The fishbowl view, we’ve got, is like not getting the background symptoms, what’s it doing now? Wish it, away. Jaundiced yelpings, modern day epistemology, isn’t any kind of knowledge, at all. Tremendous people, seem to die, less stageworthy, deaths. The lights have faded, and there’s no excitement, anywhere. We are so deceived, so fuscia. Tell me. Rumination is not effort, nor, is thinking. Burning matches, afterwards, only makes the smell in the bathroom, worse. We blew it. Air traffic control, is not more stressful a career, as that of a dishwasher, serial criminals, killers, etc. Are you? With a twist, or two! If you stop trying to get somewhere (there is nowhere to go), you might, somehow, arrive at a suitable destination, anyway. Delusional experiences, no one’s watching. Tame gestures, aphasia, prompts. Secure the feed bag, climb the trellis, confess, in dead silence, put your helmet on, now. Spit on your three ring binder. A corpse was discovered, right where you’d expect to find one. They removed my penis, and gave me a bag. This is the epitome of peril, nonetheless. Rice and beans, but all else, being equal; what really changes? Maybe there will be a mad flourish, towards the end. Keep her alive. I am getting so tired. See, they let us in initially, but tire of us, quickly. People are only part of the planet. The beaches are all clothing optional, nowadays. These drinks are spiked. Keep things sanitary, while I’m gone. We need to be cuddly robots, with no “feelings,” whatsoever, to survive in this World. Munich will burn, whoever drops the match. Keep those biorhythms (it’s an outrage) unencumbered, anyone will stray, everyone, wants a better situation. We are what they want us to be, until we snap. This is a forest, without trees. With a vendetta, vengeance, and alcohol, storm through the mental hospital grounds. Taste her, refer to the guidebook. There is no end, kind of, no end to the troubles, the struggle. Here we are, eating cheese, from a tube, wondering what the hell to do with our lives. The silence will return, we want to go insane (to have an excuse), but we know we aren’t, and never will be. How dare that lying, piece of shit, try to bump me off the deep fryer. My ears are ringing, louder than a phone. Raw sewage, and mulch; deep grooves, the guy in the ditch, antecedent, behavior, consequence. The paint is dry, we only get to see, part, of the expression. A toast, to all the beautiful failures, of the World (who are really, the successes)! Shall we comprehend a few rhymes, worth talking about? My endocrine system, is always near the door. Cringe, and look away from the future, forget the past, deny the present. We are all pitchers, full of bizarre. Don’t touch anything you’ve never seen, it hasn’t been proven, how diseases, are transmitted. Forget your calm demeanor, once, and for all. Left out to dry, brought in, still damp. Poor, equates to, powerless. Where’s that dildo? Patience, patience, nothing will ever be explained, or change. Brain space, to be wasted, give your friends a quick shine. But, then, as now, chapter four, will be entitled, things to say during coitus. With camera redeye, turn your radio down, just, try to do your best. This is pure insanity, no other way to describe it. Back to the bag, no VIP passes accepted, that pen, is it worth eight dollars? The backseat of the car, on the side of the house, is full of vomit. Pretend to drive, insult a plumber, experience the loudness, of cars passing, now, wear a chef’s hat. That look, hit me. So nifty, so good for you, salts, to keep you “even.” This is not any fun, turn the page, cough, just, cough. Swarms of complex truths, no faith, the fears of a small apartment. Take the doubt, out! Don’t fiddle with these cannons, the horizon seemed to scream out, “fuck her anyway.” Our eyes were four, in other words, no one got caught sleeping. Imbecilic crackpots, residual delays, it’s the quality, of the work, it leaves a little, white mark, there! Do not try to frighten the blind, do not join the first time club. He just freaked out? Whining voices, fix it jobs, tools, no longer used. Board up the buildings, burn them down. Go somewhere, where you won’t get caught! My, my, what winged mammals, live in that parapet? We need new magicians. Lampshades, and safety glasses, large, steel, grain holders, phone numbers; nothing else matters. Slump over the steering column, learn your lessons well, dye your hair, quell your curiosity, admit it, go for a different type, or kind, of fruit. Tomorrow will be too late, no matter how many, apparently, pass by, with, or without, the illusion of progress, red devil cake? The car, slowly, overheats, where is that poem, about cleaning, and traffic? Invisible moon, dark sky, are they on some pedestal, like, inebriation? Up, and down, with both hands, shortchanged, use only fresh cream, that’ll do. Is suicide the solution? We answer this, for ourselves, in different ways. Drown the obsessions, out. This is the sauce. Suck your eucalyptus dipstick, serenely. Incomprehensible lines dropped; hey, check out my penis. I can read everything quickly, except for this. Eleven per day, is still not enough. Why don’t we piss, in rainbow colors? Virgo girl, is still trying to get attention [page is ripped]. There is a fairy in the punch bowl. Forget the silly, slip/slide, book talk. The osmosis theory, didn’t get out of committee. Be your own, other half. On the whole, I am a leper. Morality, is sonic.
Let’s drop this line of inquiry. Please combine this, above part, with that, below, part. Circling, fix this, these discord blankets, give us goosebumps. Continuous dirty looks, huh? End up everything, with a swap meet, a gosh, or a golly, this phenomena is called, “emerging out of memory.” More than over, see? Flip a coin! The lilac season, is short. Have total anger? Is “way off the subject,” either good, or bad? Oh, make no mistake, I’ve long since, “lost it.” Don’t you dare. Ride the bumpy cake, out. For every group of champions, there must be, losers. So cozy, and douched, so abandoned. The time for fun time, ends. Three Moodrow’s! It’s gone too far, it’s absurd. Pretend to go to the beach. Adrift in the undertow, moisture, leaking through. They can covet their fifteen minutes, some are content, with the five, they’ve already had. Twitch, when you seriously contemplate, the earnings statement. There are points to be made, in clouds, and African drum circles. Clipping a ribbon, why the riot? Each town, has its accompanying smell. The World will die slowly, painfully, as most of us do. Infanticidal screams, imply that the worst, is over. How much can be accomplished, in an hour? Pop cap contemplation, can only get you so far. Flaming intellectuals, assault you, when you finally thought you were safe. It’s all mixed up, compact, wise. Too much thinking, about what used to be, in such and such, spot, wherever that might be, whatever. One reason to stay out of prison, is because they won’t let you attend relative’s funerals. So backwoods, and backwards, we all want to experience more, do more, we want cocaine, without all the nasty, side effects. Reserve one of those apologies, for Dawn. Don’t get too isolationistic, kids. Some people only feel happy, when it’s foggy, grey, and overcast, outside. Tonight, the theatre, the dance hall, hookers! There will be no fickle public, it could’ve gone either way, no more “background support,” or whatnot. No photographs were taken, we have all been grounded. Sow your oats! Droppings, the value of formal, higher, education. Let that anger out! Things, time passing, dreams dying, or deferred, we all pretend not to mind the smell. Movement, expressions, mathematics, bring your references, we call them back. Sleep in the front yard of some stranger’s house, amputate the crash test dummy’s, limbs. It is very real, which is all there is to say about it. Go deeper, dive right in. I feel just like a boy, in the winter, with his tongue stuck to a pole. Let him sit in the queen Victoria chair (linger). Are our funds going to be available by, say, May? Well, by all means, what we need are more reminders of the year, that never was. The power chain warranty, has lapsed. Nothing at all, was written on the crinkled, white page. Metaphysical unities, have a tendency to divide you, into six, slightly perforated, slices. The liar will usually lie to himself, as well as others. My room/me dead? There are a lot of things that go on in college towns, they are enclaves, secret centers, that keep those secrets, to themselves. There is a couch house, party house, a him, a her (archetypal figures), on every campus. Fatty, lose the weight, flat necessity. Grab his rear, watch him, skittle. Imagine, just one milligram a day, could control those errant, thought patterns, and get us into line, get our entire lives, into some semblance, of order. It would appear as if, there’s either too much work, or too much unemployment, with no middle ground, possible. I’ll pay you (I’m sorry). It all started to get real silly. Vicious circles, wasted years, the slough of despond, enough Mongolian leg wresting, enough cocaine vengeance! Let the ice cream sandwiches melt, there are more important things to do. We want to be able to piss, out in the open, without hindrance. Uh-oh, what happened to all the yellow sheets? Strongly consider, reconsidering what you have formally, strongly believed! Bleach clean all the tables (frequently, perhaps, always). Don’t attempt to transform your delusional disorder, into symbolic, Jungian, dynamics. There are dead starfish, and seahorses, on my front porch. That smell alone, would push St. Andrew, right out of the submarine! It’s just another drift away Friday, like a place setting. Repair the whirly-gigs, and wind chimes, weather vanes, invent some new thing. I keep telling myself, not to be vague, and obvious, and still, the moreso, I become. Positive/negative, use them both, to achieve your aims, and reach your goals. Listen to your mother, finish that letter to the editor, sweep up the mess on the floor. She saw maggots? Don’t do, what you do in the car, any more. Can you feel it, wiggling, and jiggling? Give it a little squeeze. I dug my own grave, this is it. Roll and scrape, roll and scrape. There are people who would like to see you rot in jail, for a long time. A loud moan, went off, like a siren. Pills do not help. Feel the hurt.
If pressed, say that everything is splendid. This, won’t lead to something else. Don’t fear the cotton gin. Sing, like the hippies, used to do. The behind the scenes action, is what’s the most important. The daze of confusion, becomes a glaze of misplaced, and misspent energy. I could fill in a few things, here, or there, to say the least. Start big, end with, “cuts.” Warehouses, noodles, sorrow, the end of me. Taste who, high on hello? I can say, with certainty, that I am drowning in my own saliva. My liver, and kidneys, are shot. Art, fear, and courage, get your life in order. There is an awful lot/too much, wrong, that I want to do (so much, that they are preparing to cart me off to jail). The saints who sin, had better wash out their pants! Gas up the Dodge! This, as with any other idea, may, or may not, bear fruit. We don’t want/can’t have, any distractions! Did I already mention, that I was too perverted, to have a girlfriend? There is a panic, and desperation, that only an artist can know. Avoid the hippies in the garden. What you believe to be of paramount importance, should dictate your guiding principles. How much windshield solvent, do we have left? There was some incident. Monday, you and I will go out for Thai food, and candy. Go overboard, dig deep, to come up with ideas, that haven’t been come up with, before. My transcriptions are so awkward. We shot the shit. Are you honestly considering, putting that, into there? You could write a graduate thesis, on customer service, and not get it all down. We still laugh at things that aren’t funny. I would like to avoid any future unpleasantries, resentments, anger. Ah, now, the rain. Lick your mustache. Hidden secrets, three arrests, three fucks. Did I lie, or just give the wrong answer? The panacea is low profile, dark rooms. There really isn’t anything to do. Where’s the invisible baseball? If I don’t change, I will never change. Stop the train, anticipate weirdness. Stop acting like you’re known. She is adorable, and improper, don’t even try to “cure,” her. The lists that have been provided, are not, and should not be considered to be, the be-all, end all, measure of what should, and should not, be done. Put down the ouiji board, don’t mature, accidentally. When you’re going nowhere, it doesn’t much matter, if you’re the master, or the slave. The days of hands, and knees, are over, baby. Eat the cake! When stuck, think about that! We must mean what we say, and say what we mean, if not, what are we doing? To not say anything, to just direct, is fine, as long as who we’re directing (usually ourselves), takes the direction, that’s given. This is some slip down, due to margarine. They will confound you, totally. This is all so quasi-elliptical. There are places out there, bold faced, places. Control, is surely, slipping. The memoirs, include veiled references, to the 90’s, as a decade. Sometimes, lately, the hunger doesn’t go away; nothing satisfies it, abates it, stops it cold. She used to live in a house, by the makeshift distillery. From here, on out, we are on our own. I am/was. Get beyond the radio, the myths, the rickety business. This is all just becoming another mess I’ve made. Inject your old fashioned self, in a new fangled way, act horny, act as if you were bouncing up, and down, on a used futon. The computer was rude, and hung up on me? Shuffle out in ecstasy, belch up the taste of dill pickles, my brain may not be sufficient, to do anything. The cool girl, is over there, alphabetizing books, by title, author, subject. Do a thousand things, a thousand ways. Research, and editorial realms, may provide a suitable, avant garde, sort of mischief. I don’t know that this can be fixed. Rage, pain and intrigue, enter the kids minds, tonight. The smell of urine can be depressing, nobody can, or will, help you. Hours, in theatres, apologizes are in order, for my incompetence. Put those pastries down, knock off that silly shit. Don’t just sit there, people need help, and we need more volunteers. Well, I’m not talking, or thinking, quite straight. So many electrodes! Visual aids to, ahem. Be a grown-up, babyface. Slight silliness, slight silliness, will more than likely, occur. Spit, act amusing, dance with me! We need people to do things, that they wouldn’t ordinarily, do. Just let me in that room, the room where things occur! Somewhere in the middle, everything just collapses. Call it whatever you want. My mistress died, twice. What is it, that I want to get written, on this page? Only the best, can be added in, now. Somehow, it’s all enough. Measure in, indeterminate things. The cops have tanks, now, they are getting prepared for what’s to come (soon). I carry within myself, untreated diseases. Don’t let yourselves get tied down, by the minutiae. There is noone outside. Everything, is getting worse. Talk louder. She makes men, want to wear her clothes. Stop what you’re doing! I do not like chubby me; bubbly, chubby, you know, feeling the tummy, feeling the tummy, I do not like that. Epochal sounds, resound through me, the more under the weather, I am. The poster was sold, to a passerby. Brain damage, is irreversible, alternately, the best thing is to be attacked, then, pardoned, pardoned, then, attacked. Laid up, buying disks, trying to scam, birdhouses, made of birdseed, and the rising cost of suet. What page are we on? Karl Marx appears to me, in the torn away stickers, residue. Can I be your drunken spokesman? Don’t forget the unabated, forgotten, title #6. Too much pessimism, equates to not enough work, getting done. How about shitfueled vehicles, that last thirty-six years? We cannot live, somehow, we can’t make it. I took the easy way out, thus, well, thus…
