? It all does, indeed, come down to the paycheck, the only sure (slightly) reward, of our toils, and struggles. At all hours, and under all circumstances, we lie here, we lie here. Do the multiplication, more quickly, scan who is in the room, use different colored inks, chew all the pens, to a frazzle, gaze upon photographs of idols, and heroes, make the sign of the cross, drink the blood, drink the wine. A brand new style of thought, a wholesale rejection, imagined, in advance, leads to an event, of sorts, of swallowing hard, and sleeping, more soundly. There is no crisis, we’re on an audacity kick, we have fantasies, greed, we don’t cooperate. She was so beautiful, so striking, that I decided that she couldn’t be from this planet. Everything is as pink as a tit.

The problem with not having the time to do the things you want to do, is no problem, at all. Get those seeds planted, and seedlings, will appear. Connections happen, imagineering? As I said yesterday, I'm more free now, than ever before, the fact that I feel so stuck, and stilted, is not a fact, at all, it's just, not time. I am torn, anyway, do anything, explore any option, I no longer have to go to some hellhole every day, and know that you'll never be able to stop, going there. Hmm, putting things in a bag, which is like the cut-outs, of old? Someone came home, who knows who, at this point, or what their mood is, in relation to mine? The car, of course, is still not fixed, and as usual, it's dangerous, to ride in such a vehicle. Basements, are the ever-present, mystery, of life, in the suburbs, do they have one/ what's in there/ does it flood? Also, the families, old, and established, kids gone? The why’s, and what happened’s, and, where did everybody go's? When I look back in time, at pulling that wagon, I wonder, and question, how it is that someone with so much get up and go, could sit here, so long? When you've received proper enough, training, there is no point, to just wallowing in the fact that you didn't perform, well enough. The stains on my clothing, have become permanent. In a few areas, yes, you've stopped, for now, but, so what? There is no time, or room, for insanity, now. The ways I've been stopped, may open up again, suddenly, sometime, soon. Once this, or that, blows over, we can really say good-bye, to Arcadia. I wanted to say something important, but forgot what it was, as usual. Shit on the roof. I know that I've got to do my part, in all of this, I know that nobody is ever going to know, or care, who I am. I'm here, unknown, looking to be known, established, financially solvent. This is a killer, a sanctioned kind, of self annihilation. She is velvet, she is velvet? Some of the "weird" things, that I say, and do, really, aren't weird, I just wish they were. I am a very, very, normal person. Yes, I'm afraid of competition, everybody, and their brother, is doing, what I'm doing, right now, or will be, whenever they get over, what they've got to get over. It is of the utmost importance, that I not be obvious, to do this, in a different way, is a must. See, everybody knows what I know, and they do things, to change their present situation. If I can grow, quickly, to the next level, and pull all the old stuff, up with me, all will have been worth it. Who came in, and what are they doing? A little clean laundry, would definitely go a long way, in here. Life is different now, more, and less, difficult, you know what you've got to do (try to see that as a good thing, rather than a bad one). You don't need any food, what do you need food, for? This is all there was. Tickle tortures, used to be’s, and tears in our eyes. Food can't help you write a letter, or buy postage, try a different way. She glows, like a Greek goddess. This is no contest, to see how far we can throw the football. We remember the seventies, we may be better off, dead. Well, all we need, is, money. I shouted out, to no one in particular. He used to put butter, on his own asshole. Scratch that left, underarm region. Somebody's pissed, shift, baby, shift, honey. There is a real midget, living nearby, a woman, I saw. The classified ads, don't give a real good indication, of what's out there. No more Ozzy, get in with the right bunch of fellows. There is trouble, but see, I'm going to be above it now, climb over the rigmarole, find peaches, on the plumb tree, and wonder what the hell is going on. Discover animating technology, what