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Next step, the screenplay, and all cattiness, and pettiness, be damned; as I, myself, have been damned, to write about life, and never, live it. She claims to be clairvoyant, today, how quaint. To produce new icons, to compose, new, spooky, musical scores, to listen to the County commission, expound, at length, to scratch our genitals, subtly. Swans seem to just float across the lake, it starts out, with just a little, until a little, becomes a lot, and then a lot, doesn't do, what a little used to do, and things start to burn. Some fires, can't be put out. There are, quite definitely, a few things, still, quite wrong. The smoke is rising, vertically. All constellations, spin through (shrink us) cycles, shifts in diameter, population statistics, seven wonders, eight aspects. Maybe, we don’t deserve life. Dangerous aphorisms, indeed. Pissy, and egotistical, we start to blame others, again. We’re everything, and nothing. Take the back alley way, get really crazy, really stoned. Plastic, candy peanuts, cause syphilis. The courage required, to rise to the top, of one's chosen field, is, well, not altogether, within our hands. I need protection, from my own self, which is real stupid, which, I guess, I am, but, don’t want to be. Impermanent, let them affix price tags, let the body, slowly, heal itself, this is a motel, this is just a part, of the long wait. All I want to do right now, is kill that bug! The politburo dissolving, the best parts, were deemed, excerpts, and were passed out, for the dissemination, of those, who couldn't care less. Connect this, with the next sentence. Here comes the rock and roll. So long ago, so much has happened in the interim, this is the trouble, see, everything happens, during these long, drawn out, interim periods, when we think that nothing, is going on. Drunk, on the balcony, chanting, itching the code, itching the code. What is going to happen? This is important, misunderstood, but very, very, important, stranded, over at a restaurant, that I never, otherwise, would have decided to spend any time in. Sitting on the curb, down at the corner, they will be here, someone will arrive. Dirt roads, impatience, push the thing down the hill, steer it to the side. It'll be fine until the morning, maybe a frantic phone call, asking for just a little bit more time, to get things taken care of. These are free, these saltless crackers, are to be given away, to anyone who wants one. It's not quite what we think it is/was, slip away, shrug your shoulders, oscillate, wildly. C'mon man, I can't do it all. Kindness, and intelligence, become vices, if not put into some kind, of productive, use. Here's the deal, it is time to vacuum, it is definitely, time to vacuum. First, though, I must play this song, just once, but I haven't heard it, in quite, some time. Keep your erotic yearnings, for teenagers, to yourselves, get tough, on archaeologists! Prove that you’re smarter, don’t sit there, smug, and comfortable. So fucked up, so, off, that I'm, too normal. Scary pies, and cakes, selling bricks, for three dollars a piece, to Thomas Edison, things are surely, quite strange. Cosmetics, doubts, the greatest stumble, slow, slow, magic, is to wait for things to happen, let things take their course. This is the high road, out of here, I guess, it's what's happening inside, but, I'm unsure. To finish one road, means to turn directly, to another. There are video cameras, everywhere, the song is sung, by jail junkies, left out bits of Tolstoy, nervous whipper-snappers, confounded idiots. Get up and move over to where the supplies are stored, get out the supplies, and earn your keep. How to say this? Earn your keep. Hit the proff, in the face? We spend all our time, coining metaphors. Draw a new cover for it, get out there! In between manifestations, a few tricks, are learned, a few treats, are consumed. We must teach ourselves, to remember our dreams. We must convince people, that we belong here. Purchasing irises, purchasing gasoline, purchasing caviar, purchasing ice-scrapers. Back, and forth, I would walk across the room, practically, consuming an entire towel, in the hopes that it would cause them to arrive, faster. The perforations on the paper, the absolutely, frantic spectacle, of doing what needs to be done, when it needs to be done. There is going to be a dinner party, tonight. Proud of our gun collection, very proud. In a red light running, daze, as if delirium, were something we could afford. Do not keep counting the pages, courting the damsels, leering at enemies, that aren't even, really. A long, rambling, thing, with no, well, now, I am back to writing my crazy stories. The boy puts the stick in the water, or, tries to, while the girl, nearly drops her hat. I think the other image, was of flowers, perhaps, they were flowers. Don't worry, the grinding sound, will become something else, slowly. Overground, versus underground, restaurant, versus diner. Sitting in there, every day, without ever having heard, the train whistles. Move over, to where the light is. Shake hands with everybody who walks in, make sure that various duties, are performed. The house, became multiple houses, the department chair, is retired/retarded. The air sick bags, are all full. There is absolutely no hope, for me/you. We end the game, as we began it.

