195

Please, try to be to the point, and don’t waver, wobble, or vary, too much. With the heat, yet again, coming up through the couches intestines, it is just like a gust of wind, blowing through a cow’s bones. Mathy, got the (tall corn) goods? We do have to be more clear, and honest, about our goals, I mean, any goal, concerning my “treatment,” are three years old. To write, here, and now, is to face the guilt of my unlived years, and sordid, sloppy, messy, attempts at things, to attempt to put it all into a cohesive, and coherent, order. C’mon, wipe the eraser dust off the page, and take your mind on a little trip, that your head, invents. Get to your oh boy, go to task, the populist agenda, turn down their two million dollar offer, if you get in, there will be more. No pages get cut, the one thing I cannot allow myself to be, is an underachiever, when it comes to this. Nothing can stop me now. Blank journal book, and still empty, notebooks, imply, everything, from laziness, to cocksucker, to land mover; and back again, to zero. There is, surely, fault to be found, but I no longer give a hoot, no one needs to know any of the motivation, for any of this. There are better ways to “put this,” than this, but, where are they? To never be sorry, late, shucked, laid out, or exposed prematurely, again. Years ago, in the bar, carrot people, walking around, a chalky stillness, some vampire lunging, alcohol fueled, chit-chat, once, every six months. There is no joy in living, per se, only, in some sort of honest, creative, activity. I will keep my essays, to myself, and allow you to find your own ways out, of each, and every, nervous breakdown, you suffer through. The smell of an airplanes gasoline, is all over the backyard. Don’t just sit there. You say that I’m impotent, doctor (hurrah)? Now there is no more time to be wasted, on sordid, and perverted, pelvic exercises! Get there first, don’t ever allow yourself to think, “why didn’t I think of that?” No one is ever going to come after me, there aren’t going to be any chance meetings, at so and so’s, restaurant, there will be no fame, no talk shows, no money, no glory, there will be words, just like these are, stacked, one, on top of the other, into my very own version, of the wailing wall. Yeah, say, start deviating. Do that one month/one sum, play thing; and compare that, to others, who do the same thing, in three days. See, I’m very worried, that I’m stuck in this format, that I can’t get out, that I lack the skill, to attempt to tackle any other medium, but, this simply, cannot occur. A writer must be able to write anything, any way, anytime, anyhow, and not just fuck, like a free range animal, whenever they feel they can’t. Stop looking forward to next year. It is high time to start chopping, and hacking. See, I slow down too much, and too quickly. I’m not as on top of things, as I know I need to be, I’ve fallen. It doesn’t matter, if I’m comfortable, in such, and such, position, it would probably be better for the end result, if I were more uncomfortable. When you, yourself, are not physically attractive, it is very easy, to get quickly, and easily, aroused, sexually, by others, in seconds, one is willing, to lay it down, or up, as the case may be. Golfing, is probably the stupidest thing, I can imagine. Ping-pong your ass off, but… I crashed the car, on purpose. Leave them all alone. We (stay out of church) all need fulfillment, but it can’t be had. Her ass, was gourmet. Do not wear white socks, with black shoes, if you want to ever be able to wear the (weakness?) socks, again. She denied the fact, that she is Polish. Yes, it is full of, shame, pain, guilt, resignation, and despair. And, no, I did not take your underwear, I did not take your shoes. The check, never got there. They knew what the best one, was. There will be a goddamn, fucking, answer. All I want, is money, as much as I can have, you take the fame! Why the hell would you have taped that (nine, is too many) family reunion? Why, tell me, please? Hard to avoid, the teeming throngs. Complete relief, is insight, go out, and get it, or don’t. There will be much turmoil. Act like a strawberry. Finish the farce, with a bang! Sit here, and rock yourself to comfort, and maybe, an erection. It’s like a broken record, of sameness. The smell is, as usual, overwhelming, time to change gears. Almost, too eager. Oh, it’s been a really long time. Just shit, everywhere, and none of it, means a thing. Then, you have months passing, and nothing to show for it. I have those forms, here, somewhere, your honor. Is there anyway