can be done? Pretend to know everything, don't be sour, insane; go, and do something, above you, bigger (and climb), rather than something, below, and wallowing. There is an awful lot of material here, but only you can appraise it, do a four/six routine, make those speared mailboxes, jutting out, and tar splattered, rusty, aluminum siding, homes. Some people, know what the sound in their computer, is, other's, don't. Texas toast, eh? To get to where I'm going, is not to know where that is, at this point, but, there, is where, I've got to get. See, there's too much to do, to contemplate death. You'll be very unhappy, indeed, someday, if you're wracked with cancer, and look back, to years like this one, when you're health was perfect, and you did (zero) nothing. Don't even look back at the farm, it'll always be there, you've got to trust yourself, you've got to uncover, some get up, and go. These purchases, stop making them, and that hotel? That's your big, coup d'etat? Please, try again, please, try again! I was up, and eating food, again, after saying that I would not do, such things! He's around, I heard him, notes cannot be missed, try not to dream of sucking your own dick. Grand Blanc, of all cities. People are doing, without pageant, or fanfare, talk, or afterglow. There is an out there, that is more financially stable, than, in here, I got to get ‘dat, gimme' ‘dat. Rock, like that guy who fell off the log, and kept rocking. It only seemed like a campfire, she only seemed pretty, I had nothing to say, thus, I said nothing. No regrets, no mistakes, no sex with teenagers, who drive mysterious, disappearing, jeeps, or the forty that do, the fourteen, that want to. Perhaps, I've become, no, it's just not true. Nothing horrible/awful/funny, fear inducing; has happened. I prefer not working, to working, as long as I do this, while not doing, that. See, something can only come from this, continuing to produce this, then, pick, choose, change, and find, later. And with exercise, the rushes come to, things become better, more organized. There is going to be another quantum leap, I'm not even going to look at what lies over the cliff, this time. What color will Dee-Dee’s hair be, this week? Don’t get caught watching girls gymnastics, too carefully. They’ve already shut off the gas, and the telephone. So it goes. The slaughter of us all, won’t stop there.

The whole of her, really is, yours, now. Where are my railroad ties? People with names we can't pronounce, make all our decisions for us. Someone fired some kind of weapon at me (how rude). Talk from you, face? Cram it up into, our supposed, “needs.” The wires, are exposed. To be honest, any sort of message, brought about, through whichever, form, or medium, isn't much more than an annoyance, to the "student." Confusing, dangerous, rail networks. Curse you, creamy thighs. When can I deliver it? I want my system, to be set up, now. Be crazier! Advance, what have you old/young people, around the mid-twenties...eventually, it becomes a question of when, to commit suicide, not should I, shouldn't I? Buffalo, are calling on the phone, they say that I'm crazy, deranged, bitter, sickening, terrifying. This same old story...there isn't much to it, there isn't much there. What's original about this, is not unique, and what's unique, about this, is not original. Such was the case, that we didn't know, how we were doing, what we were feeling. Somebody stole a hard hat, it's a start. My utter self destruction, and annihilation, seems comical, to me. The finger pointers, are out in full throe, now. Cross them out, un-save, the "thousands of things," they never like you, the way that you like them. The University of (fuck’n) Vagina? Ponder, give yourself a...you are the epitome, morass, molasses, lie/deny/refuse. Boundaries, lines, shades of deception, code book, journals, cutting to the chase. Jump each other, now, or think about how you should have, jumped each other, later. Writing, writing, oh, maybe someday, perhaps, someday, languish/anguish, rah-rah-rah! You are better. You are no doubt thinking, "what the fuck," and rightly so. Thought what most, don't/ wouldn't...who? Well, it may seem like a vague term, a precious situation, but, only in so many, ways. Knowing too much, and being positively unable, to "love," or not, "love"? We’re all a little bit this side, of freaky, talking only of fries, our stop gaps, and supposed