By now, it is certainly time, it is certainty time. We get no further along. Fuck the basket, watch the eggs. Box up the flute, foretold, by somebody, questionable reminders. The right way, is the wrong one. We are not chocolate, crumpled, useful, smoothed out, useless. Strange kinds of settlements, dot the landscape, like measles. The candles are winding down? Call a moratorium, cross it out, i.e. cancel it. Well, why would anyone want to? Think yourself right into the thick of it, the circumstances, circumference, the drawn-out yodel, the do-si-does. Put it into your orifice, one, is the other, I fell into the bathtub, full of gasoline. We aren't radical enough, we are complacent, in this uncomfortable place. Head down, hands moving, senses, somehow, or the other, involved. No breaks, breakfast, wanderings, prior commitments, distractions. The pain, all over your sternum, ignore it. Do not stop, do not pass go, do not wink, do not confuse, one thing, with another. Pakistan is restless, again. Blossoms, or roots, the elusive, abusive, immediate, spins, shimmies, slides. Make up reality; the spine of the book, is damaged, insignias, are plastered over the bodies of the dead, that wash upon the shore of the Khmer Rouge. Absolutely nowhere, to focus, no new perspective to grip, grasp, grope, mount. Transform this now, into that, the other, vice versa. Squint, revel, reveal, revise, squat, sit, worry, wonder, play it, eject, play it, eject. We're going beyond paved roads, we're driving to one sea, or the other. Our handwriting, is atrocious. What things we've said in hate/in haste? The more power tools you own, the more of a man, you are, apparently. Keep your ideas of romance, to yourself. The damage that takes, comes to...aches that...cut up, cut out photos of people's heads, glued onto a page. In case your devotion isn't enough? And the swimmer, will have his water. Slam dance romantics, enigmatic smiley faces, nose rings, through tits. Such a low, arcing, frequency. It follows you, as much as you, follow it. The frustration, slowly, subsides, your limbs, ache, recovery, takes hold, things are quickly, gotten over, forgotten. There are no scraps of paper, lying around, that you can rely on, to give your life meaning, or direction. Just lie down, and stare out the window, some more. Let there be more pain, unleashed upon me. We are all Fascist’s. They don’t want to see movies, that don’t have spaceships, and laser beams, in them. Ducks, up above, ducks! Scat! Scat! Hold out your hands, to keep the stillness, at bay. I saw your tits. Was it a mechanized alligator, or the real thing? Your nuggets, are loose, so loose. Give me my pills! Focus, focus your attention, if at all, and in any way, possible. The plastic horses, are all broken. All I want to do is scream, perform inappropriate actions. Do not comply with what they will try to do to you. Cough until the vomit comes out, spit it out the car window, watch it splash, helplessly, all over the side of the car, with the aid of the wind, as it is wont to do. This becomes much, much, harder. I can hear the softness, but not feel it. There is no way out, there is nothing to do, no way to twist this, into something else, that would matter, make a difference, sell, in today's marketplace. This is no drive through Chicago, I assure you. Watch the leaves fall, as we do, one, by one. The bread, gets dry, the air, begins to suffocate you, the light, becomes dark, the door, keeps on opening, and closing. My arm, my arm; so bloated, and swollen, turning to, and fro, fidgeting, while I still can, turns, my confusion, my baselessness. It's a long way to Kalamazoo, no matter where you are. So many lies, we're required to tell...just to maintain an equal, and balanced, framework. Weirdoes, dance in dark hallways, worried, and not worried, about being watched. The hornier you are, the less likely it is, you will ever wet your whistle. We should destroy it all, start over. The crippled parts of me, keep limping.