Stay away from the asylum. Yell a little yell, full of loves, and hatreds. Convenience stores, convenience lives, cover your ass, get control, don’t mention the grilled vagina, joke. If you’re pathetic, try to avoid becoming, more so. Publication, does not a literary God, or Goddess, make. Do I have to put on the gloves, and wipe your ass for you, again? This is an affidavit, saying you failed to do, what you were supposed to do. Don’t fink us! Fill in the information below, and send the entire packet of information, back. Can’t compete with the average, sitcom writer? Some bisexuals, have a preference, for the fairer sex, whichever that is. Koans are a waste of time. Be your own (residue) dance partner. Things don’t just have to be done, they’ve got to be done, correctly. I am feeling subtly threatened, by the wasted time, and all that, while waiting for the indictment, to come down. The horn player’s grades, weren’t good enough? Don’t linger anywhere for too long, hang out, nowhere. You may not have another day. The novice, meets the expert, and they find out they knew the same things, all along. All of our sufferings, are not indicative of what we’ve got to work with here. We can only be helpful, if you cooperate, the letter from the headhunter, said. Boring (harder, harder) college town routines, leave your ex-friends, out of your current problems. Narrow it all down, into a digestible story. Need a dick in your mouth? Concrete behavior, means more than what you do, or do not, still believe. Obsessed with the idea of using humor as a shield? Darker, blacker, further, deeper. Tons of room… Don’t be blind! Oh, my goodness, I almost couldn’t tell the word newsstand, from the words, new sandwiches. Just go in there, fill out an application, and get the damn job! Shortly, I am going to be asking each, and every, one of you, to get up in front of the whole class, and read your book reports, aloud. Parked on the wrong side of the street? I am envisioning, and imagining, interviews, with smiling editors, what I am likely to receive, is a police escort, out of the building. I read something, somewhere, about cornfields! Where is you? Go back to the unproduced works, page. Let’s call this the end, now, we’re one step closer, to the beginning. Distance, is not a flinging, kind of, stinger. Go before the man at the registration desk. Fill out the forms, style your thumbs, don’t forget the mashed potatoes. Aunt Huh, says who? No collateral, means, start to assemble, forget about the results. You’re so selfish, but, so am I. Don’t let yourself be captured by the detectives, who are interested in your oh-too predictable, comings, and goings. Try to remember, what you’ve forgotten. Should we beat the stupidity out of ourselves, or put on another 45? This claustrophobic, fear of failure. Destroy what is. Eye contact is painful, there are too many beautiful people out there. School ends, be ready. Pretend to be vivid, detached. We used to get drunk, and do some crazy things. Stamped, with a defective piece of machinery. Tenderness, you got it, punctuality, I hope so. The rest, yes, I will provide all the rest. To be thus, washed away, down the drain, and away. Down the drain, on a train, down there. It’s all mixed up, on the doorknobs. If you wear a caboose, you better work out. No matter what happens, if you’re flat out, lay. Speak your lines with resonance, don’t wipe your face with his handkerchief. We will all be soon, forgotten. Go too far, sometimes. There is no forever, baby. They are always there. My impulses are not the same as my instincts, and I follow both, blindly. Don’t go over there, where the people are, with snot on your lapel. You’d better be real, careful. There, there. Rub your penis up against her legs. If you wheeze, spit, and cough, in such and such a way, however many hours, pass, tables. The coin we found, dated back to 1943. React to the silence, pause. The collision of that, and this, will allow something, more interesting, to happen. Slimy, slimy, legs. Transitions could be more intense, editing, could be done more carefully. If you intend to be an efficiency expert, gossip, cough, hiccup. Igor climbs up, and down, the stairs, the cobwebs, are cleaned, the logs, are brought in from the outside, to the inside. If you’re French, act Spanish; if you’re Spanish, act French. If you’re in over your head, admit it, if you’re not doing anything, get to work. Basements can be furnished, remodeled. If you’re going to eat pancakes, beware! Don’t become trapped in secluded cul-de-sacs, with strange people, howling. Don’t blow another interview, get up, and out, and to work, now. Take advantage, make a way, find it, do it, where it can’t be done. Ask for some loose change, walk a tightrope, fly a kite, doodle in the margins, question, underline, be amazed, put down the article about the official, church, religious dogma. From a random event, to three kids, and it seems like yesterday (it was). Invite yourself to the closed casting/closed captioned, audition. So many impulses, we need a forum, an airing, of the proverbial laundry. Start making (pretending) sense, you’ve already tried the other way. Fake common sense, if you must, just to get started. Fruitcakes are not to be emulated, we’ve got to find some sturdier ground, than this. My alcoholic, binge eating, tendencies, are at the forefront, again. The lamp acted as a barrier for us, thank goodness. Sabrina’s stuff, can’t be added to this! They cannot occur, there is no time to fuck up, no room; no possibility of another mistake. Every trick has been pulled, I’ve run out of repertoire. It is not cool, funny, or alternative. I’m just not afraid of you, I used to be, but that was a long time ago, and even then, the only person I was really scared of, was myself. We have rights, once we come clean, into the straight, and narrow. You must be strong enough, to handle the things, that you cannot handle. Crash the gate down, understand that the answer, might not be what you think it is. Do not collapse leaves into books, do not give yourself, even a mild case. Do not fool around with anything, or put butter on it, either. Don’t mess up, anymore, don’t play games with your momentum. I am desperate, helpless, at wit’s end, sitting here, crying, and nobody knows, or cares. If you like waterslides, you’ll love hydrotherapeutic massage. We’re all on our own, no more surprises.
No flutes, no crushed velvet. Figure out what’s funny. My material, is sounding orange. Tonight, that high-on, hippie chick, is mine. Leave the cake, and/or cakes, for somebody else, to eat. As if you don’t remember. We are going to rarify experience, create, and find, the zone, question witnesses, inform the doctor, request duplicates of all printed correspondence. Start over from scratch, fresh, completely, over. Everyone deserves a second chance, give yourself one. Only the best, of the best, turn professional. The deluded, stay that way, unless they wake up. Everyone wants to be the star of the show, the top of their game, the paramount, of paramounts, the cream of the crop, the biggest, fastest, strangest, sucker. This desire, doesn’t seem to abate, but we have to be practical. In this, it is all tied up in how much hard work you do. My problem is that I don’t have any beginning, to end, ideas, and I need them, a lot of them. This scratching, and sniffing, is a betrayal, of a certain kind, like staying at a party too long. You must sacrifice a great many things, to be what you want to be, you must perform with maximum effort, proper delivery, you must remain dedicated to the craft, and always, improve. I want you to use events in your own life, failures, if you care to call them that, to ensure that there will be no more. Do not be a flavor of the day, be much, much, more. Most pedophiles, do not want to be. You could see her eyes, had seen, many things. It’ll be more than a disaster, I fear. Stopping is death, improvement, and practice, persistence, and integrity, are musts. It isn’t there, anymore. They worry it will spin out of control, it will. We spent some time on Elizabeth Street. Since I couldn’t (talent lack) be a baseball player, I will be a writer? I saw a puppet, when I closed my eyes, tightly. Get the chocolate sauce, off of your feet. Nothing (especially myself) will stop me, nothing. Our chances are slim. The atrocious acts, that I committed! Remember the acting in that room, the broken tooth? You must put everything you are, as well as everything you want to be, into your chosen, art form. The equation will balance, only after I am balanced. I want this to become an automatic process, I want to know what this is. If there is to be any genius, it is to come from hard work, only. I am so lazy, that I’m anti-lazy, but there is so much more, to be done. Let’s look ahead, to tonight, she’ll be imagined in such a such a pose, probably, face down, and I’ll go to town on it, that, yeah, the cavern, pleasure garden, woebegone, delightfully quivering, life source. Whatever the double sided dildo, would, or could, do, needs to be approximated. Most XX’s, have been around, had it, done it, thoroughly enjoyed themselves, in the practice, of it, and you’ve got to outdo yourself, work a lot harder, go that extra mile, use more erogenous zones, more vigorously, to petal her feathering, universe. The irrational, is the rational, these days. We don’t want to believe, what we know, all too well. Let me pull my hair out, like all the rest of the slaves in the galley, up there! To do things like this, well, it’s morally wrong. It’s time for a lot more controversy. Preparing for sex, is like preparing for a complex, stage role, in a huge production. The sparkle no longer (I’m fictional) surprises us. Write about walking. Everything must be worked out in advance, preparation is crucial, to the subsequent, eventual, performance, it is best to get to work on every aspect of it, early in your career. Keep getting back to work, composing lyrics, etc. Smoking will kill me, but floundering, will kill me, sooner. Where are the residents? Only a Bialak, only a Hungarian? Twenty-five years, no? Rights, and the writer, thou haveth, none. Better exorcise all that (too much work) stuff, you’re almost, reading. Go off of, X. What you do, is all you can, or, is it? The best known, unknowns? Do some subtraction, or don’t. There is a great deal of playground out there, to be a part of. Get seismic, in the right way, then, improvise, properly. Taking direction, is not the same as, dictation. All of the sudden, Al started talking, in a Wisconsin/Eastern Minnesota, accent. Your resistance’s, are conflicting, contradictory, collapsing, crusty. The spiral wave, is so whew-whee. Fall apart. Organize an empire, don’t distract yourself into obscurity, detours, think tanks. There may, or may not, be something wrong, with my neck. Don’t ever try, to walk all over me, don’t whack, don’t ogle, intuit, place on napkins, stop it! Drain your scrotum, of built up, fluids? Don’t kick with steel toes, listen to what can’t cause, acne. What stands between me, and it, that, and the other, here, and there? You don’t need to know where the drugs are to be purchased, anyway. Are your senses melting into one another, yet? This doesn’t make any sense! Keep your pills to yourself, keep your lack of availability, keep your shift. Pretty idiom/idiot, loops, are causing jaws to drop, where’s Marvel? Taos, what about, Taos? Drinking out of the toilet bowl, again? Show the way, show through this common, sort of, occurrence, loser squirtings, thumblings, at whosoever. What sounds like a jousting match, and a basketball game? Learn to behave in the wind. My skull, is becoming open. Inspiration cannot be forged? Get out of yourself, and onto the page, find that interview time, date, and place. As my ideas dry up, I’d better recapture them. Made up words, and languages, know what you’re doing. Tearings, interrupt the twist, wrenchings, untangle your art, from its hang-ups. Let us spend a moment, let a phenomenon occur, speak German, don’t let that, this, any of this, happen. What am I trying to do, in other words, what is all of this for? The band is either getting, have gotten, or will, shortly, have, real careers, don’t be left behind. The west side, corrupts innocence. Is this shit, or what?