mobilities. Twilight missed, money wasted, strange phenomena, in a way, handed down. Check out this bedtime story, cheaper than drugs. Who will volunteer to play the Jesus, role? Disasters, what significance? The show was canceled, still not...well, stay the night, use your hands, as mine. So opulent, so lush. Use your mouth in the proper fashion, Oppenheimer. We're being blown out of here, in the pseudo horror, the Swedish symphony, now, water, clarity. Too often selfish, no mores’, we try to hide, competition, resistance...futile, an automatic response. Slipping, and sliding, on this mean, these eyelids. Faster, deeper, middle stages, happenstance, double albums, no one to talk to, about any of this. Dream symbols, stories, off over there, someplace else. The easiest courses to take, are the roads less traveled, needs aren't necessary, strictly speaking. All we are, isn't, won't ever be, it is a division of the wedding cake, that gets us thinking, crumbs falling off. We want someone to tell us, what we need to hear, we like to believe/ pretend, that we are right, there isn't much in this world, to do...and there's everything, too much. So be it, or don't...earn your salsa, the rhythmic, bouncing, Mexico-like, streamers/piñatas. Violation of the rules, is not allowed. Terror, horror, hectic, frantic, panicked. Electronics, is territory, best left, unexplained. Ooh, and aah, drop it. Touched, what's so great about...and who is not, is all about...no good, no flexibility. Romance, is like polio, leukemia. No real, clear picture, appears, after the dotted lines, have all been connected. Our self-destruct buttons, have already been pushed, we waste our time, just counting pages. Please, try again, it says, underneath all of the bottle caps. I went out to the garden, yet again. By her own admission, all...She thought about drying/day off, what were the size of her tits? Stick your feet into the fondue pot. In-between the lines, what you'll find, well, what you can find, is yourself, your part/ place, in all of this. We got very tired, all of the sudden. Tear the Nazi, flea market, sign, down, this side of rapture, isn't feeling any substantial, yee-haw's. Duplicates are always stored, the...and what... oh, we are solutionless! Don't bother me, darling, it just ain't there. The fear of annihilation, or whatever, our play acting, your own bullshit, which we may, or may not, believe. We used to believe that we were "different," from "the rest of them," etc. We find out later, boy, do we find out later. Let us bag your groceries, let us be self indulgent, let us act, eccentric/egocentric, feigned equanimity, and the whole nine yards. The anger, the hostility, stand in stark contrast, to the crickets, and the fireflies...the calmer side, of nighttime. The sores, are all open. I’ve become just another soft ass, on the toilet. Do the 16/13. The sheets, should they be changed? My friends, if you only knew. Be unnatural, then...all of this self-esteem talk, fear talk...it points to the lack, of those shortcomings. We know how to fish. Look who’s left, holding the bag! We want to, participate, but end up, refusing, to do so. Click yourself into the maelstrom. Dismissive tales, take far too long, to tell, for whatever reason, most people don't care, anymore. The core, of the core, of these things, is the brains, which is yet another onion-like belief, tale, allegory. The failing marvels, these peas in a pod, we don't even seem to get close, it's the same thing/things, repeating itself/themselves, over, and over, and over, again. Let's ride, let's say, to err is human, we lie, and incontinent messages, get forgotten, they fade. Adorned with, eventually. Things are lacking, others are attended to, shadows fell, veils, shells, violence, hell. That is easier, impressions get made, fears are forced out, people may manage, someday, if they forego a great, many things, to own their own homes. Total denial, absolute re-arrangement, pain, is an aphrodisiac. We can only surmise, as to our demise, the where's, and when's. What is this? On to the spigot, now? Why turn? Perhaps our underwear is stained, soiled, but perhaps, not. Life makes no sense, how could any, art? Panic, is scraping down the sides of the ice machine. Erase, shatter, to not know someone, is to like them. We have no idea what’s hovering around us, whatsoever. Fire in the hole, wait for the boom. Know your own protein.