Lies get told, they are regretted. Being too tired to sleep, is an all too common, condition. The entire system, the whole scene, needs to be bagged, and shipped. The underlying selfishness, is where you're the most apt to find, the heart of the matter. We all end up, becoming way too predictable, our goals, are only to maintain, to survive, to recover. Defiance takes a back burner, when any real trouble, arises. Speak French, darling? The elegant look, is boring, this season, the fashions, and status, and images, morph, into suburbia itself, its like a drug overdose, too much toxicity. Step six; keep your hands folded behind you. Keep that running tab, on things, up to date. Caress yourself, try to find, and delete, the mysterious portions. Erase the Oedipal part, relapse, wallow in guilt, remorse, self-pity...relapse again. A cream job, is a kind of romantic interlude, in, and of, itself. How happy can people really get, about strawberry pie? Actors for hire, are eagerly checking their answering machines, and other things are happening, somewhere else. There is no substitute, for sound, legal advice...if you should, ahem, lean a certain way. Pin up girl’s disembodied legs, are floating around the room. There is this larger than life quality, that people lack, utterly. Germ my pestilence. Sentiments, are false crushes, the freeway, is frozen solid, when I think of the number fifteen, I think of already being dead. Ah, nobody's lily-white, anyhow. The obsession we have, with our personal identities, is our ruination. No one really wants to be known, to shift out of neutral, we're defined by top ten lists, we encourage ourselves, to remain passive, neutral, asleep, alive. We feel we know you, and we don’t feel, or know, anything! We are all too polite, still. If there were a way to will success, or happiness, or success, or anything, there would be more people, who were so. Please, get your finger out of my vagina, sir. Our thoughts are our (skies above) entertainment, and always, betray us. Force it to happen. Reptilian, soft mouth, algebra, can help you forget, for a while. Hear ducks? Hear violins? Sigh your resignation, into the towel, at the foot of the bed. Another martini, another warm coat season. There's the asparagus, there's the one you've been looking for. Already dead, we search for food, and water, carry wood, build shelters, make fires, rejoice, or, fail to. There is a severe lack of going’s on, in the Midwestern states. All the itches, have been scratched. Don't take being so severely out of synch, so seriously? I used to wonder, now, I know. Curds and whey… Everyone is turning their heads, famous people, are walking by. Desperate for material, I turn, yet again, to what's already been written (we are being "shaped," i.e. determined, right now), where was I...donut shops? Break the rules, wonder, much later, where all that, got you. Big money, played backwards, sounds like the wind chimes on the front porch. Watch your tone! Clam your fish face! The fear of rejection, is what has always kept the orgy of all orgies, from happening. Sequels, should be banned. There is no such thing, as luck. Keep cranking your blasphemies, jack in the box (pop) surprise party, superworld. The baby had some kind of outfit, on. Our hot streaks, end quickly. That is the most annoying voice, that I have ever heard. My entire life does not, has not, and probably (coffee, David, now, bitch) will not, ever, make any sense, to me. No more erections! This is nearly an impossible situation, to have found the whole box set, intact. It sounds like a zoo's bird room, outside, right now, and it smells like one, in here. Chatty [?], chatty [?]. None of us can handle, what we've got, and we all still want, more, more, more. We're ridiculous, well, some of us is, some of us, ain’t. This is better than the thrill, of eating paint cakes. Some kind of dental chair, euphoria…
Let the restaurant review, movie guides, star watching, and nightclub entertainment guide, burn. There really is nothing like a junkyard, for the thrill of a lifetime. Absolutely no ideas, came to me, during that, however many hour, hike. I can't seem to wake up in the morning, I'm always tired, I don't know where to go, or what to do. Every single car fix-it place, in the nation, will rip you off, big time. Everybody is seduced by themselves, and search out their doppelgangers. Double, is what they charge, for parts, that cost half, of half, to make. Arguments about my appearance, other things, I just can't handle, right now. Try to finish the shit you've got to do, without wandering all over the house, in the meantime. Do what you have to do, at all times, and you can't go wrong. You have ignored, fallen short, fumbled, stumbled, and been afraid, way too long, already. Anybody that needs people, will hire you, if they know that you exist. This razor burn, is very painful, there will be dozens of scrape marks, later. It is so important, that you are productive, and do things, the way they are supposed to be done. Right now, I'm not thinking enough