Eat your biscuits, flip your lid. Useless barns, that obstruct the view of the sunset. So out, of place, step, the times. Cry, with tears, we've done enough of the other type. The question is, can we hold out, can we wait? Should we change our pants? What they say, we're not supposed to do, should be the first thing, on our to do, lists. Now we want our Tuesdays, whereas, before, it didn't make any difference. I am the people, I am a consumer of goods, and services. They sang, in Mexican. There is just, no fucking way. A conga line will pull you into it, soon. Just get over to the left, we'll take care of the rest. What good is it, in a foxhole? Some of them, paint their toenails. The mystery has been solved, there was never any mystery. Revenge, doesn’t work. Shove the newspapers down, shove the cumbersome thing, down. Involve the natives, in the tooth brushing, ritual. It’s just too bloody, controversial, to publish, at this time. It is human nature, to scrounge, and suffer, on, and on, for no reward. Deflate the convenience store! Well, I'm in trouble now, see, they know my names. There is only a small sliver, of free time, left, I feel the pull, into knowing what to expect. Slow going, and languid, bloody stumps, leftover, of the great, white hope. No, that's shitty, that big steel vault, in the yard. We take our own sweet time, all the while, knowing we shouldn't/can't. The environment, in the largest sense of the word, will soon be undergoing, a grand transformation. We will be there, because it will have been us, who have created it. I want to be interesting, but I’m not, and that’s one of those things, you just can’t, fake. Don't drop the hat! It was never about fame, itself, it was always, getting the messages, across. There is plenty of time, for things to be ordinary, once you’re, dead. We never play ourselves, on stage, you can touch the world's largest dollar bill, but you can't keep it. There was a very short period of time, where if the issue were forced, a building, could have been dragged, protesting. Go, where you need to go, do, what you need to do. Lost in the, they got in their car, jump-started, hello. This is definitely not, what we hoped it would be. What is that shit on the next page, all about, the part that hasn't yet been written? Honesty, is a call to arms, put on your robe. All I can do, is sleep, and suffer. Try to put, what you don't want to put in there, or those; in any case, put it, do it, sound off, admit. Yes, I am in ruins. This is the wrong kind of chewing. Snails, can remind one, of sex, if they are so predisposed, and prepared. Bust a move with Chico, become quite topless. When the talk turns to evil, I turn up the stereo. Sweep the porch, soil, and re-sod, the backyard, glance out at the willows, reach in for the prize. If you were to merely, run your fingers, over this page, you would be able to feel, what I'm feeling, it is not recommended, for the feint of heart. I feel, absolutely, positively, horrible, for killing that bug (the way, I killed it), today. Listen, never jerk off, with the shades, or blinds, open. The eye, is bending. Pay attention, to what you shouldn't be. The same old thing, is what it is, these new inventions. Our desires, our wishes, for an ultimate rescuer, ha, ha, ha. Good-bye, love, this has been done many times, before now. The weather here, is affordable, the chance of a lifetime, was...you know, better than I would, what the particular surroundings, were. My injured pinkie, playful chains, darkened rooms, homosexual liaisons, re-opened doors, wounds, repeated words. Repeated statements, you were brilliantly, false, darling. They don't remember, and I can't believe, that I would ever expect them, to. Now, it looks like a spaceship, they all look like spaceships. It is not as if, all of a sudden, all our fears, will ever fade away. They disappear, as we confront them, one, by one. Back to the canning process, back to old crap, old words, very familiar ground. So distant, and so near, padded memories, of no use, now, boxed reminiscences, that only prove to be clutter, and a waste of time. The process of forgetting, is as random, as the process, of learning. Clear your throat, write your poem, these two, supposedly, divergent, activities, are in actuality, one, and the same. Reach for the stars, reach for your sex partner, reach for some aspirin, or