To the right, your left, above, and below, the microwave. Don't ask me, all you're going to hear, is spite, and bile. All I'm good for, is filling napkin dispensers, sweeping floors, wiping down tables. The Doctor will continue to (blame me) shake his/her, head, “no.” Throw me into a cage, observe me, from a safe distance, like you've already done, are already doing. Is this James Joyce, on acid, or something more sinister? Will all of this, wind up, merely, winding back up, against itself? Decent, descent, repent! Sperm in the uterus, going in deeper, now. Our task is to remain awake, at all costs. Hide, ponder, what team, which team? The arena, with it's sounds, smells, screaming, and yelling, the guy throwing t-shirts, into the crowd. To delay taking immediate, and decisive, action, is a worse thing, than death, of course, I do it, and I'm dying, and I'm dead. I know better, but not following through, on what I, supposedly, know, I know nothing, and these things, are the worst type of ignorance, sloth, laziness. Like mercury, the small opportunities, and chances, slip away from us. This is my last day, no, it isn't, this could be my last day, and yet, I wait for tomorrow, again, and again. I do not possess "it," I have never possessed it. Yes, a slave, but, a relatively, contented one, too contented, if it makes any difference, what degree, of contentment, you possess, if you are a slave. So vain, despite the critical voices from within, that rise to a crescendo, with no abatement. I am liver paté. Why is he all riled, was it the "massage"? We know the rules, of opposite things, not really being opposite, at all. Star by the sponge, we don't know where anyone went, the screen door, has broken, again. Blow your horn, and inflect it, with who you are, to extremes. Your theories, are like the marbles, in the jar, on the windowsill, of the long since, abandoned, house. Art has no "concerns," in, and of, itself. In, and out, of the barn, each time, with more of a spring in her step. Her love, is a sort of deteriorating, hiding place. There is no opium, there is no money, there are no feathers, there are no illusions left, to dispel. We collect our essays, we transverse the globe, we intoxicate ourselves, and others, we tell lies, we square circles, we sit. To be an aging, and dusty, euphemism. To be an already, wet sponge, to be a pearlless clam, to be an interesting, bore. Go on planting seeds, you foreign, Appaloosa. The light was reflecting just so, off the ice fishing shanty. Her shoes, gave me an indication, of her sexual prowess. We can continuously, offend ourselves, if we should, so choose. Being a celebrity, is a big mistake, but they all find out, too late. Scratch me off your invite only, party, list. The tree fell, the tree, just fell. They can shove it, keep it, fuck off. Weather the incomprehensible. Divide America, get it out of our hair. Be more neutral, less, undecided. Take a bath! The band broke up (boo, hoo, hoo). You deserve clearer, cleaner, tears, than I can cry. There will always be a degree of terror, and dread, associated with, life. We’re making sure that everything is accounted for. Seeing things both ways is both a blessing, and a curse, like most things. Stop interrupting me, fucker! What I wouldn't pay, for a real emotion. There will be more murders, rages, bombings... sorry. I have made a mess, so great, that I don’t know how to go about, even beginning, to clean it up. Life is gone, the strange mechanism, sputters, and I hear the chimes, wind chimes, to be exact. So long ago, so pointlessly, long ago...if we're not over, and beyond, a few charred...the birch trees, sway, steadily, over there. I can't see in her windows, as much as I might, desire to. Must drink coffee, to arise, to arise, and face the same, old thing, again. Now, there are subliminal messages, on all the soda cans. Scrubby bubbles, get things cleaner. After the tacos, we wonder if we should have eaten so many. Someone, help us from destroying ourselves. As much as we refuse to admit it, you see, we all want to die, and sooner, rather than, later, it would appear. I will gallivant, in public, until I fall. The whole straight jacket, of economics, the experiments, that we continuously, conducted, on the overlaid system, the outlandish, surface structure. Fishtail, any old way. Aha! I don’t know what to think, anymore. A sutra, a stare, a stray, a sutre. The egghead bullshit, went down. Think about terrific. Still the same, we lose, again, and cover up our tracks, through the maze, so that nobody, following us, will likely, ever be able to find their way out, of the desperate labyrinths, of darkness, and confusion. This is not the way things should be, but, see, nothing, is the way that it should be, nothing. For the next ten seconds, please excuse me, while I throw something across the room, there, I feel much better, now. Breath, see, we learn early, that it's important, to breathe. How is it, that these poisons, have such a delayed, reaction time? The energies, that we babbled about, who would have known, that our energy, wasn't the correct kind? I hear the dog barking, I hear the forms, and see the notes. Maybe the eggs, are full of trepidation. To climb into the car again, and drive to another place, we don't want to be. Don’t get paralyzed, in the toilet paper section. Fixing this, now, is worse than the first time. Cure me, of this condition. We’re the grim.