about getting a job, all I can think about, is unemployment. There are very few things, I give a shit about, anymore. And yes, it is true, that I don't want to work, I'd rather not, and I'm fully enjoying, my time off. Now, contrast this, with the statement, "I am not lazy," which I know to be true. See, it's working for someone else (rich), with other people (anybody, all slaves), and making a lot of money, for a company, while I myself, make next to nothing. There is no such (this is no fair) thing as stability, in the world, so, to look for, and seek, that, will avail you, nothing. The genius, and brilliance, of that one guy, the way he researches, prepares, gets information, woo! All right, I cannot speak Italian, and don't really want to. I want to do, what I want to do, without being trifled with. Every single thing that I write, is obviously, going to be about being unemployed, until such a time, as I get a job, then, it will all be about how shitty work is, and how trapped I am. Perhaps, I should compile the leftovers, and organize them into a readable format, including the memos, sheets, and letters. Something had best start happening, here, soon! Beauty is detrimental, for most of us. I thought I just heard a duck, in the backyard. Register three, needs singles. How do they really know how many singles to get? I think I have to take a shit, but since I took two, yesterday, that is simply, impossible. There is a great deal of guilt, at work, on me, now, shame, nervousness, anxiety. I'm worried about everything, my future, does not look like a lot of happiness. I am desperately in need of skills, real skills, that can be applied in the real world, that will not make me dispensable, but rather, indispensable. No one can read my writing, but that's okay, because I seriously have doubts, as to the quality, of all this crap, anyway. To let things go, all chaotic, and screwed up, as things are, does not seem like a good idea. What I need, is cawing, not warbling. Why are all those birds, chirping so loud, anyway? So, so, cold in the car, and no heat. Three, four, five cars, pull into the pretty gas station, none, into the other, why? And people are happy, and taking their time, getting things done. Not in a violent, or illegal, way, but I do want to destroy society, as we know it (slightly). And yes/no, I am/am not, crazy. There are only, at this point, two things I need to do, per day, and only slightly more, that I want to do. The snow, will, most definitely, fall. Beyond that, I like to read, drive the car around, that's it, that, and thinking (poorly?). I’d rather not lay around, and feel good. The handle has been missing, for quite some time. There are a lot of people, that we will never meet. Who is this woman, who takes dictation? It’s all natural, all American, gourmet, organic (reach for the vomit bag). There is no way to just, rush through it. Can here, even be found on a map? Who can, or will, help me, in these endeavors? Money, the money, the five thousand, is gone. Now, I am concerned, that my output isn't enough, and that it's quality, is sufficiently poor. So as to allow me, or force me, to throw it all out, and start over. In short, I don't know what the hell to do. There are no instructions, or guidelines, and if there are, I have ignored them for so long, that they no longer apply to me. Sit down with your paper, and ask your questions, it doesn't matter, I don't care, I won't care, either way. You take your psychoactive drugs, leave me alone, to suffer in peace, my suffering is real, and constant, and even though, from time to time, I am able to joke about it, it really isn't very funny, at all. This constant striving for significance, in an insignificant world, is just, plain, stupid (in my case). Balance what’s tangible, on your ass, while doing the dishes. There is no such thing as good enough. We all ruin our own lives. Grease it up, first. It’s like a headline.
The line between love, and hate, is a very fine one. We'll see...are fighting words, these days. What is it, a sweater? I don't know, is it? The goal now, is survival, through this war zone, of time. Hmm...was, on fire, now, all wet. When you live with a Buddha, you can't ooh, and ahhh, every time they open their mouth. Nervous energy, generated from the smear of annihilation, must have a creative outlet. It needs a total restructuring. The main issue, is that there isn’t one. The pure subconscious, is very scary. And the sis boom bam lunatic, lurchings, don't count. The captains of industry, wouldn’t let me on the fucking brat. Every single time, that my frantic, desperate, yearning to be free, has reached an apothesis, I've wound up staring at a jail ceiling, that night. I am a character, and I realize I am only faking, only playing this part, but there seems to be no one in the world to commiserate with, that the sky, is indeed, falling, that the emperor, is really naked- and stark, raving mad. And inspiration always comes, once, every six months, and at three in the morning, when you're unemployed, and