antacid, similarly, similar, activities. Because, I guess, we will never be what we want to be, we all seem to choose to be, nothing, at all. Play it, do it, squall, squeal, now, turn your attention to the digestive process, yet again. Scratch your name on every stump, chase the dangerous mammal. To sit down, and view the perpendicular? It will not stand up to analysis, it will not matter, soon. Wondering if we should take another look, or not, but the light in our eyes, decides the issue, for us. To throw dirt, and to engage in a literal, cover-up, and to get away with it, until now. Actually, and not in regards to that, this is a team of one, there is no our, and there is no, we. Should I donate these desk decorations, to someone who actually, has one? Look at the way that they shudder, and can't stop. The right choice of words, can cut through flesh, just like an arrow. She did something (wait, duck, look out) foul, with the turkey baster. You felt, or feel, nothing. All of my sacrifices, have been in vain, for nothing, no reason, whasoever. The fear, engendered, in a mind reading episode, in the cranium, of those whose minds are read, can lead to the terror/curiosity, complex, can lend to understanding the writer, or asserting the diversity; either way, the potholes, are filled. I can now take my pulse, from my guts. Please, pay me.

Every document, looks mimeographed, secondhand. Earl hopped a fence. Tennessee, is a twice-found, merry-go-round. Don saw a movie. Giving off more than a smell? For how much longer, do we have to die? This is a mistake, that I am this way, but, in time, I will redeem myself. Rick went to bed. Unfounded tarantulas, whose role it is, to terrify us. Is this, or, isn't it, indicative, of my own life? Pass me the tube! A connoisseur of the fanciful, the farcical, the fanatical. Most questions, answer themselves, in the asking, of the very questions, themselves. Results follow efforts, not wishing there were more of them. I saw the smile of a six year old, bone cancer patient this morning, and changed my attitude towards clowns, forever. I hand out money, in lieu of myself, and it's not nearly enough, either of them. Now, I smile and say "good," when I contemplate my death, and annihilation. Greed, in the first person, extreme fits, of trying to deny, that what I say about others, are not my own fault, to no avail. Who does all the talking, facilitates the mood? Why that particular number, was circled, is unknown. You point to the Lord, I point to the mop bucket. Iron, and corn, iron, and corn. I wonder what sorts of habits, customs, conventions, and contrivances, I'll pick up, next? Who drops off the cider, nowadays? Targeted, lawless, menthol flavored, Ezra Pound. Raking leaves in my sleep, breaking, and entering, and trying to explain. The tea cups, have been placed, in perfect order. Who is going to be the one to come around, and knock them down? Delicate freedoms, and (go fly a kite) conditioned fears. Red lollipops, mauve manifestos, petrified crops, substinance, provided. Transmute, and translate, the microcosm. Empty talk, empty words, empty necessity, empty bowl. Man is born, to be a swimmer, so, we're told. I did something strange, within the painting, for which, I would like to take this time, to ask forgiveness. Humbly, bowing to the movie stars, who shuffle around the room, like the figures of royalty, from a deck of cards. Victory, is slow to arrive, marriage, is often the cowards only line of defense, towards the inability, and fear, of being alone (it works, for a while). Never again, to delude ourselves, knowing too well, that through delusion, comes our strongest, and possibly, sole, motivation. To fail, in regards to the masterpiece, one never hears about that. To feel the walls closing in on one, is to possess, security. You are the great pedestrian. To gaze upon the liposuction treatments, has left me feeling, quite ill. We’re finally forgotten, frightened, troubled, surprised, afraid (hurray). It’s like a giant, candy bar. Things get clear, maybe, three days, out of three hundred, sixty-five. Tangled waves, slippery drains, concise squares, bland duress. I saw you yodeling last night, bitch! Thank you, in advance. Do you have any orchids, could I have a receipt, for that? A stainless steel, succubus, a ring, of a dead man, lost, not admitted, lost. There are endless props, to