Don’t let me become a low budget movie. Maybe I’m not good enough for the mall, maybe, I’m too good, or no good, who knows? You’re no index. How could this, be well received (it never will be)? Please, solve your own problems. The midget, and the mailbox? The prosthetic foot, along the side of the highway (a lover’s spat, perhaps?). Refuse to discuss it. How the hell do you feel justified, in continuing to enjoy yourself, while all the shit, has hit the fan? Significant others are necessary, in the fantasy world, but not the real one. There is a thick film, all over me. Is there anything more solemn? Exclamation Mark and the Oblivious, are playing out at the Sock Box Barn, tonight only. Go back, and forward, in time, and do that other thing they do, having something to do, with then, and now. Happy, majestic, halo fondlings, glowings, church group meetings. Quite a gloomy heyday, this. Up, and down, rockety stairs, to unstable floors, and on, from there, to modern looking doors, too high up on the wall, that don’t go anywhere. Let’s get this thing started, let’s go across the street, and grab a pumpkin. No more fatuous, or ridiculous, candy bowls, no more mopping, and sweeping, no more “for here, or to go” talk. It is time to cause mayhem. There’s room down there, there’s room down there, c’mon. Let’s keep the suspense to a minimum, you know, the bullshitters, croakers, and shitters, that scam their way in, and out of, all the good jobs, that, is not me. There are an awful lot of idiosyncriacies at work, on my crunch test, Iowa. Send me out to do the stories, that no sane person, would ever want to do (but, gently). No more feelings hurt, or resentments, and hate, just supper times, super times. I have had a rough go of it, from time, to time, I’ve had to learn all those harsh, and horrible, lessons, everybody has to learn. I am a confused person, help me get back to the campground, because I am most definitely, lost, and perhaps, even, ill-prepared. Truth, facts, out of hand audacity, tangles of excess verbiage, screams about television. Long stories, made short, short stories, made long. Space enough to fit, question, statement, question, statement. Cover all the bases, find out where the lines of communication are. I am not a know-it-all, I will need help, maybe more than some guy from the Baltimore Gazette, or Texas Times. But, see, I’ve got verve, whatever that is. I suppose, ah, I don’t know. Why people want, what they want, is a mystery to me, as are, most things. I can’t tell what, dates from when, anymore. Maybe I’m the future, maybe I’m a washout, at least I know, it’s up to me. Well, here we are; uncomfortable, silent, vague, distrustful, and disinterested. I don’t really know anyone, I’m already a writer, thus, I sit alone in my room, most of the time, and write. Help me, I can only write, what hasn’t been written, already. Puckered, puckered, and the dreamy ride back home? There are loud sirens going off (not for real). That’s that, easy as pie. Don’t make up people, like the last time, let’s go, let’s go. Traipsing around downtown, doesn’t sound like a good idea to me, being, as I am. I woke up today, feeling really awful, and disoriented. Too tired to stand up, I started a query letter to W.B. Dildo & Co., and it’s terrible. Anyone could show me, by example, how to live a life, better than I am living mine. It is Tuesday, do not delay in getting those things done, that you know full well, must be done. Most important, is getting out of that court date, and you’d better hurry, because it’s probably, already too late. Secondly, you’ve got to get a non-job, type of job, in an advertising firm, or perhaps, an art gallery, but you have to get it, have it. Letter must be typed, a little funny, really professional, could mention idea graveyard. But, they get thousands a day, how can mine stand out? My training, is in nothing. That is something to most definitely, consider. A graduate degree, in what? Well, yes, being a teacher, would be nice, but where are you prepared to work? Kids are wearing bulletproof vests, to school. Finish this, then go on, to that. Do not pause, or cease, under any circumstances. I want to be the inside of her watchband. I’ve got work to do, that is so complex, the work is going to be so all-consuming. Why should we watch your erotic finger puppet shows? Watch it all come back around. March would have been the date, that the insurance could have been cut back. Don’t ever stop screaming. Flutter lightly, succumb, with your fists clenched. Suddenly, everything is velvety. Time is of such consequence, there are so many places to go, and things to do. How can I just, sit here? I made one call, this will not do. In my pocket is a long list of projects to undertake, one at a time. I dread where I am right now, and hereby, resolve, never to let it happen again. The day we never (one sentence, about infatuation) thought would dawn, is here. My speech defects, are clear. I’m too old to be living here, relying on others, to do all my work for me, as I sit here, writing nothing of consequence, because, I think I have to. Some paragraphs seem longer than others. Cupid carries a shotgun, these days, and it’s gonna’ be a wedding/funeral, combo. It’s sack cloth and ashes, for now. Break all rules, until such a time, as you get what you want. Fake the forgeable sheets, today, and mail them in, to the motherfuckers. There is no way that what is happening to me, is happening to me. So horny, and in need, of an Anastasia, Tatiana, Katarina. Use your sex brain, to come up with creative ideas. Cut your testicles off, if need be. Get names, addresses, and telephone numbers, go to these places, in a suit, and get a big bouquet. If you “wind up,” selling cemetery plots, you’d be quite lucky. We are already richly appointed, and prepared. No, not shirts, versus skins! We never thought it would happen to us.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
213
As for the new way of looking at the common cold, and unadulterated...If all you ever think about, is your own pleasure, you're going to suffer, horribly. Thought seems to occur in shifts, with days, weeks, months, off. They seem to have a pretty good idea, that I smell like carrion, on a hot summer’s day. Was this the drop off point, to go on to another way? Hospitals, and banks, there is no one to help us, or even, listen, there isn't going to be any pleasure. You've touched that post, too many times, already. Well, tomorrow, came, and went, what's next, shooter? Many contradictory inclinations, make up the you, you don't think, is you. Too many years, playing with toys, can get you into more trouble, than you bargained for. Leave, without saying good-bye, only after having nothing left to squirt, or spill, onto the sheets. Start using drugs, be a "stranger," be a sight to see, like a totem pole. Our undergraduate days are over, our cars, must get us to, and fro. The rock gardens, are only peaceful, if you were peaceful, when you walked into them. New soil samples from Mars, indicate that we'd better get cracking, or we're going to be very disappointed. She's impartial now, and she will always be, and forever remain, that way. Buy a gun, just in case a knife, should not be able to get the job done. What we get, is better than not getting anything at all. They exhumed the body, just to say that they'd done something, outrageous. Carbon on the pillow, no one knows, how could they? I should’ve sold the hotrod, while I still could. We’re not used to these slow speeds. Each and every one of us, is wholly responsible, for the world at large. Girls, that look like boys, in certain light, remind us, that perhaps, the influence, is still upon us. One caveat, is never ask me why. It does feel good. If you don’t like it, ignore it. Blood got sucked, they took pictures of them, naked. The whirligig twirled, round, and round. I choked to death on an old beer cap. Don’t believe it. Perhaps there is such a thing, as change, perhaps not. Sex with a postcard, has not been ruled out, yet. Madonna, of Madonna's, could be, either/or. The lamp fell over. Every night we cross off half of what we've written, during the day, if only, in our heads. What would it be like, to complete something, totally? More eggs! Remember the pull box, the mattress, the leaves, the campus, the fountain, the cold air, the almost fondlings, and actual, make-out, yoo-hoo's! You would be mistaken, if you thought things had gotten out of hand, they weren't out of hand, enough. Maybe that was the missing piece of paper, I used to talk about, all the time. What was it that I was intending to do, with my degree? There is nothing that can be done. There are no solutions, to any of our problems, live with them! If the belle of the ball, should turn away, when you walk up to her, would you be surprised? Gasoline fields, cigarette smoke, and ashes, twenty foot drops, freedom, and responsibilities, the interdependence of the two. Put yourself through horror, like, Aftermath of a Hippo Attack, which, has yet to be written. Fight for it, tooth and nail. Men shouldn't wear lipstick, unless, they want to send out the wrong idea. If your entire life, has been a lie, do try to correct it, won't you? Try to be a porno movie star, whoa, I mean, pass me that pen, and paper. You're on the chicken hunt! Want to remain safe, in the dorm room? Old, worn out, and forgotten, towns, usually have some kind of revitalization, in the works. By one's own standards, it is easier to say that one is doing fine, apart from the influence of others. Definitely precious, little girls, what's not to like (or however the hell the song went)? The church is a gift shop, now, interest rates have fallen, but they will rise again, to claim that one should buy while the price is low, is too obvious to even mention. Do any pens in this house, work? It is 3:47 A.M. and I am wide awake, I am worried, as usual, there is, also, as usual, nothing to be really, that worried about. I want to go for yet another, ridiculous drive, I am crazy, I just turned off the “secret brain” radio. What an absolutely, horrible, three months, these have been. I mean, from one bad situation, to a worse one, still. The last several years, have been bad, and that bad, has become worse, too many times to count. There is nothing for me to do, there is no reason to be up, and driving around is about as stupid a thing to do, as anyone, could ever, imagine. The bag of chips, is what's really bothering me, that, and the ever present, flatulence. Well, far be it from me, to allow myself to stop, now. More action, with the pedestal, is not called for, at this time. Would you fuck a model, if one was thrown your way? 3:54, how much time we waste, how little we do. My finger itches, scratching it, makes the bobbin in my wrist, move up, and down. What kind of three year old, signed contract, is this? Flip the newspaper over, and then, go throw it in the trash, you don't need that kind of information. I thought that that hippie couple, were honking, and waving, at me, I was, as usual, mistaken, megalomania. What the fuck is wrong with my skull, and scalp? Why am I up at this time, unable to lie down, and go to sleep? 3:58, and all is not well. Wonderful color combos, coming from a rubber doll, no one needs your advice, on how to stumble through the void; they do a good enough job on their own. All those old pictures, get me to thinking, that things could have turned out a whole lot different, than they have, for better, or for worse. The figure skater, could be your daughter, don't look at her that way. When you go driving through the city, in the middle of the night, don't run any red lights, or speed too fast. Writers are shadows, one half of a genre. I need to transcend every single thing, that I’ve written in this book. 4:01, and I still have scratches to itch. 4:02, and I'm wondering why I can't be more intelligent, or creative. Absolutely nil, null and void, I am my own mistake, not yours. Why is it that I can't find any solutions, to any of these problems, I'm infested with? Something happened out there, something we’d rather not discuss. The sit-up’s, became a sex act, as usual. Someone, made a comment. We find ourselves influenced by commercials, in unusual ways. 4:03, I'm gone, I couldn’t live without her. Your rage and fury, will wind you in jail. The United States should be dismantled, there is so much more I want to say, about this… We just want to fuck ourselves.
It doesn't really matter; the order, in which things, get done, so long as, they get completed. It’s the real fear, now. Timebombs ain’t got nothin’ on me, slim. We get too soft, eventually. Especially in the future, when you know, right now, there is going to be a whole hell of a lot less, time. As far as the new job, goes, just take each day as it comes, and don't make too much of a big deal out of it. This may be the shortest term, short term gig, I'll ever have. Cleaning the kitchen, really wouldn't have been suited to me, of course, but I'd better find out exactly, where, and what, would, soon. Fitful, nervous, unable to sleep, put a load of laundry in, slept 4-5 hours. The dog just jumped on, or off, the newspapers, in the other room. We've all got a lot of things to do, I cannot be desperate, the goal, is, one; to jump from the clockwork, into the comet trail, without wasting anything in the meantime. The car is bigger, and more Japanese, than I ever thought it was. It could have been right now, that I was there, never late, never absent, no excuses. Do a great job, quit properly, when you do, don't sleep, or do anything (use the space), compromising. As usual, be beyond reproach, at all times. Old math, cannot be new math, until such a time, as you stop rolling in the corn field, and get down to work. This will not be my time, for long. Here comes the derelict, here comes the insipid ass. My cross only seems to be heavy, more so, than other people's. Move some things around, move something around. Don't golf in your head, for eighteen hours a day. Every couple of days, I used to try to go home sick, sometimes, it worked, usually, it didn't. There's the crow, half a block away, that sounds like it's cawing in your ear. There's the other, neighborhood, black cat, that won't step, for so much as a minute, on our property, then, there's our cat, to watch sentry. There is no Winter, to speak of, this year, though the climate could shift back, at any moment, it already has the taste, smell, and feel, of Spring, outside. The drips from the roof, seem to be tapping me on the shoulder, forcing me to keep turning around. No one can read my writing, quite a Greek curse, sort of tragedy, if there ever was one. I don’t want to write any more letters, I want to keep what I was giving away for free, to myself. But right now, I need to have the kind of material, that I used to give away, or, I'm nothing. The things that I avoid, due to being afraid of them, I'm only afraid of them, for good reasons...but, the reasons, still aren't good. Impulsivity, has a logic of its own, as I said, the car is here, I could go anywhere, but I know I won't. I hear Christmas songs, two months after Christmas, in my head. I went to draw a picture of my kind of vampire. I don't draw too many pictures, anymore, but that essay on being leery of color, for wont of self confidence, I found to be startlingly, inspiring. I can’t see straight, whatever this is, has got to stop. You were right! I do wish that you would hurry, sir; I mean, time ticks by, as you wonder what you're going to do next, until the next you, the next six hours, from now. Nudity is so... um, mm-hmm, the female body is the greatest thing there is, a few honest perversions, are the mark of human authenticity. Opera sounds like a kind of a candy, to my ears, this time. To put a tape on, doesn't...the ability to hold a thought, is waning. Be charming, and tragic, perform, try to analyze that note, you were slipped. Don't answer the phone, I have to do my (fuck you) writing. I do wish that I was a speed freak, sometimes, simply, due to the fact, that I can't even pull my weight around here (as I'm pulling my weight). There is always a hell of a lot more to do, to get done. It's never over, no matter how much you do, or how much time, that takes. I want (seriously) to get down on my hands, and knees, in the driveway, and pick up each, and every, pebble, individually. I need uninterrupted time, in which to do this, worry free, time. Now, I've made these plans to go downtown, to some dive, to see The Vacant on the Side, and I think they’re all right, I'm not really going to go down there. So, you want to know what impossible, is? My unhappiness is real, my feelings of worthlessness, are true. The people seem like tethered morons. We’re all lost. We’re almost, past the point of no return. Fuck the dead (no necrophilia)! The would-be agent, rattled off names, of people I’d never heard of. All the negative things, I've found out about myself, over the years, not only, don't go away, they get worse. There are no parties, ever again. Dismiss me, let me out. Stay there. Maybe I deserve this horrible predicament. This is certainly not, automatic writing. This assignment is simple, one-off, easy, but look at how I sweat, and strain, over it, all the sweating, and straining, doesn't make it any better, by the way. I've found, that I am probably more, star-struck, than most people, all the while, of course, believing myself to be all off, and beyond, such idiocy. At least nobody can say I stink, now, or, that there's crayon, dripping down the front of my face. Should I catalogue what I wear, I mean, should I clean, some more? I'm asking, because I do not know what the hell to do with myself. The kids with camouflage jackets, and pants, are searching for peace, in a war, that doesn’t involve guns. Embarrassed, is not the word, when I walk into that house tomorrow, I mean, first, when I am planning on waking up, what am I going to do once I'm there, am I sorry, how am I going to get my other work, done, and work, however many hours, anywhere? There is no money in the helping professions, not a little money, no money! You are wasting your time, going down there, of course, you have to go down there now, but, still, how long do you plan on staying? You were given it, the minute you walked in the door, shit; you were given the job, when you called. The lady herself, said to me, that they hire every, single, schmuck, that walks in the door. This college graduate, better get his shit in order, before I have him, hurt himself. See, I have this idea, that it's better to kill yourself, while you're healthy, you know, before the cancer, and horror, the stroke, and the disability. I keep throwing out these vulgar propositions, and philosophical positions. Ignore the fact, that this book, is sophomoric. Look at what happened, and try to stop it. People will not recognize all of the hard, grueling, impossible work, that went into this.