can't listen to the Morse code whispers, in the back of your head. After exhaustion, it seems, is when the writing get done. The best writing, comes after, the suicide note has been written, but most people, obviously, don't get around to that. All open wounds, and self pity, but, pardon me, if I'm getting ahead of myself. More porn! Well, some kind of animal, domesticated, most likely, pissed, somewhere, nearby. Why it is that only the negatives, of the lousy photographs, clog the bed stand, I'm uncertain? After individuals, become Gods, scratching their asses in private, becomes their most harrowing pastime. Every second counts, but nobody really seems to know that, least of all, myself. To die, again, and again, each time the counters are wiped down, so it seems. We must hurry onward, to nowhere, towards nothing. One minute, we're jumping up and down, discussing something as all-important in the world's eyes, as an oven; the next, we're in the doldrums, in extremis, due to a lack of proper, sodium ions. What I'm trying to say, is, it's out of our hands, never, do the yin, and yang, quite, morph together. When we're capable of conquering the world, there are dishes to wash. When we can't even stand up, all the grand opportunities seem to be teetering on the brink of possibility. Buried clowns (I’ve become too selfish). Go ahead and sue me. All the thought magic, and philosophical reveries, I used to relish so much, have fallen from me, now (this is a good, and bad, thing). For one, it's now, or never, time, put up, or shut up. For another, I'm chained to the sink, and have to push. Philosophy has been useless, but a great companion, as well. I remember writing, in a letter to someone, that something, was like ping pong, but, now, I can't remember what that something, was. Anyhow, I attribute that to the loss of philosophy, as I understood it. Perhaps, it's all become so concrete, now...who really cares why, it happens? The world will never, be such a place, where we can live as we choose, be who we choose, or even, are. Things will not radically transform, utopias, do not, and will never, exist. Thousands of years, will not align the world (talk about fear) civilizations, any closer into contact, with the needs of human individualists. Make it make sense. Broadway, can sinkhole itself, right out. Keep a record, of what happens. If anything, the rifts, and chasms, will grow farther apart. Take care of it. Someone (take it off) should have told me, that I was a dork, early. What did I once call it, impact poetry? No, we need people to serve drinks, and make (coffee, crayons, tea) photocopies. If it weren't so tragic, it wouldn't bother me, that that's the way things are, and supposedly, have to be. The last, furtive, gobbles, of a turkey, with a broken neck. Writing is like a man, long impotent, getting an erection, apropos of nothing, at all. And art, is work, but of a different kind, altogether. Just because happiness, cannot be found, is no reason to not economize the thin line, between sanity, and insanity. Just because we're all in awe, and terrorized, by our own thoughts, in our own heads, and we are our own worst problems, so, we blame everything else, and North Dakota, is on fire, it's nothing to lose your head over, they tell us. I retort, that the plague is spreading, and something else, has to do with this, over here, and they’re threatening to lock me away. We have many, many, choices, available to us, thus, we usually, don't choose. Sorry, I didn’t know it was obligatory, to purchase products. Leave me out of the discussion. I fucked up my “Simple Sam,” routine.
All of the pages are already numbered, as if something...I'm gonna’ tang my ass, tang my hooves. Talk to me, say those things, that you reserved for a later date. At this point, there's an infinite distance, between words. Silent queries, weird incidents, of standing up, and sitting down. When you're born, in a cave, with the flickering shadows? I got so fat. All this white space, is a shame. Fill the hole, with words, with dirt, it doesn't matter, and it matters, too much. I am standing perfectly still. Liberal, melancholy, pissed off, or not, I didn't do anything wrong, and they hand me pamphlets, on needle exchange programs. The turbo butter, is in, I'm told, this is supposed to mean something important, apparently. Edit my bones, give me a UPC number, c'mon, I insist. I felt exceptionally alive, but was told later, that it was only because I had a cranberry shirt on. Yes, for no reason, for no one, for you. There was a false start, that became a dead stop, there was a stopover, in a purgatory, but they kicked me out. We go there, and clean the windows all weekend, actually, we go to pay our debt to society, to face our consequences. I opened my trap, not only without knowing what I was saying, but not believing, what I said, not holding that view, picking it up somewhere, from someone, hence, the years of silence, of atonement, for being this kind of person. With this writing, with what I write, I'm trying to be