out, of the grab bag, that, perhaps, I haven’t yet, thought of? The pencil, stuck in to my belly button, just so, gave me the distinct impression, of being back in the womb. There are not going to be anymore happy, springtime, picnics. She didn’t like me, I didn’t like her, we dumped each other, which, is always the way it really is. Some kind of Indian voodoo curse, has got a hold on me, but I’ll break the spell. It’s like taming a horse, to do all that side saddle bullshit, it takes time. Perceive this, asshole! Those legendary legs, the clean ones, these obsessions, the need for some kind of order. I am, and if you are around me, for five minutes, I will make you crazy, too. There is never going to be any sort of haircut, there is never going to be any moment of transcendence, none such, can be found. Let’s go to the skating rink, and masturbate, to the girls in the (in honor of?) sexy outfits! I don’t care! Smell your book, smell your shoe, it all smells the same, after a while. It doesn’t matter which sense mode, you choose to goof around with, it’s all the same, they’re all too easily, sated. So, if I vomit in your toilet, you vomit on my bed, I see, I see how it is. Smash your hand into it, smear it, make a mess of it, destroy it, tape it back together again. What will come of all of this time, will, energy, etc? We’ve got to work, there are no wine tastings, to attend. Putrefecation has set in, attitudes, get sour. Now, once again, the heart shaped, head! Our lifestyles seem to center on sales, movie premiers, coupons, fast food outlets, supermarkets…

My breath smells like fish, and I haven’t eaten any, in years. Most acorns, don’t become trees, that is how I currently, see myself. My entire life, has been put on hold, while I pursue these impossible dreams, and even though I can’t even imagine, doing anything else with my life, than this; I don’t particularly like, this, and may find myself doing something, absolutely different, someday. I’m boring, it’s ridiculous, that I’m still here. No one, least of all myself, can quite believe, that I’m alive, much less, living here. Throw the pretend, and invisible, football, again. Are you ready to take on the wall, with all due, resolve? Are you ready to smash a hotel room? Are you ready to sing into the murk, of a swing, without putting up so much as a struggle? Last times, are really, firsts, first/lasts, but, who cares? Shatter the illusions, of what you thought was the truth, after all the old illusions, had been shattered. Let’s go downtown, and strip naked, make bird call noises, and check out the new incinerator. It is almost as if I do want to see other people suffer, because, I have suffered, so much? See, he just gets up, runs to the phone, can’t take care of his own schedule, I wonder if it only bothers me, because I’m the same way. I refuse to have a boss, to cowtow, flounder, and jizz, off, squirt. Destroy the world of business, and its half secret, evil agendas; and I don’t use the word evil, frivolously. Every, single, wicked, amoral slasher, cutter, dicer, and slicer, in any professional career, any cunning connivers, feeling guilty, because they’re frauds, assholes! Look up, accomplish something, or at least, finish one. Looking at the stars, will avail you, nothing. Oh, go on, play your games, pretend that work is so important, like a little child playing, “House,” you go on doing, what you’re doing. A rich man purchased me, for $106.00. When we finally do resolve to destroy the world, in yet another war…I hope that I survive, if for no other reason, than to laugh at the whole human enterprise, and call it what it is. This scene is like dodgeball. Life is loud, but with the whistles, bells, and clangs, of all the wrong things. A stupid, cannibalistic, worthless, backstabbing, gossiping horde, of thieves, con artists, fucks, and shits, wicked, biblical, moronic mass, of ants, on a larger scale. War, to most people, is a necessary way of life, well, it is, to most people (see above). No, my contempt will not die down, too many people, are just way too wrong, and the rest, don’t care. And even though I’m a little bit of both sides, I’m neither (and both), and I do, and don’t, understand it, I am, and am not, do, and do not, relate, and that, this and… give me that, or your knee, is gonna’ be in my hand. Three hours of sleep, in three days, is worse than none at all. There is no telling what I’ll do (nothing). Do you want to know? You fake homo, you confused orchestra conductor, you goofy scientist, knave-like, genius, my advice is to sit down. Days like any