It is like I'm in a race, with something, I cannot beat, and I keep plodding on, due to my pride, and ego, which always have, and always will, tell me to. My stains are my own, my mistakes are regrettable, because they throw me so much further off, than most people's. I have ideas in my head, that are chimerical, to the point where, what they are, are just to make it seem, to the inside of my own head, that I am, indeed, having ideas, when, in fact, I am not. The worst kind of discomfort that I can feel, is just being in this body, being seen anywhere, doing anything. I am trying to purge myself of toxicity, I do not believe the things, that I think (any of them), my hand is not even my hand. This is not insanity, I am not insane enough, I'm so embarrassed, just to be myself. I am a loser, a complete square, and there would not appear to be any hope for me, anywhere, at all. I sat there in that theater, suffering through delusion, after delusion, they're not getting any easier to deal with, and they're not going away. I threw all the cheese in the dog's bowl, I'm scared of my own family, I don't want to talk, or eat, or go out, anywhere, do, anything, particularly. Yet, I think that I've already gone too far astray, gotten into too many traps, holds, pins, and snares. I am far more involved in the world, than I ever thought possible. The orders keep coming in, I can't help, my health is gone, my heart just isn't in my chest cavity, any longer. No one will ever hand me anything, and even though I don't want them to, I'd like them to. All things, that I force myself to undergo, take more than an hour, until all the hours are gone, and there's no time to do anything else. You would think, that over time, art would improve, that things would get a little easier, they don't. The hardest thing to deal with, used to be the most fun, namely, all the contradictions there are, to work out, and deal with. How in the hell did a seventeen year old boy, wind up being fifty-seven? I surrender, but there is no one there, to take the flag. I'm going to fall, and fall hard, and when I do, someone else will have to clean the yolk off the pavement. Let me know if I could be of any service to you. I am an orchard, but, one with a bug infestation problem. Is there any way that I can slip into survival mode, from this "inhuman way"? Crash course, I'm enrolled. The thrills are (how can this be done easier?) no longer thrilling. He went and got stuck, up in the tree. Three hundred more. I cross my legs, uncross them, then, cross them the other way, just to have something to do. What price, pussy? Scatter the rushes to the wind. My, lookie, lookie here. The way that we sign our name, changes considerably, over time. All the tea is spilled, we put out a fire, we took over the auditions, we fell out of the candy room, drunk, and threw up, on the sidewalk, out front. My dark (go, L7) secrets, will be kept to myself. Who says? Simon? The last turn, could be the most fertile, or, the most pointless. We've got to all remember to take our pills, we've got to golf naked, in the wilderness, we've got to make out with the robot, with the short skirt on. Talk show melees, are all over the cathode ray tube, the collapsing tart, is all ready to go. My nervousness, is not going to go away, by walking in, or out, any door. The scattered nature, of the dumb knob, suck and run. Press down harder, to make each moment, seem as if it means more, than it actually does. The money is gone, we knew there would never be enough. That new front porch, will cost you, the new path, is over budget. Virtual eyes, respond to some catchers mitt, laying waterlogged, in the backyard. Curse, cuss, and swear, your way from the cutting room floor, back onto the table, back to the can, or wherever the hell this was going. We've got very little time, very few options, too much mess. My foot, wrinkles the cushion, on the seat of the couch. Scratch that plastic, or whatever the hell it is. We are trying to set up appointments, to sell you products, that you don't want, or need. Hurry up, and slow down, cut the (say!) feathers off the live bird. We are willing to wonder, and wander, too willing. She was content to smoke dope, and lounge around, in a stupefying, state, of pseudo satisfaction, I did not, and that is why we broke up. As far as writing goes, there is no such thing as luck. The houses we're building, are all going to fall down soon, anyway. Archway millenniums, crush, and spoon us, in, and out, of hungry mouths, you do what you have to do, and leave me alone. Watch me malinger, no influences, no hands. My idea of clean, is not ketchup, all over everything. As I cross paths with people, with two voices, I scratch my hands, and want to kill people. You are probably too old, to be saying things, along those lines. While smoking, think about the long, slow, death, you're going to suffer. Assholes need their signed forms, in their hands. See, the more you avoid, the more, avoids you. There's no way that I have any intention of leaving this, and coming back to it, later, see, it is never fresh, it doesn't matter what I write, because it always sucks, and it's never any good. I am going to go waltzing down any street, into any unchartered territory, I just want to see my face, up on the silver screen, or, at least, I thought I did, last night. How many times, have you inadvertently, taken a large amount of drugs, only to discover, later, that it wouldn't have mattered, had you taken them, or not, because nothing can be done for you, nothing can either save, or destroy, you? You are like a pincushion, which has lost its squishiness, you are unsuitable for pricking. I don’t think that my hair is going to grow back. There is a pain, I will never forget.
You are chewing your paws. Axon to axon, takes a long, long time. Who are "your" writers? Everything closes early. Throw me up a broom! Twenty seven wrong turns, are what it takes, to wind up here. Go to the fair, get a song and dance routine, together. Shove the jobs, this is the true duty of genius. Do not pretend, make mania, work for you, get happy, on your own time, don't waste anything. Rubbing your eyes, won't cause you to see things more clearly, or even, differently. Fight without violence, pretend this paper is yellow. This is a comprehensive regrouping, of absolute despair. Exhaustion is not motivating. Shitty attitudes, shitty tips. A fresh coat of paint, can't hide the building’s imperfections. I saw the Japanese American citizens, leaving the high school parking lot, in droves. I've never done anything that was really, that wrong. Strawberries rot, so you see the importance, now, of taking care of things, while there is still something left, to take care of. Like the trucker’s hand signals, laugh. We’re not who, or what, we think we are. All refrigerators must be cleaned, regularly. Love is for fools, and worse. Drink her urine, wear her dress. They really must want me to get a credit card, nothing doing. Slowly, all the outdoor drinking fountains, are being removed. I’m addicted to my fat! The terror, would make anybody worried. This is how it starts. Where’s your honey? Noone knows whats going to happen down there. This planet is spinning, man. Our art is undervalued, and overrated. Round up, make sense of the spillover. What types of instruments, are being used? My wrists went numb, and limp, and I fell over. Our suspicions, can lead to murder. There are rules, rules, to this notorious, freak show. I came here from India, nevermind, how. Getting through this, may very well, kill me. Rearrange the weights, measures. Implore her, not to twist her skull, that way. Study them, keep a close watch, the bottom has fallen out, of the sidewalk. Invent a drug machine, so we can use, at will, without consequences! More textures, we want a more textural, feel. Whom, and how to, read? Our selfish lives on Mars, were much like a graduate school, for the "nothing good is ever going to happen to me," crowd. I am (or, am I?), I may be. The longing, was forced out, a long time ago. So hated/naked, copycat Russians, can go right ahead, and spread their legs, wide. Talk about jelly-filled donuts, the testimonials have all been given, don't you help me! What kind of parking lot, is this? This isn't really a party, is it? The secrets leak out, and the master copies, get stolen. Writers write, no genre is exclusively, adhered to. Forget about your pedestal, or audience, mister. Yes, people do have weird things, in their basements. No idea is ever to be just "thought about." Is enjoyment a rule, or the exception, to one? Find the shit that matters, the passageways, and secret tunnels, under the streets. A formidable blockage, could be a bad driving record, in this climate, at this atmospheric level. Telemarketing is not enjoyable. Kiss me? Don't ever consider changing places, with what's his face. This "top of the broomstick, reminds me of a candle" thing, I mean, what? No relenting, no matter what happens. Make a plea for morphine, for an address book. Black and white, are colorful enough, drool like a Pavlov dog, become as abstract as a puzzle, a car alarm, a bad day, involving weaponry. Number it, letter it, tickle it’s fancy. It starts over at the beginning, again. We were bribed, we felt as if we were being, watched. You can do better, than mere mention of the weather, conversation starter! Who wouldn't, get all caught up, in a three-tined, fork? You are destroying us, to tell you the truth. Prolonged style, night after night. Letter by letter, word by word, what needs to be done, shall occur. Listen to all of the subterranean murmurs. It seems like you've already put on the space helmet! Be more original, remember back, to those wonderful days, and times. Begin hacking, now! Know no one, understand the physical body's, deterioration, as well as the mental erosion, there has been an overemphasis put, on fucking, perhaps, some of this, is a bit much. Try to say what you mean, like, marry yourself. They name the streets after themselves. Hang out, if you must, in abandoned industrial zones. We need some kind of serum, to get from here, to there. Ribbed, for her defense. Still, after all these years of searching, I have absolutely no idea, of who, or what, I am. Utter pandemonium, refuted truth, interweaved, like the spreading of the fan. I had to do something, there are no guarantees, no labor negotiations. If you find yourself wanting to, more than retch, listen (or don't)...those hums in your head, could be considered, contrary, frightening. Upstage the pasta, answer the question about tornado's, turnbacks, and guilt. Share, motherfuckers, share. Bark, bark/bawk-bawk... the government is busy, bomb-proofing the court buildings. The clown, provides ceaseless entertainment. Sure, some of these words, are indeed, misspelled. Reality may be unrecognizable, as it is, some breeches, just can't be crossed, some britches, just can't be gotten into. The pages are stuck together, what's been going on in here? The floor behind the counter, needs to be swept, and mopped. Whatever happened to Bombay Fields, or whatever it was called? Oftentimes, the disposition of the server is, to a great extent, reflected in the gratuities, received. If you want to write about dildos, go ahead. Soon enough, someone will reach over, and turn that radio down. Please, stop counting. Show a little moxie, and take your suit off, before going to sleep. What is this girl, some kind of creep? My lungs are probably not as strong as yours. When sleepy, sleep. Maybe that particular mind game, shouldn't have been played. Ding dong, up, and down, that thing. Loop it around, again. Talk to the dead. Drum loops were used, to approximate percussion. Fold the ears, in. Frantic, exalted, raving, tantrums. Never trust a writer, who saves his letters. Document your visions. Do not scour this dirty piece of plastic, wash softly. The lampshade pretentiousness, whispering about craftsmanship. Start stripping, knowing full well, that the goal, is to get up in the morning. Nobody ever replied, to my letters. Had I talked about clouds, it would still have, pissed them off. Arrhythmic, arthritic, arithmetic, allow the curved lamp, to blind us, but, less than they used to. The more sense, things seem to make, the more time you should take, to double-check, everything. In order to keep costs down, most local stores, have stopped carrying any products. All the products that I used to use, to make myself look like I'm on that shelf, over there? We wake up, at some point, having forgotten, what was known. My nostrils are in a great deal of pain, we are not repainted, with, or without, our permission, yet. You treated me like a fairy, you gypped me out of my pension. Buckle down, and get to work, buckle up, and get ready, for some car crash excitement. In many ways, I’m the perfect example of what not, to study in school, do with your life, and so on. Interesting/frightening people, doing (regular, average) boring/banal, things. The middle of the day, was airbrushed. The game is called, eye contact. Move your garden variety ass, out of… how could we, have done this? We can’t really “capture it,” can we? Keep certain thoughts, in the privacy of your own heads. Rub yourselves up, against baptismal oil paintings. Try another door, fatty/slim. The paisley wearing, unlikables, were not invited. So many no’s, so far. The three-ring binder thing, never happened. The onslaught, was merciless, the beatings, profuse, the carpeting, a deep shag. As far as innuendo, affairs, deception, lies, pain, anger, revenge, remorse, no tin foil. The pie is in the oven (another double meaning). To be a little freaky, too far out, performing isolation experiments, on yourself. I need stronger medicine. Whatever I have been trying to communicate, by writing, has been, lost sight of. Pick up some stainless steel, blurb, blurt, the biggest burden, becomes our physique. By some sort of accident, or another; we all slip, silently, into our own, “true callings." No one really knows how, or why, a dowsing rod, works. One, by one, and after, the other, we all drop dead. The challenge, the role, is to rage your way into the grave, unquietly. We are college degreed, janitors, we are victims, of suicide. We all know why we commit suicide, before we do it, very few people, put any of the real reasons, in any note. Who was I eyeballing, in that otherworldly satellite? The routine, is continual. Morons surround you, only if you, yourself, are a moron. The two liter bottles, are imitating entropy. Beware the campus chicken statues, the pride, and joy, of the entire university. Another job, extinguished, anything is permitted, here/now. The only thing to offer, is confusion. Those things don’t need to be underlined. Let this whole thing, stand as a testament, to its author’s dissatisfaction. Make a fool of yourself, on the highway overpass. Maybe we really did have it good, sitting in Fat Boy Mall, a long time ago. Hide the truest emotions, remove those paragraphs. We are vegetable floozy’s, complex labels, difficult to defy. Our sentimentality, gets fist fucked, our disgraces, become even more, pronounced. Forget it, let it, go the other way. To hold on, hold on, to what? Find something that needs to be painted. Is it a crotch, or a beard? We are extremely pleased, with the side effects of this. Just, change one word to another, to make it more interesting.