objective, trying to describe "the way things are," subjective starting points, can't be avoided, but the taste that's left in my mouth, and the marks that are made on the page, are meant to be a statement, not of poor little me, and my life, but of- this is the way things are, and why are things, this way? It's all obvious, and who cares anyhow, but chance is it's own thing, and I'm trying to pry the manhole, off the top of a seven year nightmare, these things work in conjunction, they're temporary, and matter of fact. The shell of supposed protection, and comparative studies of myself, and the kid down the street. Loaded, if things were done the same way, or different; being meaningless, and getting off the bus, naive. I don't know where I am, who you are, or where the thing starts, or stops. The handle is missing, and there are no instructions, everyone's a doctor, or a lawyer, now. This is the third annual, gang-bang, for the Limbo residing, dildo buyers. It’s almost too late for me, learn by my mistakes. I will only write, scratch and sniff books! Percolating piglets, have become a maxim. Writing stories, is too easy, log your hours, disengage. Like Sudan, with it’s velvety feathers. There aren’t enough words, per page. At least I've got folded pants. It all feels like a car accident. I never knew how damaged I was. Always the next and/or the now, and the tra, la, la. Overcast skies, let's take a look at sports. Spayed, declawed, owned by a beer company, a reiteration of things, we already know, that we're two steps beyond slavery, three steps, back. So much enthusiasm, just to sit, and drink fountain soft drinks, in the parking lot of the local convenience store. No matter what I'm thinking, at the time, thought is useless. The next two years, cannot be like the last two, more writing, more dogs, barking. They kept throwing things up on the stage. The film didn’t have any music. Alienated enough, yet? The flapping, pastel attempts, at humor, that flop. All of your favorite tapes, will get eaten. Our new amendments, need formatting? I, too, am designing starfighters, but, in my mind. Represent it, symbolically, symbiotically, somehow. Boy, that was a rough year. The long, corn rows, were hypnotizing, invigorating, fantastic, as was the unmistakable smell, of the fertilizer. We’re still, nowhere near, the end. As if the graffiti really bothered me, as if the condition of the french fries, was part of some astrological, chart-work. Fuck, this is embarrassing, all of it! To think how many copies, are floating around...Twenty-two cents for gas, is still, by far, the most brilliant thing being said, in the room. So what, if time, doesn't, heal, so what, if comprehensive labels, aren't, or are, definitive? Death is, and is not, nonsense, it's also closed captioned, for the hearing impaired. I was told to make up the nature of reality, for myself, it is what everyone does, anyway, and certainly, can be done, but not without running the risk, of being torn apart, which shouldn't matter, but does, somehow. In Atlanta, I'm picturing greener grass, and clean glassware. The easiest games, like playing God, get so quickly overcomplicated, and blanched out, scrubbed. A half a bottle of whatever that stuff is, and still constipated, bone dry, or in limbo in between psychedelic blowout, and pacing over near the sink. What confounded, bullshit games, I play with my three words a line, and deliberate, shit. It made me look desperate? We can’t go on, but we will. It’s as if we’re drunk all the time, now.
When wasted, climb no vines. This is the type, or kind, of failure, that I have become, and this is my book, for which, after all is said and done, I don't give a damn. The feisty, and the festive, are all bored, it meant more than one number on the page. Two letters, two words, piled on top of one another, in the slam down. Throwing the books across the room, calling collect (dilly who?). The too late, scratchings, wandering like a maniac, purposelessly, wanting what I don't want, and the opposite of that. Squirming on the couch, too early, too late. And then, to be heard, to be caught in the acts, of what really goes on inside my head, startling, startling. People take too long, nobody cares, the liars, and thieves, the two-bit, hoodwinks. Who cares? I do! Make me rich, and I'll pay you back, in spades. I refuse medical attention, I scream at the television. To eleven mile, to the courts of law, through welfare hotels, conveniently placed, near liquor stores. Liquor, addiction, Texas, moving vans. Yes, Texas got it's nod, it's benediction, it's recognition, as the true home, of Tuna City. Out and about, in the fog of delirium, the clarity of burgers, and real desperation. Don't call, don't write, don't envision me, homeless, lost, ding-donged, finally, into the corner, because it's all happened, it's all true. I then died, you knew what I meant. Can't explain what I mean, or mean, what I say, look, I just wanted to fuck her...once. Less food, less distraction, more sweat, more equilibrium, I don't (or didn't) know