other, come, and go, unceremoniously, for all of us. The buzz in our heads, is what forces us to question what’s going on in there, all the time. I do not want to think about candy, I want to somehow, master myself. There always seems to be a steady supply of alcohol, around here, we say, “we don’t need nobody.” There’s a new pack somewhere in there, I think. Our sparkling enthusiasms, don’t seem so much, so, during the light of day. We’re all a bunch of white collar addicts, doing the thorazine shuffle, through he daily grind, but, we’re the ones being ground! A day spent looking, is more exhausting, than a twelve hour shift, in a salt mine…and way more depressing, disappointing. Well, not that we can’t put down booze, with the rest of them, but, how are we going to hide the telltale signs, that this is the case? We’ll get around to the latrine, don’t worry. It is, what it is. Sometimes you’re touched, by some, little something, that someone may do, out of the blue, like sit close, and talk softly, in a hypnotizing fashion, while crossing her legs, and playing with her hair, just so, you know what I’m getting at. Feelings of love, where no love is implied, can make you misinterpret ordinary overtures, as lustful attacks, that need to be returned, in kind. Our vitality gets shattered, out from under us, if we’re not careful. The results, of what goes on behind the scenes, has got to be, what’s destroying me, what else could it be? We want to be applauded, we will be, shown the door. Let’s put down our ever-present, books (and let loose a wild, drunken, shriek!). Perhaps, we’re intangible, woebegone, bewildered, hysterical, beautiful. Some show on sex addicts, was on, it is raining, again. We all like things to be soft, and gentle. We want to kill ourselves, while we’re healthy, before we have to, so to speak. Be a genius, or die. Everything can be explained. Agitated, frustrated, anxious, fucked? Nobody will want to read this! The statistics would indicate, that I’m not going anywhere. Pump up the party favors. Read into the ritual, look through the want ads, feel unwanted, cold call, just “be in the area, and thought you’d stop in.” My conduct, needs constant deciphering, and nobody has the time, for such trifles. Would you mind opening those beer cans, more slowly? Incestuous circuits, squirmy singers, ticklish prostitutes, and distant counselors, all line up, to help out, at the big top, flux, and swap meet fair. We pay for eloquence, for everything, we get, or don’t. The heat, coming out of wherever the hell it happens to be generating from, at the moment, is becoming an all-too-frequent, problem. If I’m not good enough, I should start my own business. You are a cheddar. And if we could only hear what they said about us… slamin, squeel.

Caress the woman, who fills out the standardized forms. Our moods are so outside our control, that we can’t even explain why we are, what, or how, to whoever we’re (whatever) at, a-choo! The smell of my feet, could be costing me jobs? Hooked on semicolons, extraneous objects, security, the inexpressible. Put on your passion pants honey, we’re goin’ to the dance. Three long sips, and the can, is gone, in the meantime, enter some contests. The complicated typefaces, were so exquisitely stitched, some ex-punker, was selling appliances, on the south side, our breath smells like our teeth. I am not like you, you are not like me, we are identical, in every way. Glow, little firecracker, we’ll pretend we’re all impressed. Try our succulent, secret recipes. Don’t let them play in the yard. You touched the ammonia, once again. Some sets of hips, are just, built for fucking, or, so some of us, like to think. He used to tear up all the cups and napkins. Still chasing the carrot, boys? There was sweat all over his neck, even his shit, smelled like a cigar. Invent your own musical instrument. This is from back then. Fuck your way to the top, it is, and has always been, the only way. Stylized photographs, make everybody feel inferior; not the photographers, any more than anybody, else. There is way too much to do, to take any breaks, right now. So, the satin Aryan, in the wrinkled suit, so what? So, who the hell was sitting in the house, then? I’m too old to be fucking around. I’m sorry, I mean, hurry, help me. Either you’ve become, or you haven’t, I mean, there are half and halves; but who wants to be one? If I were to average one correction a minute, I’d be here until next Christmas. Right now, I am thinking really hard, about images, and likenesses (to fuck). The red splotches, add character, we’re