It doesn't really matter; the order, in which things, get done, so long as, they get completed. It’s the real fear, now. Timebombs ain’t got nothin’ on me, slim. We get too soft, eventually. Especially in the future, when you know, right now, there is going to be a whole hell of a lot less, time. As far as the new job, goes, just take each day as it comes, and don't make too much of a big deal out of it. This may be the shortest term, short term gig, I'll ever have. Cleaning the kitchen, really wouldn't have been suited to me, of course, but I'd better find out exactly, where, and what, would, soon. Fitful, nervous, unable to sleep, put a load of laundry in, slept 4-5 hours. The dog just jumped on, or off, the newspapers, in the other room. We've all got a lot of things to do, I cannot be desperate, the goal, is, one; to jump from the clockwork, into the comet trail, without wasting anything in the meantime. The car is bigger, and more Japanese, than I ever thought it was. It could have been right now, that I was there, never late, never absent, no excuses. Do a great job, quit properly, when you do, don't sleep, or do anything (use the space), compromising. As usual, be beyond reproach, at all times. Old math, cannot be new math, until such a time, as you stop rolling in the corn field, and get down to work. This will not be my time, for long. Here comes the derelict, here comes the insipid ass. My cross only seems to be heavy, more so, than other people's. Move some things around, move something around. Don't golf in your head, for eighteen hours a day. Every couple of days, I used to try to go home sick, sometimes, it worked, usually, it didn't. There's the crow, half a block away, that sounds like it's cawing in your ear. There's the other, neighborhood, black cat, that won't step, for so much as a minute, on our property, then, there's our cat, to watch sentry. There is no Winter, to speak of, this year, though the climate could shift back, at any moment, it already has the taste, smell, and feel, of Spring, outside. The drips from the roof, seem to be tapping me on the shoulder, forcing me to keep turning around. No one can read my writing, quite a Greek curse, sort of tragedy, if there ever was one. I don’t want to write any more letters, I want to keep what I was giving away for free, to myself. But right now, I need to have the kind of material, that I used to give away, or, I'm nothing. The things that I avoid, due to being afraid of them, I'm only afraid of them, for good reasons...but, the reasons, still aren't good. Impulsivity, has a logic of its own, as I said, the car is here, I could go anywhere, but I know I won't. I hear Christmas songs, two months after Christmas, in my head. I went to draw a picture of my kind of vampire. I don't draw too many pictures, anymore, but that essay on being leery of color, for wont of self confidence, I found to be startlingly, inspiring. I can’t see straight, whatever this is, has got to stop. You were right! I do wish that you would hurry, sir; I mean, time ticks by, as you wonder what you're going to do next, until the next you, the next six hours, from now. Nudity is so... um, mm-hmm, the female body is the greatest thing there is, a few honest perversions, are the mark of human authenticity. Opera sounds like a kind of a candy, to my ears, this time. To put a tape on, doesn't...the ability to hold a thought, is waning. Be charming, and tragic, perform, try to analyze that note, you were slipped. Don't answer the phone, I have to do my (fuck you) writing. I do wish that I was a speed freak, sometimes, simply, due to the fact, that I can't even pull my weight around here (as I'm pulling my weight). There is always a hell of a lot more to do, to get done. It's never over, no matter how much you do, or how much time, that takes. I want (seriously) to get down on my hands, and knees, in the driveway, and pick up each, and every, pebble, individually. I need uninterrupted time, in which to do this, worry free, time. Now, I've made these plans to go downtown, to some dive, to see The Vacant on the Side, and I think they’re all right, I'm not really going to go down there. So, you want to know what impossible, is? My unhappiness is real, my feelings of worthlessness, are true. The people seem like tethered morons. We’re all lost. We’re almost, past the point of no return. Fuck the dead (no necrophilia)! The would-be agent, rattled off names, of people I’d never heard of. All the negative things, I've found out about myself, over the years, not only, don't go away, they get worse. There are no parties, ever again. Dismiss me, let me out. Stay there. Maybe I deserve this horrible predicament. This is certainly not, automatic writing. This assignment is simple, one-off, easy, but look at how I sweat, and strain, over it, all the sweating, and straining, doesn't make it any better, by the way. I've found, that I am probably more, star-struck, than most people, all the while, of course, believing myself to be all off, and beyond, such idiocy. At least nobody can say I stink, now, or, that there's crayon, dripping down the front of my face. Should I catalogue what I wear, I mean, should I clean, some more? I'm asking, because I do not know what the hell to do with myself. The kids with camouflage jackets, and pants, are searching for peace, in a war, that doesn’t involve guns. Embarrassed, is not the word, when I walk into that house tomorrow, I mean, first, when I am planning on waking up, what am I going to do once I'm there, am I sorry, how am I going to get my other work, done, and work, however many hours, anywhere? There is no money in the helping professions, not a little money, no money! You are wasting your time, going down there, of course, you have to go down there now, but, still, how long do you plan on staying? You were given it, the minute you walked in the door, shit; you were given the job, when you called. The lady herself, said to me, that they hire every, single, schmuck, that walks in the door. This college graduate, better get his shit in order, before I have him, hurt himself. See, I have this idea, that it's better to kill yourself, while you're healthy, you know, before the cancer, and horror, the stroke, and the disability. I keep throwing out these vulgar propositions, and philosophical positions. Ignore the fact, that this book, is sophomoric. Look at what happened, and try to stop it. People will not recognize all of the hard, grueling, impossible work, that went into this.
It is like I'm in a race, with something, I cannot beat, and I keep plodding on, due to my pride, and ego, which always have, and always will, tell me to. My stains are my own, my mistakes are regrettable, because they throw me so much further off, than most people's. I have ideas in my head, that are chimerical, to the point where, what they are, are just to make it seem, to the inside of my own head, that I am, indeed, having ideas, when, in fact, I am not. The worst kind of discomfort that I can feel, is just being in this body, being seen anywhere, doing anything. I am trying to purge myself of toxicity, I do not believe the things, that I think (any of them), my hand is not even my hand. This is not insanity, I am not insane enough, I'm so embarrassed, just to be myself. I am a loser, a complete square, and there would not appear to be any hope for me, anywhere, at all. I sat there in that theater, suffering through delusion, after delusion, they're not getting any easier to deal with, and they're not going away. I threw all the cheese in the dog's bowl, I'm scared of my own family, I don't want to talk, or eat, or go out, anywhere, do, anything, particularly. Yet, I think that I've already gone too far astray, gotten into too many traps, holds, pins, and snares. I am far more involved in the world, than I ever thought possible. The orders keep coming in, I can't help, my health is gone, my heart just isn't in my chest cavity, any longer. No one will ever hand me anything, and even though I don't want them to, I'd like them to. All things, that I force myself to undergo, take more than an hour, until all the hours are gone, and there's no time to do anything else. You would think, that over time, art would improve, that things would get a little easier, they don't. The hardest thing to deal with, used to be the most fun, namely, all the contradictions there are, to work out, and deal with. How in the hell did a seventeen year old boy, wind up being fifty-seven? I surrender, but there is no one there, to take the flag. I'm going to fall, and fall hard, and when I do, someone else will have to clean the yolk off the pavement. Let me know if I could be of any service to you. I am an orchard, but, one with a bug infestation problem. Is there any way that I can slip into survival mode, from this "inhuman way"? Crash course, I'm enrolled. The thrills are (how can this be done easier?) no longer thrilling. He went and got stuck, up in the tree. Three hundred more. I cross my legs, uncross them, then, cross them the other way, just to have something to do. What price, pussy? Scatter the rushes to the wind. My, lookie, lookie here. The way that we sign our name, changes considerably, over time. All the tea is spilled, we put out a fire, we took over the auditions, we fell out of the candy room, drunk, and threw up, on the sidewalk, out front. My dark (go, L7) secrets, will be kept to myself. Who says? Simon? The last turn, could be the most fertile, or, the most pointless. We've got to all remember to take our pills, we've got to golf naked, in the wilderness, we've got to make out with the robot, with the short skirt on. Talk show melees, are all over the cathode ray tube, the collapsing tart, is all ready to go. My nervousness, is not going to go away, by walking in, or out, any door. The scattered nature, of the dumb knob, suck and run. Press down harder, to make each moment, seem as if it means more, than it actually does. The money is gone, we knew there would never be enough. That new front porch, will cost you, the new path, is over budget. Virtual eyes, respond to some catchers mitt, laying waterlogged, in the backyard. Curse, cuss, and swear, your way from the cutting room floor, back onto the table, back to the can, or wherever the hell this was going. We've got very little time, very few options, too much mess. My foot, wrinkles the cushion, on the seat of the couch. Scratch that plastic, or whatever the hell it is. We are trying to set up appointments, to sell you products, that you don't want, or need. Hurry up, and slow down, cut the (say!) feathers off the live bird. We are willing to wonder, and wander, too willing. She was content to smoke dope, and lounge around, in a stupefying, state, of pseudo satisfaction, I did not, and that is why we broke up. As far as writing goes, there is no such thing as luck. The houses we're building, are all going to fall down soon, anyway. Archway millenniums, crush, and spoon us, in, and out, of hungry mouths, you do what you have to do, and leave me alone. Watch me malinger, no influences, no hands. My idea of clean, is not ketchup, all over everything. As I cross paths with people, with two voices, I scratch my hands, and want to kill people. You are probably too old, to be saying things, along those lines. While smoking, think about the long, slow, death, you're going to suffer. Assholes need their signed forms, in their hands. See, the more you avoid, the more, avoids you. There's no way that I have any intention of leaving this, and coming back to it, later, see, it is never fresh, it doesn't matter what I write, because it always sucks, and it's never any good. I am going to go waltzing down any street, into any unchartered territory, I just want to see my face, up on the silver screen, or, at least, I thought I did, last night. How many times, have you inadvertently, taken a large amount of drugs, only to discover, later, that it wouldn't have mattered, had you taken them, or not, because nothing can be done for you, nothing can either save, or destroy, you? You are like a pincushion, which has lost its squishiness, you are unsuitable for pricking. I don’t think that my hair is going to grow back. There is a pain, I will never forget.
You are chewing your paws. Axon to axon, takes a long, long time. Who are "your" writers? Everything closes early. Throw me up a broom! Twenty seven wrong turns, are what it takes, to wind up here. Go to the fair, get a song and dance routine, together. Shove the jobs, this is the true duty of genius. Do not pretend, make mania, work for you, get happy, on your own time, don't waste anything. Rubbing your eyes, won't cause you to see things more clearly, or even, differently. Fight without violence, pretend this paper is yellow. This is a comprehensive regrouping, of absolute despair. Exhaustion is not motivating. Shitty attitudes, shitty tips. A fresh coat of paint, can't hide the building’s imperfections. I saw the Japanese American citizens, leaving the high school parking lot, in droves. I've never done anything that was really, that wrong. Strawberries rot, so you see the importance, now, of taking care of things, while there is still something left, to take care of. Like the trucker’s hand signals, laugh. We’re not who, or what, we think we are. All refrigerators must be cleaned, regularly. Love is for fools, and worse. Drink her urine, wear her dress. They really must want me to get a credit card, nothing doing. Slowly, all the outdoor drinking fountains, are being removed. I’m addicted to my fat! The terror, would make anybody worried. This is how it starts. Where’s your honey? Noone knows whats going to happen down there. This planet is spinning, man. Our art is undervalued, and overrated. Round up, make sense of the spillover. What types of instruments, are being used? My wrists went numb, and limp, and I fell over. Our suspicions, can lead to murder. There are rules, rules, to this notorious, freak show. I came here from India, nevermind, how. Getting through this, may very well, kill me. Rearrange the weights, measures. Implore her, not to twist her skull, that way. Study them, keep a close watch, the bottom has fallen out, of the sidewalk. Invent a drug machine, so we can use, at will, without consequences! More textures, we want a more textural, feel. Whom, and how to, read? Our selfish lives on Mars, were much like a graduate school, for the "nothing good is ever going to happen to me," crowd. I am (or, am I?), I may be. The longing, was forced out, a long time ago. So hated/naked, copycat Russians, can go right ahead, and spread their legs, wide. Talk about jelly-filled donuts, the testimonials have all been given, don't you help me! What kind of parking lot, is this? This isn't really a party, is it? The secrets leak out, and the master copies, get stolen. Writers write, no genre is exclusively, adhered to. Forget about your pedestal, or audience, mister. Yes, people do have weird things, in their basements. No idea is ever to be just "thought about." Is enjoyment a rule, or the exception, to one? Find the shit that matters, the passageways, and secret tunnels, under the streets. A formidable blockage, could be a bad driving record, in this climate, at this atmospheric level. Telemarketing is not enjoyable. Kiss me? Don't ever consider changing places, with what's his face. This "top of the broomstick, reminds me of a candle" thing, I mean, what? No relenting, no matter what happens. Make a plea for morphine, for an address book. Black and white, are colorful enough, drool like a Pavlov dog, become as abstract as a puzzle, a car alarm, a bad day, involving weaponry. Number it, letter it, tickle it’s fancy. It starts over at the beginning, again. We were bribed, we felt as if we were being, watched. You can do better, than mere mention of the weather, conversation starter! Who wouldn't, get all caught up, in a three-tined, fork? You are destroying us, to tell you the truth. Prolonged style, night after night. Letter by letter, word by word, what needs to be done, shall occur. Listen to all of the subterranean murmurs. It seems like you've already put on the space helmet! Be more original, remember back, to those wonderful days, and times. Begin hacking, now! Know no one, understand the physical body's, deterioration, as well as the mental erosion, there has been an overemphasis put, on fucking, perhaps, some of this, is a bit much. Try to say what you mean, like, marry yourself. They name the streets after themselves. Hang out, if you must, in abandoned industrial zones. We need some kind of serum, to get from here, to there. Ribbed, for her defense. Still, after all these years of searching, I have absolutely no idea, of who, or what, I am. Utter pandemonium, refuted truth, interweaved, like the spreading of the fan. I had to do something, there are no guarantees, no labor negotiations. If you find yourself wanting to, more than retch, listen (or don't)...those hums in your head, could be considered, contrary, frightening. Upstage the pasta, answer the question about tornado's, turnbacks, and guilt. Share, motherfuckers, share. Bark, bark/bawk-bawk... the government is busy, bomb-proofing the court buildings. The clown, provides ceaseless entertainment. Sure, some of these words, are indeed, misspelled. Reality may be unrecognizable, as it is, some breeches, just can't be crossed, some britches, just can't be gotten into. The pages are stuck together, what's been going on in here? The floor behind the counter, needs to be swept, and mopped. Whatever happened to Bombay Fields, or whatever it was called? Oftentimes, the disposition of the server is, to a great extent, reflected in the gratuities, received. If you want to write about dildos, go ahead. Soon enough, someone will reach over, and turn that radio down. Please, stop counting. Show a little moxie, and take your suit off, before going to sleep. What is this girl, some kind of creep? My lungs are probably not as strong as yours. When sleepy, sleep. Maybe that particular mind game, shouldn't have been played. Ding dong, up, and down, that thing. Loop it around, again. Talk to the dead. Drum loops were used, to approximate percussion. Fold the ears, in. Frantic, exalted, raving, tantrums. Never trust a writer, who saves his letters. Document your visions. Do not scour this dirty piece of plastic, wash softly. The lampshade pretentiousness, whispering about craftsmanship. Start stripping, knowing full well, that the goal, is to get up in the morning. Nobody ever replied, to my letters. Had I talked about clouds, it would still have, pissed them off. Arrhythmic, arthritic, arithmetic, allow the curved lamp, to blind us, but, less than they used to. The more sense, things seem to make, the more time you should take, to double-check, everything. In order to keep costs down, most local stores, have stopped carrying any products. All the products that I used to use, to make myself look like I'm on that shelf, over there? We wake up, at some point, having forgotten, what was known. My nostrils are in a great deal of pain, we are not repainted, with, or without, our permission, yet. You treated me like a fairy, you gypped me out of my pension. Buckle down, and get to work, buckle up, and get ready, for some car crash excitement. In many ways, I’m the perfect example of what not, to study in school, do with your life, and so on. Interesting/frightening people, doing (regular, average) boring/banal, things. The middle of the day, was airbrushed. The game is called, eye contact. Move your garden variety ass, out of… how could we, have done this? We can’t really “capture it,” can we? Keep certain thoughts, in the privacy of your own heads. Rub yourselves up, against baptismal oil paintings. Try another door, fatty/slim. The paisley wearing, unlikables, were not invited. So many no’s, so far. The three-ring binder thing, never happened. The onslaught, was merciless, the beatings, profuse, the carpeting, a deep shag. As far as innuendo, affairs, deception, lies, pain, anger, revenge, remorse, no tin foil. The pie is in the oven (another double meaning). To be a little freaky, too far out, performing isolation experiments, on yourself. I need stronger medicine. Whatever I have been trying to communicate, by writing, has been, lost sight of. Pick up some stainless steel, blurb, blurt, the biggest burden, becomes our physique. By some sort of accident, or another; we all slip, silently, into our own, “true callings." No one really knows how, or why, a dowsing rod, works. One, by one, and after, the other, we all drop dead. The challenge, the role, is to rage your way into the grave, unquietly. We are college degreed, janitors, we are victims, of suicide. We all know why we commit suicide, before we do it, very few people, put any of the real reasons, in any note. Who was I eyeballing, in that otherworldly satellite? The routine, is continual. Morons surround you, only if you, yourself, are a moron. The two liter bottles, are imitating entropy. Beware the campus chicken statues, the pride, and joy, of the entire university. Another job, extinguished, anything is permitted, here/now. The only thing to offer, is confusion. Those things don’t need to be underlined. Let this whole thing, stand as a testament, to its author’s dissatisfaction. Make a fool of yourself, on the highway overpass. Maybe we really did have it good, sitting in Fat Boy Mall, a long time ago. Hide the truest emotions, remove those paragraphs. We are vegetable floozy’s, complex labels, difficult to defy. Our sentimentality, gets fist fucked, our disgraces, become even more, pronounced. Forget it, let it, go the other way. To hold on, hold on, to what? Find something that needs to be painted. Is it a crotch, or a beard? We are extremely pleased, with the side effects of this. Just, change one word to another, to make it more interesting.