How can a person feel that? They are really, truly, and substantially, alive, and living? I can't sleep, because that's the only thing I want, and need, to do. It is high time, to finish this, silly, game. Restoring a state of benign imbalance, an equilibrium, of distilled boredom. All I really want to write about, are beans. I confess, and it's seen as more of a spectacle, than a life lived in subway tunnels, and along the sides of roads. We are animals, without morals, we are at the low end of depression, currently. To go away, the drive, to get away. This is the worst of it, funny, how we’re always at the opposite end, of where we need to be. At this point, there isn't much room for them, anymore. Pushing, and shoving, ostriches, into the cabooses of trains. Integrity, is a nobility, in, and of, itself. Dangerous, operatic, dances, and action packed, maelstroms. To never see, to never really be able to see, what we are, because, we are it. To plunge into the task at hand, whatever that might happen to be, and to lose yourself in it/them (somewhere), along the way. The work, is always, in process, progress, never finished, never done, never complete, never, just right. Torture, toil, topography, teeter-totters. We know enough, and now, the task is to live within the bounds, of what we know. Planting seeds, Lord, just planting seeds. Horror of unfounded, accusations, inspired flips, over the banister, contrived, indifference, subtle, realities, literal, deliverance. To scream, and to shout, and holler, to carry on. To go beyond the threshold, is the only way to experience, what is commonly referred to, as madness, which is the cure, you see? To go beyond beyond, and to fall back, at the designated time. No retreat, no surrender, no capitulation. Senses, deranged, a bit, but no harm is done, by that. I enjoy the fruits, that I gather, through sin. Breaking taboos, defining our own direction, in which to travel, to slip, to be bored to death. Everything must be perfect, no matter what anybody tells you. So insanely, sane, these demons we wrestle with, constantly, are strong, little devils, aren't they? The dust jacket, said something about, persistence. Licking, kicking, the wrong dates, examine your own spoken words. As crazy as it seems, too much has been left out. Things seem to occur in our heads, on concurrent, opposable, tracks. Follow the tracks, follow the signs, right now; there are horns, sounding, whistles, blowing. There is a lot of danger, and destruction, downtown, tonight. The dog is going crazy, it is senior citizens day, down at the restaurant, and I'm sure that there are beer specials, being offered, somewhere. Rhapsody, is a flicked away, snot. Access granted, very slowly. Some, cure themselves, of one set, or series, of problems, by adding more, been there, done that. It has all been arranged, without their consulting you, or...or. Something rather strange, and mysterious, has just happened, here. To be overground, is too much of an overload. The experiment, was a great success, I saw them up close, in the cemetery. Stars, just as impossible, as the other sort. Somebody changed the station. Who slipped me a mickey? Who is passing off the ghosts of words, as real skeletons? Sigh at the bare facts, that we've got to keep doing it, again, and again. This is my cell of the beehive, I smell you, over there, to the silent land. The crossed out parts, at the bottom, that idea that I had, yesterday, forgotten, already. This is where, I don't know how, I suppose? Give me a gigantic, electrical outlet, the uselessness, is becoming far too useful, for my, or anybody else's, good. All of our motives, are in actuality, threats. The pillar, has long since, began to chip, and crack, and now, the telltale signs, are there, that it is going to fall down, and, of course, as with one, so with them all, followed by, the entire structure. Wider ranging, things, you can sketch, now, and go back to, later (and fill in details). I'm gonna’ fuck her, in that chair! Incidents occur, which is to say, that shit, happens, events, do transpire, and whether they really make your head spin, or not, we must write them down. Where are those sketches? Wasted, picking, cleaning, no way, turning, pulling down the lever, over, and over, and over, again, bang! Sublime, subtly, sublime, and jerking, overreaching, discontented, there are still questions, they are standing by, thousands of questions, left, unanswered. The student, and teacher, appear together, economics, is discussed, we all get dizzy, we all, gesture. The race is lost, but, so what? The color of the ground, is beautiful, the earth, and sky, are some powerful microorganisms. Our task, is to remain conspicuously, silent, to hear through, that silence. Hands are outstretched, all figured out, all driven by. The complimentary inspection, the houses in line, reach over, reach over. The guide to the universe, the guide to the happy, the sad. Modern chickens, sing their “in the pot,” syndromes. All of my atrocities, are too peripheral, to mention. Rage, guilt, shame, despair. It smells like sex in here.