told. To…if the…well, oh well, and that’s all there is to it. What is the sudden ability to roll on girth, on the…oh? I’m feeling some pain, I want to storm through the cemetery, to the asylum. Some objects make a great deal of sense, the curtains are hung, so carefully, we don’t care, we don’t know how to answer your questions. There is no rest allowed, until, you know what, happens. The expected, and predictable, break up of the loving couple, sure as hell didn’t surprise anybody. Unfulfilled fantasies, are not going to allow us, to fondle the inside, silk like, linings, of any fur coats. We may be crazy, but we’re wise enough, not to let anybody see us, crazy, we keep hidden away, most of the time. Oh, yeah, one shop made glass, one, made candles, one, cooked chicken dinners, it was all, so perfectly arranged. Anything that happened, five years ago, better not matter, to what you’re doing, now. It sure is easy, though, to look back, isn’t it? Whether three, or three hundred, pffft. Some fuck, some don’t, many, you don’t want to. All that matters now, is that I want to be drunk, and I am not. My feet smell, it’s the shoes, as usual. The trouble we get into, and can’t get out of, fixes us, quite properly. The third page, is perhaps, the easiest. The cheap, giant, stores of convenience, are there for us to stumble into, and plunder through. Writing will make you pasty, fat, and useless, nothing else. This city needs a wider variety of soft drinks. Glee, cannot be faked, yet. Just because things have worked a certain way, does not mean that they will continue to be that way. We want to read her secret diary! Maybe, in the low light, we look like candy, perhaps, in the misery stranglehold (hee-hee). A sex act, looks like a fish out of water, we’re looking for deals, we’re diagramming sentences, we’ll stand there, and urinate, and question ourselves. It’s late, and we’re not sexy, we climb up, and down, the what was. She is better than most people, because she has the hair, and makeup/glamour thing, down? Gift wrap the candles, and other gifts, we give to ourselves. We wish we were addicts, because it would explain our miserable outputs, and production. Be the guy in the picture, with the circle around him. We’re intending to fuss, and to say we’re attracted to people, we’re not really that interested in. Some kind of sex, must be occurring, in so and so’s, closet, we moan, so easily. The concert was cancelled, the money refunded, the tickets at face value, neurotic confessions. Please try to crush the package of fruit flavored depression, the delays, and setbacks, and so on. Whoever’s fault it is, will air their grievances. Don’t just turn down the volume, ma’am, turn the talk show, off. There are too many things in this world, worth jerking off about, or, so it seems, to me. Which one would you fondle, if given the chance? Typical limbs of crushed velvet, protect us, we don’t know what we want to do, or say, or trip around, on. The psycho barbecue, began, and ended, in earnest, with nobody showing up. The doctor may putter around, a couple of times a month. Take your new shoes off, before criticizing the kinds, she tries so hard, to hide. Are you and I, just some kind of assholes? Stretch pants were curved right into! The cheating never ends, they are unaccountable. Faces adorn coins, and advertisements, magazine covers, ice cream wrappers, and records (be an egg)…and…and…where’s the pisser? The secret is that I’m afraid to complete this book, because I believe that, when it’s finished, I’m finished. We amuse ourselves, by acting clandestine, playing the “it” boy, or girl, for this time, and/or moment. We want to hear whispered whatever’s; instead, we take orders, for thread, and ceramics, doors, photos, fragile products, and perishable foods. I couldn’t be subtle enough. We can’t figure out, what’s wrong. This is all a white water, flip-over, into deep, or shallow, waters, we’re unsure, because we’re convinced, someone will find out, that we enjoy cross-dressing. Which idea grabbed you, earlier? Was it bored, and whatever, as he climbed over, or some kind of wild, and clawing, thing? Poignant revelations, are supposed to get you to actually do something, not just think, wonder, and hum along. Design some new pelvic thrust experiments, audit your own inability, to cheat. The love we beg for, is never given, the slow crawl to the dining hall, isn’t the sort of “you better wear sunglasses,” thing, we thought it would be. The softness of the background, makes us think of light bulbs, self-loathing, flowers, tears. Show your anger!