be manipulated, who has time for relationships? Briefly, what is it, you have to say? Well, it was done all wrong, no beliefs. Don't, under any circumstances, forget to chew your food. Why should I go in, early? Well, what do I think? Nothing. The secret of putting two stories together, to keep them guessing, to allow no conclusion to be reached. There isn't anyone, or anything, anywhere, near here. I think I understand, the specific type, of spiritual event, that you were trying to describe, in an abstract way. Get on with it, baby, that's what I'm talking about. Just do whatever the fuck you want. Gobbling euphoria, wheresoever it can be found? We keep getting yelled at. The theme, was raunch. Avoid relatives. Vile, vile, drain cleaner, the treadmill of work, the pfui, of everything. The piano had wings, there was a second floor, but no stairway. Paranoia, keeps things interesting. Dark streets, hot baths, ha-ha, Ohio boys. Rhapsodizing about topsoil, the loser of creation, or the creative, loser. Round the clay, until it resembles someone, or something. You shouldn’t know how low I am, it’s not an attractive quality! I’m making what’s difficult, difficult, by not doing, what’s supposed to be getting done, and by this constant, delay. This is sort of a paean, to a day, that only occurs, once a year. Calm, and sexy, pick up lines, for the deranged. What the hell is so great about life (there’s an essay for the class)? Blame me, blame me (ha, ha, ha). Entwined, ensnared, no, no, we, I, must hurry. All those bargain basement ideas, of what could happen, should happen, was going to, happen. Leave this page blank. Leave this page blank, in honor of all the other ones, that I advertantly/inadvertently, left so. You can't get back, to what was never done, never gotten, never produced. Stand up, and pick up that two liter bottle, there are no cold bottles. We now know, where everybody is, it is (dot.com, my ass) Passover, it is a gigantic orgy, that we all want to be a part of. Double the salary, triple the savings, mark down prices, affirm the lube, oil, and chassis. Lay him down, un-gag him, ask who's sandwich is stuck in the back of the...huh? Now, a ridiculous burst of clarity, it’s so boring, redundant. I studied it, and it’s far too much for me.

For crying out loud, be manic! Snap a picture of the train, leaving the station. Do not re-pave Humboldt. Answers are being prepared, as we speak...the tape is lost, we flip through the radio dials. Fake gold, on dollar coins, squawbucks, ubiquitous frustrations, abounding. Backseat love, saved for when the anger, rage, and hate, wane. The evil, is nearer than you think. Arrows inch towards measured targets, it is as if nothing had ever happened. Let the "cool," play their games, let the embarrassment of being cut off, more than one way/in more than one place; set you on a track, more even. Spill into the ooze, like an animal. Tuesday alcoholics, with insatiable thirsts, that can never be quenched. Mention no names...don't plug anything in. Market research, explained nothing, astonishment, reveals information. Here come the llama's. Girls without morals, are asking for trouble, catching rides with people, with dead geese in their backseats. The ringing of the telephone, sounds like a processional, funeral dirge. Always welcome back, "the people who come, and go." Piss poor architecture, left incomplete, clear indicators, such as throwing up, out the driver's side window. Steaming body temperatures, caramel corn, cotton candy, all these whimsical letters, turn into long poems. Construction has begun, on egotistical, armoring structures, new (some, say nothing) classification methods. Things are about the way, they've always been. Someday, amazed, sometimes, pleasant, rusty spigots, eyelashes on index cards, Haiku pick up lines, convoluted. Allergic to needles? Knowing what to say, can be excruciating. Big day patience, often, leaves one forgotten. Clear this up in the revision phase? I can no longer do anything. Vinegar, and other highway, horror stories. Things have never been more out of the head, and holding tank, as they are, right now. The train is covered in algae, the nightclub is popular, the hops, and grains, are mineral enriched. Rejoice in the pup-tent, you are my body, now (you are in for a big surprise). Usually naked, and other mistakes, along the lines of