212
Stop thinking about donuts, sir, please. Like a fresh pair of girls panties, see… things went wrong. You've got pink ears, well, congratulations. Deep breaths, late wake-up calls, slides, film, caps, cellophane. Sniff, cough, heat, heater, grate, warm, building, tunnel. No one is ever there to answer the phone, at any of these places, that I call. Fuck her, alongside the road. I just can’t show the kids my scars, again. It used to give us visions. My gash, aches, and burns. To say that I'm a little upset, would be quite an understatement. Cleave the half off rack. Any breaking through, or reaching out into the mist...look at all that clothing! We don’t know what love is. Our visions, are still, so disturbing. We’ve done that, it is time for something else, now. You know, you memorize your lines, you show up on time, be friendly, yet distant, in between takes, do what they tell you to do, and it all works out, fine enough. This drive, to achieve below my ability, bothers me, incessantly, what it's all about, I don't know. There isn't going to be any chocolate, or, one thing at a time, bullshit, not now. The horn is blowing, and there is enough trouble out there, for six Harvey's. Put the book away for a while, in some cases, a long while. Learn to work, without a cursor, more manic, less underprivileged. The spiders web, is hanging down, by the windowsill, and looks like a Celtic cross...Should I be, in any way, embarrassed about my life? Even though you make up your mind to make changes, it takes a long time, for them to kick in. Eat it up, is what they used to say, at this point, that is the opposite, of what must be. Bleach stains, on the cuffs, and legs, of your pants, make you look like a derelict...mustard stains, a fat ass. I've been thinking Monday, is Tuesday, lately. That girl wasn't deaf, it appears, but certainly, didn't speak, she made very loud noises, and looked like trouble. Kindly, get rid of all this foolishness, destroy all mention, of the snow embankment, flip off. There is still an awful lot of work to do. Walk faster, be considerate, understand that this really is a bad sign, for the future. Three months, no one can do, no one? There are...ah, who...pfui! As long as what I eat isn't, candy/chocolate, meat, eggs, butter, chicken, fish, alcohol, cheese, or fast food, of any kind, I'm set. This includes sour cream, cottage cheese, margarine, any cheese, or anything. Thus, all, any of this, means, is that it's time to get creative. The people who bust in...it's just like last time, there are no differences, this time, from last. My own standings, and stallings, are not going to be compromised, just because I'm going to have to make dinner, do the dishes, for some who-how's. The terms, are moot. No, this is not a book, this is sort of like a private journal, for now. Unfortunately, that can't go on any longer, because this, is usually, all the writing, I do. Now, if all I do, is this, this, has to be more than it is. It has to reach up, into greatest hits realms, after the books are stacked up, hidden away. There is no resting, and wishing, ever! I could definitely hang up, all, or most all, of these clothes. The typewriter obscures the view, and shadow, of the tinker toy sculpture, over there. So many cans, stolen from people’s cupboards, so many mysterious, pieces of electronic equipment. Remember all that expensive wood, and all those knick-knacks, for sale? There is a tent out there, there is a trombone. The bottle is not quite near at hand, it is nigh on, impossible, to say how it is, that things like this, ever get done. People try, and then, stop, they go, and then, pause, they ding, and they dong, etc. That poster, could definitely be put right side up. All the bookmarks, are falling out of the storage area. Do I have any staples? Let's see, you've got to start from somewhere, so, begin now. Alice was a likable enough, sandwich. The airport has been (remember last time?) ruined, by all the drug trafficking, and whatnot. The view of the blank future, is going to be written on, but who the hell knows, what's, going to be written? If, by some wild assed, mistake, the ground should fall away from under me, again, I think I should go with it. The first office building, was the one we needed to find, not down in the bowels where former apartments, are psychologists offices. Wherever the rent is cheapest, you'll find the most, honest people. Wherever the divorce rate is highest, you'll have the most sex. Someone, inadvertently, knocked the transformer lid, off the top, of what appears to be, a telephone pole. Mysterious, to say the least, eh, how we all keep warm, in the Winter? Unfinished business, is a shelter full of newspapers, put the storm windows back on. There were days when...a couple of shrill screams, could get someone's attention. You slit “vagina’s,” into all of the stuffed animals! You’ve got to go through an awful lot of shit, to find the shinola. It’s really bad. We're nowhere near, complete, right now, we're immobile, unwilling, unable, unqualified, ta, ta. It’s all designed, to drive you nuts. The fresh smell of burning logs, and fabric softener, makes everyone's walks, that much more pleasant. So exhausted by eleven, that the side of the barn pulled off, in minutes. Some kind of schizophrenia-land, to real whew, whee’s, of the entire self, so much so, that you are scissored into neat, easy to carry, bundles, that can't be put back together, anyway, ever again. To act happy, could be the crumbling tops of muffins, falling down onto the linoleum floor. As far as our contract, we want the whipped cream, nuts, and cherries. Greasy, fearful, moist, radiant.
Hide the bottles, nobody needs to know about that! Noses out of joint, can really happen, and they are painful to reset. Please tell me there isn't something wrong with my car, yet again. Tell me there wasn't yet another death, from some fool, playing in traffic. If you listen to the sounds of an animal, attacking it's prey, there is an order to their snaps, and growls. In this vial, industry, in this one, empathy, etc. We've all got cards, to indicate most things about us. Why I stayed asleep 'til noon, with better things to do, shocked, and oscillated, me. We'll keep getting orders, we'll punch ourselves in the face, we'll double up on the poll taxes, understand the freedom of information act, and more! Steep cliffs tilt off into forty-five degree angles, the furnace is killing us. You're well, you're fine, not white. Not another feces smearing, Lord? See, it's so much of the package, or parcel, that to lay any claim, or to state any kind of purpose, or philosophy, about it, would be like a goofy, kind of silly, wrong way to go. Get two, bitch, nothing came from the last time, what will come of the next? The globe is not on it's little perch. Fart into the stink. Swing it, literally, make a mistake. We're all sick of hearing about the tortures of the job, it's all torture, and doesn't matter, in the least, how much is supposedly, at stake. I am so tired, all the time. Ten minutes in the kitchen, could solve most of the problems of the random, unpredictable, screwy nature, of those words, and a few others. There are not going to be any trellises climbed, for a long, long time. Fringe benefits, make up a cushy, cushy set, or sets, of vibrators, funny, old, goofy, asses. To be, is to be complete, to not smash a vase, or fuck up a snot, mess up a gun, and all. What happened here? How is it, I never know how utterly talentless, I am? This is not going to work out, nothing has worked out. Just one step further...We need to know how much each one should cost. If I hit that basket with a hammer, what would happen? Nobody walks up to a stranger's house, and asks them if they'd like to see, so, get everything totally prepared, and ask, in advance. I believe in death, and graves, not the cheerful others. Where are we going to put our coins, now? No one is gonna' let me call. See, the thrill involves people stopping by, doing things, just stopping by. Oh, shit, yet another damn instance, of being passed-by. The important, shattered myths, are not going to allow me to eat any cheese, or, grate it! Someone said, “made to be fucked.” What is going on with my bowels? Get your ducks in a row, don't just allow two more years/tears, to pass by, don't. Twenty one year olds, are working at advertising agencies, while I am doing nothing...oh! The proper way to faint, is to grumble into the forlorn, change your pants, and twist. The badges were glued on the sash. We've got to go to the bank, other people are making big plans, that are going to get things done, while others lisp, and wonder, listen to the wind. Your hours of operation, have never been convenient for me. The most disgusting vision, was that of the full length mirror, and the pillow, no one should ever catch a glimpse like that one. Years of tangles, that can't be combed out, easy starts on cars, incomplete sentences, weird songs, about being fine. So much see and say, is involved, that to go on as soon as possible, is but a slipshod, into the next. There aren't going to be any noises around here, for a long time. What is the proper face, bone structure, gaunt, crushed lines, and a character? Meow, tired into a grumble, rotting milk shouldn't go down so smooth. Paint the fire (how is your mother?) hydrant’s, neon. It takes, what it takes. It was like rape. Slingshot the mixer, over to there. It will never stop. Move your head a little bit, shake out the cracks, and pins, needles, whatnot. He had an apiary on the roof of his apartment building. Drunk again, on fumes, discombobulation? The landlord owns most of the room you're attempting to profit on. Can you hear people listening? If that could be paid off in one year, there you go, rough health, slow down. Watch those stress levels, wind up that thread, enable your friends to continue using drugs, put the pork chops in the oven, plant flower bulbs, for the springtime. So many pencils, none of them, sharpened. Hurry through this magic, kind of, boots lost, thing. It did sound like a tick tock, constructed with piano strings, but I don't know. You'd better lay down, sort of, before you explode. Watch this space, for fabulous businesses, that will come, and go, with surprising regularity. The important things to demand, don't bite those photographs, they can't be replaced. Ride up, and down, your own minds, tubes. Industrious limbs, get fortified, and re-fortified, sometimes. Try nineteen! Never go down that street, there is no reason to go down that street. Push down the piles of IN, push down the agenda to...stay corrupt, stay in detention, drive the floor of the boat, upside up, or...Move the two gratings, all the way to Egypt, on a transcontinental flight. We don't want to know the gossip, we want to feel for you. The torture of the Cossack, the resurrection of the newborn, the collaboration of the disturbed. This is supposed to be a permanent record, of some kind? This has got to stop. Sometimes, the dead, speak through us. The heart, is a piece of shit.