That very last method you attempt, will be the one that works. All I did, all day, was eat food. There won’t be any coming out party, for me, no thank you. Get a hold of some new pornography, the old stuff, just isn’t working anymore, obviously. Being the exception to the rule, is a good thing, in many cases. Get caught fondling her, in a sleeping bag, but only certain people, at the proper times, when getting caught in the act, won’t register you (on a list), as a transcendental pervert. The now famous, self-flaggelator, regrets most of the things, he did. Go ahead, and admit too much, throw the towel into the closet, walk to the mailbox, get up early, even though, it’s early, already. The dizziness, that accompanies having someone else, something, that you were meant to say, or write, leads to embarrassing moments, of wishing you, were the other. The color of skin, is not most people’s, favorite. Tomorrow may come… be ready, poof; and all that. Just watch the world turn, and hope for something better? If you buckle down, and concentrate, I’m sure that something (unsure of what), might happen. Whoop, be thirsty, even though you don’t think you’ve ever been, in your life. The shift will end, sometimes, patience, defeats the urge to crawl up, and down, the totem pole, now, or whatever. The rear view mirror, throws back such a distorted image, that we’re all sure we must be uglier, than we think we are. Don’t lead me into one of my lonely, booger picking, drives, just review this, the way you were trained. It sounds like being drunk, and carrying on one of those conversations, with yourself, that seemed to make so much sense. We don’t even remember why, we’re angry, anymore, except to admit, that it’s for selfish, childish, reasons, and we’d better grow up, quick. For the next five (5) weeks, we are going to try and avoid, having any bowel movements. The dream of the diseased vagina, was a lie, as was the one about what they, evidently, must have done last evening. Shaving is an event, after the chlorine has all evaporated out of the pool. The warm weather, reminds the nostalgic, of the 1930’s. The highest highs, lead to the lowest lows, then, a little gesture, describes all of our moods for us. Why do you think it is, that the little threesome thing, never happened? Be careful what you want to have happen, to your memoirs. The poison of where we were, and what we were doing, won’t, or, wouldn’t, allow us, to get naked. The voices in the background, sounded like the donut shop girl, who didn’t know where she was. The long and short of it, has to do with, not really knowing the difference, between the two. Slowly, head back, and do some kind of inventory, before checking the scratch and sniff, snuff, puff, huff, in and out, and so on. There is no money in this, no money in anything. The body decomposed, for a week, before it was found. Obsessed with the unbelievable height, the laid back atmosphere, Foucoult’s pendulum. We need a little bit of help, from time to time. A more realistically stylized genre, with more absurdity, but a realistic type, or kind, thereof. Stand by. Fringe scientists, situationists, steady attitudes, c-notes, slinky kitten? This is the log, cut lengthwise. The stove just exploded, one day. Our studies got off track. Go on, to the next one. Fish everywhere, things to do. Stop hanging around the college, you are thirty seven years old! I’ve had enough. All twisted around on myself, caught in the same fix, that Narcissus got hung up on. The background music, is still, so sullen. So, I resolve to be more desperate, more obsessive/compulsive, to finally break the chains that bind me, once, and for all. This is about as ready as I’ll ever be, there are no more soons, no more laters. Out in public, part ashamed, funeral parlor erections, are a no-no. Pixie stick nightmare, or a travelling minstrel group, of nominally, bisexual women? Gooey, sticky, after effects, of hate, pull, push. Blame the dickhead’s last shot, at attempting not, to be responsible. The two word sentences, are not what anyone, would constitute, as anything. As far as the four sentence paragraphs, well, really, I don’t see any of those, forget I mentioned them. Mayfair, hot pretzels, pennants, that jacket, knee-jerk, so-called, “fake,” depression. Bipolar variety, no poisonous salts, just time, time, is all I need. Skipped a few pages, here, and there. Repetitive, not yet realized, not totally admitted, and/or accepted, yet. To be honest, I really don’t like, so many things; that to “accept” them, now, well, I’ll stay around the loading dock area, just a little while longer. Rejoicing over there, who cares about the water cooler, and whatever goes on around it, whatever it is I said, went on, or what I hoped to avoid, going on, around it? Yes, water cooler misunderstandings, hoping there wouldn’t be any. No analysis, seventeen different types of handwriting, according to the weather, the hour of the day. Some giggling people, looking on, who caused the entire disturbance, suspended for a day (or was it, two?). You’d better run! Leave the…I mean, stop writing about Hindu’s, all the time. Any kind of room deodorizer, couldn’t hurt. To sew the same sort of Frankensteinish head, back together, again. You skipped a bit, or piece, back there. What, asshole flavors? Everything taken out, gets put back in, again? Some of us, want them all. I wanted just, to skip the breakfast. It’ll be a couple thousand more…