this. Janitorial work, and dishwashing jobs, do not pay the bills. The child's accusatory mitten, was pointed at me. The tilted down phallus, becomes erect. Ah-ha, the old enigmatic smile trick, eh? Fathom the depths of your nervous breakdown, while crossing the street (look both ways). Throw bread into the crowd, divide! That's newer than that, but that's, newer than any of it, and look at that! Tear out X section, from Y coupling, lift, displace, remove. I hear the kind of whistle, dogs respond to. You've got to get to, and remain, with your own? Sex provides neat diseases, spray down your couch, with plaster, and wood chips. Ignore subliminal messages, three different versions of the same sound? Why should I sign the eviction notice? This is very old graffiti, the French, did this same kind of thing, long ago, with sexy, bare flagpoles. Percentages don't measure up, size matters; the thing is...the thing is...we are all so easily wrong. Shuffle over in that way that you do, recalling nothing, of the incident. Enter the poof, the other part of the aura. No guild cards, no secret handshakes, no mottoes, or pledges of allegiance. Should we continue with these sixteenth century, peasant myths? The proff is not in the pudding, I looked. You squeeze him, too much. Longfully gazing, comfortable as corn bread, drunken electrons, are doing the bamboozled, the bells, keep ringing, the rest, is mere ornamentation. We want what you had, nothing more, nothing less. Refuse to sell them anything. People are vultures, and vampires, or worse. There have always been dolls, and canyons, like that. Firm muscles, adorn tin structures (rather raw rewards). Push down the handle, put your signature up around the top, almost ask. The eyes are the first thing the worms, eat away. The wiccan, love chant, sounds like a buffalo, charging through the field, in heat. Outcasts, look for inroads, everywhere they go. Maybe, lunch, is all we should hope for. It's easier to be diagrammed, and deprogrammed, than to be divided into four equal pieces. Nobody, nobody. Obsession, is not a perfume, mister. Private tours, tender ankles, lawsuits, movie openings, heroin shatterings, and so on. Apparently, there is some “secret test,” that we’ve got to pass. Which wish, damned us? Too many Jessica’s, showed up at the picnic. Well, I’ve got a new tape case, to smell.

I have just a couple more things, that need to be done. At this point, the "battle," isn't worth fighting, there is more to say, but to say it is futile, less than that. So, we're supposed to be impressed, by your ability to dye your hair, in neon colors? Hopefully when the truth comes out, we will be vindicated. We are all trapped, we are all fucked! I am out, now, I am out! Well, time keeps shifting, ever out of focus. The all you can eat brunches, are flipping me to the fix. There was a dream, a dream of having a vast body of work, an actual tome, some kind of curiosity, relived. For some reason, the award was sought after, the taboo food, was eaten. For some reason, I'd rather rest, right now, than write. Stay out of the cosmos, don't play with ridiculous tape recordings, made off a computer. We waded in the fucking fountain. We’re all the same. Waiting for a check, it takes so much time, must change clothing. The opinions of the pampered, do not matter. This is what killed me, not blowing up the tank. The cheating that occurs, will not allow you to rest, until you put things right. Who’s pulling on who’s tits, now? Is there enough room, to stuff those piles of clothing into the closet? Somebody served refreshments. Twin yourself, concentrate, get everybody's towels, the staff does too much (is my impression, so far). It seems a little of the last place, would improve the current one. The radio is loud, and some guy is talking about posthumous grandiosity. The poster is there, to remind you, that there isn't anything to reach down for. The feeling of not knowing when you will be allowed to leave, disallows one, from knowing clearly, what can, or cannot, be done, later. Please don't count the serial numbers, don't color in the black, and white, police sketches, in newspapers, someone just constructed something, out of wood. Too many fumbles, stumbles, um's, and tittering, stuttering, slavishly obeying. Within this American city, there are street sweeper machines, that don't seem to do anything. As