There is a glamour of being off the chart, in terms of trouble, ennui, horror, grief, frustration, suffering, etc. In more than one way, I have wasted all of the time that can be wasted, before you really start to feel, "affected." Exuberant perceptions, are not occurring in my life, right now. We're all, each of us, exploited, in our own ways. A career, is an orifice, to be fiddled with. All aboard, the nervous system pull, and crunch! Some things are, or were, certain, in the mire. My "problems," are not real, they're put-on’s, of a particular kind, that I don't fully understand. Where there is nothing to do, I'm sure we could find a great many, things to do. Scratch a few vertical lines, into the surface of the table. Sleep is the cure? I don't know, or think, and don't care. Treason will be punished? Compromise, or don't, it doesn't really make any difference. Try our new self-consuming dentures! Monsters take their time, mistresses, do not. If your legs hurt, try one of our new hair colors. This office is not going to lead the lamb to slaughter. The war made a huge mess, go over there, and scratch it off. There are always going to be more important things to do, than work. When I think of all the things I don't want, that I formerly, did, I have to chuckle, a little bit. Give me six coffee's, please. The goal here, as elsewhere, is to communicate, without having to look at anyone's face. Those are human beings, they get free sex. I haven't yet had the chance, to do any detailed, bathroom cleaning. Everything is grey in here, except for the trail of blood. The Hindu with the long beard, and the oversize turban, would make an absolutely fabulous, interview subject. Practice the scales, and the notes, peripherally, and viscerally. You eat, only act, Yiddish! Perhaps, our nemesis, is not a scurve, but a crewer. Some sort of incurable illness, is assailing me, my esophagus. We should all be wearing breastplates! The show on depression, was great. The entire anti-historical past, has slid into the ditch, of exact times, exact dates. Just because I'm dead, doesn't mean I can't speak. California reminds me of a dead man's backyard. Don't lap at the trough full of turnips. Keep the fried Megan out, until it starts to smell. Libraries usually turn out to be more exciting, than counting tumors, libra bean spreads, exposed genital regions. This is not my idea of a thrill, Steve. Three drawers are open, and stuff is falling out. She had essential properties. No more midnight cereal. The mistake, was a philosophy? That's my water, you're wasting. And no, I'm not going to say anything about it. Everybody is acting curious, as to why you left. You are no big-wig, by any means. Sleeping at night, is boring. I should’ve called the book, Wrestling with the Toilet Seat. A chair, is likely to get smashed. Swish and spit, until the end of time. We went a little overboard. You won’t make it alone. The “new” silo’s, are over twenty years old. I love her. It’s total madness, pure ring-a-ding-ding. There is no such thing as old people, they are young, plus time. If you aren’t honest, you won’t last very long (that goes for you, too). They can tell, when you’re writing about them, and when you’re not. It doesn’t get any easier, ever. Where are we going to bury all these bodies? The golf courses. Try another spellcheck. It’s as descriptive as an empty pool, full of leaves. Sit very close to death. Make up for lost time, the old-fashioned way, fuck it. Get signatures, and phone numbers, for your alcoholic, Monsignor, look-alike contest. Perhaps we should kill everyone who has attempted to steal from us? Use the serrated edge, take your orders, rip each, and every, book you own, to shreads. What worse things, are going to happen to me? So cowardly, lazy, weak, I really had it made, when I thought I didn't, way back when. Who's gonna’ call who, on the phone? Press harder, where are my cigarettes? Chicken store, here I come! This total beauracracy, insists on a new application, to accompany the old forms; policies, and procedures, golden snippets, of pure phonics. Stop erasing, please! You're so imaginative, you're like a decoration. My sorrows, are as false, and put-on, as my joys. Increase your activity levels, exercise, clean the house, start your own advertising firm. Poison, or position, I just can't read Spanish? Who says we're innocent, until proven guilty, the blind statue? To my shock, a handful is all that is needed. Look at her go, dancing like an imbecile. Looking at the swamp, you'll never be convicted. The boat landing nudity, seemed like it would never end. The perfect little cherub, turning violent. It will take years, just to get this filing in order. Try a new tactic, survival. The riff-raff, fell behind, as fast as chalk could squeak. The factory was abandoned, some are guppies, some are salamanders. The tissues, from here, look like intestines. Every day, without fail, we get bored, and drive around. It’s alright? Things in boxes, that rattle, when shaken. It's been a long time, more. You worry about it. We’re melting into the chair, without scientific proof. Something beyond hate, and contempt, let's talk about death, alienation. Fresh as a little daisy, flower butt? Break for a commercial, look up the secret address, twirl, twirl! Be more than careful, when turning on the stove. Flit, stop letting them fuck you in the ass! We're all going suddenly, nuts, in here. So many (smells?) different kinds of sausage, pleasant feelings, calm feelings, meet General Havoc. You're your own kind of bunny, sweetie. Casual, not sloppy, slinky, not sexy. Type your own manuscript. These are not fantasy boy dreams, of glory, grandeur, and greatness. Don't get into that kind, of situation. Is this all really just goof off, and fool around, time? They would have thought you a maniac nut, had you sent that cryptic letter. This has all, gone hillbilly. Be stronger than shit, stranger than lice? Talk to the manager, act a little sly/sexy. What we need here, right now, are shapes, forms, chit-chat. There is nothing worse than being ill, and being unable to receive any treatment. There is no plan B, in case you're interested. If we were that, then I would be banished, to way over there. Presto goes the will-o-wisp, on an ordinary, overcast day. I felt so “country” today, that I bought a hat. The next book, will be just a re-write, of this one. We will never get along.
Our fortunes, are like variety candy boxes, with no little chart, to indicate what, is what, where, is where, and whatever the hell seemed so...oh, yeah, I'll turn the light off, in one minute. Try it while you can't see, and an hour and a half, after you woke up, wicked. Everybody's health, is faltering. Silence is a good enough change, to keep a few, twisted, thoughts, at bay. What you should be looking for, is a money-making entity, not a scourge of debt. I mean, think on, but do more, with what you think. I don't know anything, about anything, but I'd better learn, quick. It is as if you never went to college, for starters, it's as if you're seventeen years old. So, go from there, I mean, you're barely employed, anything is better than this. What a great day it is, maybe it'll wake you up, to what you've lost, as well as what you've got to go about, winning. Your mornings are open, these sketches, are those of an amateur, your situation is abominable, everyone is arguing, it is time to wake up. No one knows how the dead man, got up there. Try hate. It’s been five years since I took this to Mackiniac, K. Everything, has gotten worse. Catering, seemed good, while driving around aimlessly, in someone else's car, that I may have possibly, ruined. Flunk a year, in ten, what will it have mattered? This is it, this is the last attempt. What’s life, if you never get to the point? They were always wearing swimsuits, what did you expect? Go ahead, pussy foot. Some people are always there for others, and get a dribble back, in return. It can’t be Friday again, it just, can’t. I dislike my face. Just throwing something down, isn't going to get you off the bed, out of the house. Being too embarrassed to record something, is sure to slop you down, six yards. There is an eggplant to be stuffed, and if you don't stuff it, someone else, will. I have already topped out, in terms of salary, and I just started. It is past the time, to start moving, by now, you should have moved. It may not be quite possible, to become famous, for being a consumer of other people's goods, and services. Start from reverie, and then get it to somewhere else. There isn't going to be any discovery in the back bin, for you, unless you start hopping. My whole aurora borealis, is a joke, at this point. Sin the zipboard into Fera’s, get a line on the board. The scrounging taxes, took a back lot, this year. Today is the day, I thought I was going to die/win. We're sitting, and trying to make connections/corrections, from life, to life. Expand experience, to include a few days of work, into your repertoires. Here comes somebody, carrying paper bags. Birch trees, somehow, look more fragile, than the other kind. Let us wake up, and do something, other than brush our teeth. That see and say game, is not going to work for you, here. Topple down the exit ramp, land in a heap, fulfill the axiom lingo. Humor is a drawn-faced man, or woman's, attempts to, "turn that frown, upside down." As little help as I provided, gives me an uncanny assurance, of being written out of the candy dancers. Our early morning arguments, don't do much to squish Sasquatch, as he rumbles through the early afternoon. Was it sleep, that came upon me, or a sort of blooming orchid? We sit in traffic, for hours. If it isn’t pretty, most people won’t see it. Let's disengage the handle from the pan, immediately. The gases accumulate in my mouth. We masturbate, a little too often. I no longer care, about anything. Take your only good pair of pants, off, before going to bed. Death is the real end, the windows then, close. We are all in some kind of high-end trouble, choke me, stroke me, don't forget to poke me, maybe, I'm alive. Invisible safety pins, hold the artifice of knowledge, together, repaint. This is slowly, all there is, lets go find some sand dollars, or starfish, somewhere, anywhere. These hours, be damned, this isn't any one way ticket, sexy. Be polite, be intrusive, be a bully, be a charmer. There are better things to do than prod your ass, at some home, nearby, and imagine how the other half lives. The cultivation of the cauliflower, should be done by next Thursday. Contribute to the fund, to reallocate funds, from such, and such, a charity, to such, and such, a rich man. Get longer, into the short stretch. Rejuvenate your hair follicles, and squirt some philophilus, into the ten year, high school reunion. Fun is picking up cigarette butts, after a few years in a solitary confinement, bad dream. There are no auras, and no gasses, and we're all out of wine. Swim to the captives, tell them to lighten up a little. A square plug of incense, burns longer, and brighter, than your ordinary brand. Signed letters, don't get sent from here, very often, no one can seem to believe, that anyone would actually take the time, to throw trash, on a ringleaders, stomping grounds. Make up a way to be solemn, and witty, at the same time. You've got a (kind of a) forehead. Don't forget about Zeus, and the porch, the partridge, the solitary scratchings, of someone, out of his mind. Crumple up the paper, and start again, lay down on your mattress pad, and close one eye. Will there be a piglet race, on the kitchen table, tonight? Don't think about her, if you're so inclined. The kids run by the house, just like I used to, that must mean that I'm, “that guy.” A treasury of insights, into the climb up the tree, for a thousand different reasons, which couldn't be climbed. Pace set a foray downtown, tonight, get your pleasure on the backseat, little ham hock. Do a four-corner bed, or whatever it's called. Think yourself a roly-poly, and dingo, tonight. Make up some excuses, to encourage, without getting involved. Who is this mistress, with the fresh air, and the big book? Fish on labels, can't swim, what's in the can? What do you “swear by”? Be fair, be fair, while being pushed down into the mud? There will continue to be vicious, and horrible, betrayals. We all want to attend the world's most glorious fair, or carnival, while in reality, we sit in our rooms, afraid to venture out. It’s all bullshit, done because it can, be done. I fucked the car, with vim, and vigor. Try to do something different, but all the while, keep in mind, that people are probably not going to like it. Ohio, is a long way, away. If you have a split seam, it is probably a sieve, with crushed ice falling out. We can do more for ourselves, than we let on, at present. The signs do not bode well, at all.
So many delicious, buttery, cookies, that to eat them, would inflame us, like the alcoholic woman, in rural Idaho. Stand aside, is all it takes, to get in that party tonight. Roll up your pants, and put a chicken in the oven, ‘cause this is gonna’ be an international, biscuit baking contest (of some kind). We need to invent a new place to go, to have fun. The study of so many different, and divergent, disciplines, ensures that you'll never fully know, any one of them. It was a year ago, today, that everyone died. The overall mood of this, is soon to change. I chose not to fall into your traps. The way you argue, says a lot about you, the way you smell, gives away a lot more. We’re getting ding donged, off the bell curve. Go into the kitchen, and take an inventory of each, and every, thing, in it. Be both! Underneath the overpass, and around, and around. How much for this car, squeezebox head? We're going out tonight, and if we wind up at the drool puddle, infirmary, so be it. The castle looked majestic, all lit up in the night. Practice what you're going to say, before you are required to say it, that way, when you're interrupted, there will be no coo-coo, sidewinding (wink, wink) maneuvers. Hopefully, we can get this teepee up, by nightfall. Here comes the romantic, carrying a bucketful of oil. The sketch book, is empty, we never really know if we're active participants, or ardent admirers. Try to curtsy, and curl out of the womb, a bit cleaner. Ducks have bills, in order to grasp their prey, easier. Idiocy, is a new sort of genius? Forlorn bystanders, can't recall what that one word was, that got everyone all riled up. Let them say what they will, who can ever really be sure, what the dumbfounded man, yelled? Everything is more expensive there, the dry cleaner, individually, staples those little paper tags, on each, and every, garment, the bank will probably not decide, to give me the loan. If you simply must masturbate, do so cleanly, and correctly. The label said something about there being numbers, cataloging, involved. We will fold the boxes, and put the ribbons on them, making everything look neat, and clean, and dainty. Skin is rotting off of you, right now, it is falling down, due to gravity, and eventually, it will reach the lowest point. Camouflage the fact that you have passion, power, influence, and desire, for, others, will not like you very much, if it's too obvious, that you are a positive person, who likes him/herself. Scratching, shifting, and wondering what's going on, is what most people do. No one will read it? Very well, then, no one will read it. The more concentrated, your attention becomes, the more you miss, elsewhere. Winding bass strings, wasn't/isn't, very satisfactory. No, I can’t say I’m happy, the disease is so damn thorough. You rest! Stuff those brooms into the closet. If you are too old to be a proper piece of the puzzle, just wear your matching outfits, and look cool all day. The mystery has been revealed, there isn't any. Shake the pen, as if that will allow the ink to somehow, dislodge, and move down to the point, like it's supposed to. Don't ever give up, or let the fact that it's impossible, make you despair. See, that's the challenge of the game. In the table of contents, can be found clues, in which to live a better life. Go down to the candle shop, and order a bunch of shit, with no intention of ever purchasing, any of it. Wasted dawn, comes earlier, and earlier, these days. What kind of dull drift, did you void? Don't ever catch yourself thinking about limousines, again. It's all grammar, sentence structure, and what you can do with it. Anything that I have "going on," is a direct result, of not having anything, of the kind. Once my neck is broken, I will type with my teeth. Muffin is doing just fine, without me. Drop down into a stumble. Just the general delirium, that I saw all around me, was the influence, most cited. The consequences, are the intentions. It is now time, to get it. Just burn along with the flame. Someone spoke Chinese, I fell out of the chair. I would like to be crazy, or crazier, because I think they have a lot more fun. Forgive them all, it’s the nature of the species. There is simply not enough time, allotted to us, to live the kind of life, that would be, as most people assume, satisfying. It is not that I intentionally, write in a off handed fashion, but I believe, that to transmit meaning, it needs a form, other than that in which it currently exists in. Things simmer, it takes a long time to get them heated up, and you can't rush, it takes it's own time, it's like the dog, taking you for a walk. I would rather be a person who makes other people's dreams, come true, than to have my own, brought to fulfillment. I will never be a lot of things, many things of which, I would like to be. It is possible to think that such, and such, a thing, or person, could bring all of one's dreams, to fulfillment, but it doesn't quite work out that way, we primarily, live in a world of delusion, illusion, confusion. It sounds like a familiar car engine, but it could be anybody. I wanted to unload myself, cure myself, get some troubling complexes, and perplexities, off my back. You've got to take bread, and make a sandwich with it, the sandwich can't make itself. Well, boring things, don't make good movies. That was a doozy, a little ditty, they come, and you'd better get them down, as fast as they do, or you're going to miss them. Everyone wants to be liked, it may be more in their best interests, to like (doodles of lawnmowers) themselves. Just throwing some ideas, into this so-called, arena, that I was afraid to enter into. Stampers, and die makers, boiler makers; have a zone they go into, all their own. Some people make it look so easy, but, it isn’t. The good stuff, leaked out. Give up on faith and hope, etc.