who, or what, I am, or was...and still don't, really, but I'm thirsty, and I know that, and cannot drink (there are no beverages here). Ernie V. Sleighbow, Main Street, in Keketchekee Falls. Yeah, and I don't like my hookers a day older than sixteen, neither...This is like a fan letter, to someone I didn't know, was dead. I'm an alcoholic, recovering, but as you know, all addictions are the same (like the living room). And on the mantelpiece, is a poem about sleeping too much, eating at the wrong times, things like, too much sorrow. I'm sorry, I flipped out, sorry things took so long, the problem was bigger than I was, out of control. This is another Lahser road phenomenon, with couches, and televisions. Help me transcircumscribe this/the, wigwam. Save me from this enemy, called self, the pain that was hidden, out of the closet, into the fire! I couldn't work up the gumption, to remove grease stains from the factory walls, so, call me a fairy, call me a sissy, and fuck you, Jack, while you're at it. To take on all the problems, at once, and to slip, and slide, through the 30-180 days, that it takes, to renew all these old promises, accept some kind of empathy, partial use of my brains own, natural, morphine. This is blast off, run away, runaway, run. Noting messages, subliminal, talking a lot, and/or, remaining silent, I'm double, one way, mirrored, scouring sinks, and dying like the dying, who are all I can see. It’s like when they suddenly stopped singing about cars and surfboards. We’ve suffered for our art, long enough. Where's my gravy? Just one, simple, feather, just one reason to live, perhaps, an overexaggeration, a subjective state, I was in. Mr. Spanish, I can’t do it. Fill it in, this shallow grave. It goes on, for no reason. Inpatient, or outpatient, physician, heal thyself! Five years of nobody, nowhere, nothing. Crumbling off to the side, reaching out for help, to all the wrong people, at all the wrong times. Help me, love me, or blow my brains out (I don't have the courage, to do it on my own). You call it gray, we call it grey. It can't get any more subjective, more nonchalant, more akimbo, bloated, puffy, not. Rot not, my son, rot not. I’m good at sleeping, not much else. All the pills are turqoise, no one went to the tractor pull.
Venomous projections, towards, essentially, innocent subjects. Me, a psychologist? Oh, tut-tut, it's far too late for that. You have to be 50% butter, and 50% piss, and vinegar, to attempt something as mundane, and created, invented, pretended...no, no, no. Please sign your name on all three pages, carbon copies, or, whatever they are. Sign these forms, enclose a self-addressed, stamped, envelope, make checks payable to...blah, blah, blah. Wash, and/or, watch your ass, if you have one. I've decided only to socialize with those who ride the city bus, or dig through garbage cans, looking for cans, bottles, or food. There is one chance, one time...huh? Oh, well. More clean, virgin, honey pots, more blown, and (supposedly) missed, opportunities. The fear is getting worse. If we just did it, it would be done by now. XXY, is dead, he probably gave some really ass-kicking last words, but I don't know what they were. I can fondle the skull, and see in, through, to the artist's mind. Let’s play bloody fingers! Can't even think about it, that is not an option, I know, sometimes, I say it is. I refuse to return phone calls, I do not like giving, or receiving, phone calls. I can't go out, and do nothing, for ten hours, six hours, I've already wasted my allocated time, to waste. It's too late for me, I will not entertain you, either. Find someone else to haunt, or, suffer alone, in silence. The goofball has left the building, and he's cutting all ties. Am I so empty, that just playing games with my hair length, is all I am? What is this? I know it seems overly negative, but, you must see it as a joke, I do. And famous writers, go for coffee, enjoy their lives, they just don't try to cram, and jam, bloat, and jump around, like I do, they can return to the task at hand. The egg of revolution, hatched. We can't go today. They don't deserve a wing to themselves. Another notice from the bank, saying that such and such an account, is past due. I get to thinking, that I'm being spied on, that being paranoid, is a natural, normal, state to be in. What day is it? So, I'll die of cancer, so what? So be it, I'll blow smoke rings out of my starfish asshole, fart out of my mouth, and bewilder the socks off of every blind, blank, body headless, globe on a stick. I am making a formal, wage complaint. I'm taking you to court. Sack the Huns, sack the Romans, the Hottentots, Aztecs, Navahos, and Greeks. Exactly how much money, remains in my bank account? How should this character be feeling inside, how should he express, such, and such, a catastrophe? The flag did burn, right there next to the house. Wild, kinky, hand-action, fuckhouse whores, and a number you can call. More snake up my cunt, Mandy moans. “Fuck me dry, the honey is missing, fist me, fist me,” you must be 18 to