our brains get numb, seize the absurdities with glee, and gusto. Try to do as much as you can, but do six things, while you're doing the thing you've got to do. The pitfalls, swish us, we're too solemn, candid, we've got nowhere to live. Keep staring at that bedside table, wondering where the handle went, to pull the drawer open. Strange observers, have their own sets of cares, and worries, is there any way out, of what the hell we've fallen into? We are just sitting around, waiting for the mixed reviews, to some flooding in. Just get through it, that's the only way, just, get through it. Sit around imaginary campfires, telling unbelievable yarns. Sing in Latin, open, and close, the "cat door," my, my, so this is what writer's block, is all about? Take this to the next level, now, what are you waiting for? More importantly than that question, why are you so stubborn? This book, is not some post-adolescent, stalling tactic. It is not looking good, at all, for the 100 pages, that were sent out to some girl, off yonder. I can no longer stand being seen. Please, forward, weakly, but, forward. Jump in the river? No, I don't think that any boorish symbolism, from the thirteenth century, could get me to do jumping jacks, much less place my person, in grave peril. I had better speak up, later, or quit. Flail off the back board. There shouldn't be any resting, right now, it is time to shed the shame, the guilt. You can't take a half hour, for a page, I'm sorry to say. Then, some guy started playing the theremin (one year ago). It was Tom, with a Th, Thom. Avoid the underaged, they cause nothing, but trouble. You, and I, may not be normal people, but we're stuck there, with all the one's, who are, and they really aren't, and we, really are. The road, sunk to stall me, and the wind, knocked me on my ass. Don't stare off into space, right now, there is some dark, sullen, state of the soul, to record. No, there will not be a flurry of recopying, during the time allotted, for individual grope, and stumble. So long ago, things meant so much more, and less. What the hell is it, that needs to be gotten, from the store today? Why do I get so caught up in my own life, so often, when I hate my own life? Put yourself back in time, to when things were new enough, and, documenting, and discovering them, actually caused feelings, of one sort, or the other. It smells to me, like someone is frying frog legs. For your own good, hurry, vegan. And try to stand a little bit firmer, at the plant, speak a little bit louder, more often. Know the entire place, backwards, and forwards, as of today. Ask a lot of questions, that do, indeed, need to be answered, then, only then, get all, off, start looking. You do not make enough money to live on, working, where you're working. There is talk of a Friday off, so what? You, keep going! Nobody really expects you to last real long, at this point, anyway. Put your suit on, when you go today, do something different. Don't get too silly, or attached, go a bit off to the side, pass all medications, enforce all rules, enact all programs. Do not think of Ford, in the terms, formerly, reserved for it. The valets, are still sitting around, in front of the movie house, just as they always have. The owners of the stores, are unworried, about who is going to clean now, nothing more. All of my coworkers, are drug addicts, again, what the hell kind of social circles, am I running, like a treadmill, in, and around? My intention is to take over the world, and I can't even motivate myself to get up off the couch, and do the most fundamental, basic things, that need to be done. Don't you dare, put any cheese, on any of that crap. The lung Captain, pointed out, that the star of the show, was having a few, pretty serious problems, of her own. Nobody has any homework to do anymore, save for the sort, they create for themselves. Thank you, Jeeves, now, keep an eye on the tamed, and untamed, animals. Apparently, the range of personal interests, runs from nonsense, to nonsense, with a capitol, N. All of the yelling, and screaming, that we go through, we want to be cute, but it's too late, for the rule, and purpose, is to clean up your own messes, as you go along. I learned how to cheat a long, long, time ago, but never followed through on the plan (beware inertia, indolence). I’m not hearing a hit single, here. I even cry in my sleep.