Shave the lawn, mow your face. This is for all those unasked, thus, unanswered, questions. Look very closely, at the scars. The morning is here, I lost my stapler, and I need it now. A little too little a little, too late, that’s what I think of my, “writing output.” I hear the symphonic sounds, of the deep wilderness, inside my own head. The bugs are inside of your head. Impotent and frigid, a match made on a mortuary slab, and someone’s sick idea of a joke, no doubt. I’ve got to tighten up the loose screws, and there are a lot. Thrown out with some other stuff, that in retrospect, probably shouldn’t have been thrown out. What? Oh, my old coat, my old, beatnik coat! I’d like to desist from this discussion of clothing. Quit me, fire you, or vice versa, fucked up, backwards, to be re-written later. As I tried to say earlier, whole Wernickes, or Broca’s areas, that have been lobbed, that is, chopped off, or out, the point is, that they’re gone. Reconstruction has begun, but we’re still digging holes, I mean, it’s a process, a part of what we have to do, to get to where we’re going, but to just repeat, once again, we’re still digging holes! Oh, I’d almost forgotten, all about the Mackinac bridge insurance claim (no breathalyzer), or the four foot mackerel, that dented the shit, out of the hood of the car. The terror of fish falling out of the sky…hitting cars, while driving on bridges. Commercial jingles, stupid songs, one, two, three, four, twist, and flip. Strip, caramel kind of feeling, in between cheek, and gum, odd hats, odd emotions, peculiar behavior. Faults, laid bare with…did I mention, I gave away the preface to this book, and it doesn’t matter now, because I’ve already decided, not to include one? Good! In general, kind of pissed off, kind of out of sorts. Twenty three, some secret number, so I’m told, several times. I will begin my hermitage, in twenty three, unlucky days, regardless. Anything worth it, is difficult. Everybody knows X, go forward. There is a hodgepodge of things to do, poles to paint. Oh shit, some people call this sacrilege. Oh, it will cost you more than a couple of million. No more complaining, only psychoanalysis. There is an ink clot, stuck in the back of my throat. Try to hold it all in, as long as possible. This is how I’ve turned out. My life, is never, going to go my way (I know, but don’t want to believe it). There are literally, hundreds of things, below the level of consciousness. Descartes just floored me. Time for tired, now. This is, just about, all there is. Have a go, at zero. The extremes that I, personally, swing between, are from a wild, drunken maniac, to a somber, silent, philosopher. I could go into more descriptive detail, but I’m sure I’ve made the point. I must, and will, solve my own problems (must, more than will). String, after string, incident, after incident of aberrant, maladaptive behavior. I am, and am not, what I seem. Preventing relapse, is like preventing the apocalypse, which is to say, impossible. I would like to think that I was a more self actualized person, than recent events, would seem to dictate. I am a non-event, giving promises of hope, and renewal, guarantees, and chicken scratches, etc. “To make something of my life,” to be a contributor (here, now?), in this shithole world, where the damage has already been done, and there’s no turning back? Maybe I won’t kill people, is the only promise that can be made. I keep denying that I’m an egotist, which is absolute proof, that’s exactly what I am. To be of another world, aloof, absent minded, really, just self absorbed. No differentiation possible, selfish, or not, and I am the former. To be thinking all the time, and not doing anything, is a disease, I suffer from…it’s essentially, what that guy was writing about. Ah, to wipe your floors, and remove grease marks, fuck you people! To empower oneself, to change, to endure, all impossible. Call me a whiner, call me whatever you want. I’ve scrubbed your puke out from behind a steel pole, in a corner, with only a plastic bag, and my hand. Work, you say? Sure, there are, to malaise, bitterness, alcoholism etc., there are underlying causes to everything…except the first cause, but that’s an entirely different argument, altogether. Anyway, is the fact that all that seems to be caused, are self-destructive events, all that surprising, that I’ve rejected the world, and most all people, places and things, in it? It’s for real, now. Our ears weren’t designed to wear glasses. Accidentally, bite your lip. My heart was broken, but that makes very little difference.