call. “Make me wet,” low monthly rates, discounts for first-time callers. “Lusty, busty, big and sexy,” we accept all major credit cards. We've got the license to thrill. Forward, into a dreamscape of an Arizona concentration camp. You only live, this now, this once. Now is the one, and only, unit of time, that's real. For here, or to go? Thank you. I can't read the first line, it's upside down, and backwards, and I need glasses, but can't afford them. Uwunger! Yeah, I'll have the fish, mac, and cheese, on Friday. Egg muffin meal, every morning? To exploit the well-being, that others have created for you. Some things, and people, are not meant, or designed, to make any sense. Their role is to fuck up the clockwork, and go too far. All those people killed in the war, had other plans, and would have chosen to do some thing, quite different. It happened, at the airport. Get fresh! Make checks payable to K. Francis Sheridan c/o, this address. Maybe deep, deep, down…
I will always, love you. The secret ballot, will not tell, not no, but, hell no! This could've been wasted effort, for school. The tenements are falling down, it rains. Another one, gone missing. We love, who we love, until the next one, comes around. I hit the wrong button, didn't keep an eye on the clock. Originally published as, piss on this. The important thing, is to just keep doing it. All night, every day, while driving around, being driven, to do this, whether driving around, or not; this is all that matters, this is everything. What is insanity, anyway? It is not nothing, it's the denial of nothing, and it's here, now, and my throat hurts, but none of that matters, now, nothing matters, except getting down the word, all words, right now, no matter what. I don't care if my hair is long, or short, my head, is large, or small, I have a mask, or a helmet, or not...I don't care about sex, or food, or work, or bowel movements, time, energy, or the still point, on which the tick, tocks. I'm a totality, and a vacuum, a red splotch, and the fire's, last, flickering, embers, the homework, is done, the cheese, was eaten, some milk, gets spilled, but who cares? No, life...who cares? The year, the plan for the way I wanted… I want it to be a joke, a farce, a curse, a laugh. To know that now, to know that, and to keep going, at least, to start. Nothing's real, nothing matters, this is like talking, just to hear a voice, saying only, what I think everybody wants to hear, the slights, the hurts, the fake pain, and pretend depression. The indifference, and anomie, in regards to this, and that. To finally, fully, and completely, not care. It's over, there is no search, no way, no path, no Zen, no door. There is nothing, but time, shaped like a rope, to hang ourselves, and there's no such thing as time. Crossing legs, fingers, eyes, purposes, conjunctions, adjectives. Throwing everything, and I mean, everything, away. This is my third, or fourth, straight, empty calendar. I tried the world, and it wasn't to my liking, so, I will now commence, to create my own world, and never leave it. Yeah, I hate you, but please, don’t hold that against me. Bugs spread contagion, breed pestilence. Use lard! What's required now, is hindsight, to clear up our fuzzy eyesight. A military upbringing, a laundry list of what we've seen. Tear the back cover off, and throw it across the room, spit in the sink, eat, or drink (?) your own sexual discharges, find the vowel, the hyphen, the hymen, the scar, connect the dots, eat your heart out. Try to finish the gargantuan project, even though there are, undoubtedly, other things on my mind. Looking for the perfect life, that I know, will never come. Dancing through mold, fist fighting, through the joy, gawking, juggling water bottles, and fire, doing shit, despairing. Pranks are black hole-like situations, I keep falling/being, pulled into. As the rotating, threw me, hither, and yon, into the yin side, everything seemed to suck, no, fuck it, do it! Sustaining the ship, remembering names, staying out of the meow-meow, side of it. Our mandate, is clear! Wu-wei, locusts, $240.00, flip-flop, lunatics, part of three stars, in demand. See, if he fired me, he's an asshole, if she fired me, she's a bitch. Self-centered? Yes. Ridiculous, ego theatrics? Sure. How dare you try to subtly influence, and control, me, especially since, it works. I can only swat them away, for so long, it penetrates, and prostitutes me, I get tired of fighting, and give in, I lose, then, regret it. I will scratch myself, when you're around, you took myself, you all do; empty matchbooks, blown, blown, crossed off the list. The expensive tie, is twisted wrong, and the closet door, is shut on it, it's probably suffered damage. What are we supposed to do? Shut up? O.K. On to the news, weather, and up to date, sports scores. What can any of us, do? Leave the limelight and tungsten nods, to the others. So I’m a jerk, forgive me, flatter yourself, embellish, discourage. All feelings of well being, have gone away. This is just, silly. Wake me, early. Hear things…