Most things, just don't work out, most jobs, you just aren't going to like. You, whoever you are, are never going to have as much money, as you would like to have, it is the hopeless dream. No work of art, properly constructed, will ever be finished. The diet drinks, aren't working. There is no, “going any higher.” No one really wants my help, they think I'm lazy. Be a doer, not a winner. Calculus is at the heart, of all applied sciences. The spotlights in front of the store, have burned out. Color coded dishes, make us feel alright. Being prepared, isn't just a slogan, or motto, anymore. Maybe they're looking at, or talking about you, but, such things, are doubtful. This is for sure, though, if they want, they can watch you, watching television, and they can hear you, listening to the radio. Look at your hands, with a hat full of memories. When you're down, no one cares, and why should they? The mix is so soft, in comparison to so many others. Don't be anybody's hero, or best man. Sew up the mouth, read the printing on the pen, and burn the empty shell. Yanked into, and out of, cars, for hours, we drag our own bodies, around. Sentimentality, is a one skyscraper town's, annual picnic. Hit yourself, until you learn. Investigate the things, that you, yourself, have made unclean or unclear. What is your goal? Deloused, debriefed, every day, seems the same. Needing help, just makes the helper, want to cream their own corn, that much more quickly. Perhaps, we can't reason our way out of a paper bag, we want you, to let us, leave you alone. Who the hell was it, you were secretly hoping, would choke to death? Use up all space. Regenerate electricity, thus, allowing things to be used, twice. How many times have I heard that I was carrying a lot of drinks in my hands? This all seems like someone else's, idea. Your alma mater, sends notice, that yes, indeed, the unstoppable, can be stopped. We don't really have any need, of most things. Some products sit on the shelves for months, before being purchased. Slip ups can't usually be heard, they usually have to be felt, or experienced. We want death to stop the pain, not the numbness. We are absolutely, positively, sick of the radio, and the songs they play, over, and over again. Intuited nightmares, can throw you out of bed, faster than some girlfriend's, husbands. Once your mind is lost, it can't be earned back, in order to be lost again. Start at the bottom, and work your way upwards. It’s designed. Whatever was on the clothesline, started to look more and more like a ghost. Backlash, backwash, I’m in great pain, I’m overly dramatic. Move, or stare, by the power of nervous instincts, we need a tripod. Crank it out, no complaints. When I end my life, it will be of my own free will, with a clear mind, and conscience. Memorialize the moments. Lean on, in. We need a little more than courage, around here. Of course, it is! Hot for/hit by, and the predictable floodgates, open, and close. She was so beautiful, that I didn’t think that she was real. Treat it as one thing, see if it fits in with the others. Collect dead animals, do spine research. The one who does all the cooking, can't sit around making lists, and trying to catch every ounce, or gram, on paper. If you don't use drugs, it might take you a long time, to learn your way through a breakthrough, or breakdown. The plants in the windows, serve as a reminder, that life has been brought, from the outside-in. Violence churns, in much the same way, as an empty stomach, does. Real love, is a smile, and a few other things, not to be forgotten. Get your inner tube out, if you still feel the need to keep afloat. The same kind of region, exists, down there, as exists, up here, and it's okay to sleep around, as long as you're not lead around, by who you're sleeping with. Go down, to come up with something. You better put your chef's coat on, help out more than you have, thus far. You are real to me, brand X. Now that you know how much time it's gonna' take, you'll see, what bizarre sights, there are, to see. Let it all rot, read it aloud, know who did it, let all the lies, crumble together. Climb the pastel tower, act twenty-five feet tall, don't you wanna get there, sooner? Vomiting, and death, have little to do with violence, per se. Everyone is mumbling, that they're fine. Affairs, begun under the influence of vast amounts of alcohol, do not last very long. Never again on the upstart, try to re-use the raw material, mold your life, like clay. Refuse a ride home, from someone who has been stalking, and/or sexually harassing, you. The pen is out of ink; glory be, what kind of faggot in the park, who will not be ignored? Late at night, the girls attend the party, troubled people, wind up becoming, very afraid. Lean into not allowing thoughts, to dictate your behavior to you. Find another person's leg, to scratch, never listen, there is no way to do it, other than by doing it. Your current frame of mind, is becoming very clear. Good enough for the buffalo’s, who always stop by? Some seminars are so lame-ass, stupid, that you can't even comment. You think too much, about the wrong things. Don't shit on your girl, or boyfriend, without good reason to. That’s the price you have to pay. Get out your tambourine, cause you're gonna' start dancing, and dancing, right here! There is going to be a renaissance, and it is going to start in the little blue room. Strategically avoid the void, get your bread on the side, go humdinger; you don't need any mentors, you need a reason to stay alive. Shall I scrub the toilet, again? Countdowns, documents, and resolutions, so what? The wind just tore the door off the barn, goes to show it can happen here, I guess. One ear is perked up, another one, flops. Turn into a pigeon.
Hide the bottles, nobody needs to know about that! Noses out of joint, can really happen, and they are painful to reset. Please tell me there isn't something wrong with my car, yet again. Tell me there wasn't yet another death, from some fool, playing in traffic. If you listen to the sounds of an animal, attacking it's prey, there is an order to their snaps, and growls. In this vial, industry, in this one, empathy, etc. We've all got cards, to indicate most things about us. Why I stayed asleep 'til noon, with better things to do, shocked, and oscillated, me. We'll keep getting orders, we'll punch ourselves in the face, we'll double up on the poll taxes, understand the freedom of information act, and more! Steep cliffs tilt off into forty-five degree angles, the furnace is killing us. You're well, you're fine, not white. Not another feces smearing, Lord? See, it's so much of the package, or parcel, that to lay any claim, or to state any kind of purpose, or philosophy, about it, would be like a goofy, kind of silly, wrong way to go. Get two, bitch, nothing came from the last time, what will come of the next? The globe is not on it's little perch. Fart into the stink. Swing it, literally, make a mistake. We're all sick of hearing about the tortures of the job, it's all torture, and doesn't matter, in the least, how much is supposedly, at stake. I am so tired, all the time. Ten minutes in the kitchen, could solve most of the problems of the random, unpredictable, screwy nature, of those words, and a few others. There are not going to be any trellises climbed, for a long, long time. Fringe benefits, make up a cushy, cushy set, or sets, of vibrators, funny, old, goofy, asses. To be, is to be complete, to not smash a vase, or fuck up a snot, mess up a gun, and all. What happened here? How is it, I never know how utterly talentless, I am? This is not going to work out, nothing has worked out. Just one step further...We need to know how much each one should cost. If I hit that basket with a hammer, what would happen? Nobody walks up to a stranger's house, and asks them if they'd like to see, so, get everything totally prepared, and ask, in advance. I believe in death, and graves, not the cheerful others. Where are we going to put our coins, now? No one is gonna' let me call. See, the thrill involves people stopping by, doing things, just stopping by. Oh, shit, yet another damn instance, of being passed-by. The important, shattered myths, are not going to allow me to eat any cheese, or, grate it! Someone said, “made to be fucked.” What is going on with my bowels? Get your ducks in a row, don't just allow two more years/tears, to pass by, don't. Twenty one year olds, are working at advertising agencies, while I am doing nothing...oh! The proper way to faint, is to grumble into the forlorn, change your pants, and twist. The badges were glued on the sash. We've got to go to the bank, other people are making big plans, that are going to get things done, while others lisp, and wonder, listen to the wind. Your hours of operation, have never been convenient for me. The most disgusting vision, was that of the full length mirror, and the pillow, no one should ever catch a glimpse like that one. Years of tangles, that can't be combed out, easy starts on cars, incomplete sentences, weird songs, about being fine. So much see and say, is involved, that to go on as soon as possible, is but a slipshod, into the next. There aren't going to be any noises around here, for a long time. What is the proper face, bone structure, gaunt, crushed lines, and a character? Meow, tired into a grumble, rotting milk shouldn't go down so smooth. Paint the fire (how is your mother?) hydrant’s, neon. It takes, what it takes. It was like rape. Slingshot the mixer, over to there. It will never stop. Move your head a little bit, shake out the cracks, and pins, needles, whatnot. He had an apiary on the roof of his apartment building. Drunk again, on fumes, discombobulation? The landlord owns most of the room you're attempting to profit on. Can you hear people listening? If that could be paid off in one year, there you go, rough health, slow down. Watch those stress levels, wind up that thread, enable your friends to continue using drugs, put the pork chops in the oven, plant flower bulbs, for the springtime. So many pencils, none of them, sharpened. Hurry through this magic, kind of, boots lost, thing. It did sound like a tick tock, constructed with piano strings, but I don't know. You'd better lay down, sort of, before you explode. Watch this space, for fabulous businesses, that will come, and go, with surprising regularity. The important things to demand, don't bite those photographs, they can't be replaced. Ride up, and down, your own minds, tubes. Industrious limbs, get fortified, and re-fortified, sometimes. Try nineteen! Never go down that street, there is no reason to go down that street. Push down the piles of IN, push down the agenda to...stay corrupt, stay in detention, drive the floor of the boat, upside up, or...Move the two gratings, all the way to Egypt, on a transcontinental flight. We don't want to know the gossip, we want to feel for you. The torture of the Cossack, the resurrection of the newborn, the collaboration of the disturbed. This is supposed to be a permanent record, of some kind? This has got to stop. Sometimes, the dead, speak through us. The heart, is a piece of shit.
There is a glamour of being off the chart, in terms of trouble, ennui, horror, grief, frustration, suffering, etc. In more than one way, I have wasted all of the time that can be wasted, before you really start to feel, "affected." Exuberant perceptions, are not occurring in my life, right now. We're all, each of us, exploited, in our own ways. A career, is an orifice, to be fiddled with. All aboard, the nervous system pull, and crunch! Some things are, or were, certain, in the mire. My "problems," are not real, they're put-on’s, of a particular kind, that I don't fully understand. Where there is nothing to do, I'm sure we could find a great many, things to do. Scratch a few vertical lines, into the surface of the table. Sleep is the cure? I don't know, or think, and don't care. Treason will be punished? Compromise, or don't, it doesn't really make any difference. Try our new self-consuming dentures! Monsters take their time, mistresses, do not. If your legs hurt, try one of our new hair colors. This office is not going to lead the lamb to slaughter. The war made a huge mess, go over there, and scratch it off. There are always going to be more important things to do, than work. When I think of all the things I don't want, that I formerly, did, I have to chuckle, a little bit. Give me six coffee's, please. The goal here, as elsewhere, is to communicate, without having to look at anyone's face. Those are human beings, they get free sex. I haven't yet had the chance, to do any detailed, bathroom cleaning. Everything is grey in here, except for the trail of blood. The Hindu with the long beard, and the oversize turban, would make an absolutely fabulous, interview subject. Practice the scales, and the notes, peripherally, and viscerally. You eat, only act, Yiddish! Perhaps, our nemesis, is not a scurve, but a crewer. Some sort of incurable illness, is assailing me, my esophagus. We should all be wearing breastplates! The show on depression, was great. The entire anti-historical past, has slid into the ditch, of exact times, exact dates. Just because I'm dead, doesn't mean I can't speak. California reminds me of a dead man's backyard. Don't lap at the trough full of turnips. Keep the fried Megan out, until it starts to smell. Libraries usually turn out to be more exciting, than counting tumors, libra bean spreads, exposed genital regions. This is not my idea of a thrill, Steve. Three drawers are open, and stuff is falling out. She had essential properties. No more midnight cereal. The mistake, was a philosophy? That's my water, you're wasting. And no, I'm not going to say anything about it. Everybody is acting curious, as to why you left. You are no big-wig, by any means. Sleeping at night, is boring. I should’ve called the book, Wrestling with the Toilet Seat. A chair, is likely to get smashed. Swish and spit, until the end of time. We went a little overboard. You won’t make it alone. The “new” silo’s, are over twenty years old. I love her. It’s total madness, pure ring-a-ding-ding. There is no such thing as old people, they are young, plus time. If you aren’t honest, you won’t last very long (that goes for you, too). They can tell, when you’re writing about them, and when you’re not. It doesn’t get any easier, ever. Where are we going to bury all these bodies? The golf courses. Try another spellcheck. It’s as descriptive as an empty pool, full of leaves. Sit very close to death. Make up for lost time, the old-fashioned way, fuck it. Get signatures, and phone numbers, for your alcoholic, Monsignor, look-alike contest. Perhaps we should kill everyone who has attempted to steal from us? Use the serrated edge, take your orders, rip each, and every, book you own, to shreads. What worse things, are going to happen to me? So cowardly, lazy, weak, I really had it made, when I thought I didn't, way back when. Who's gonna’ call who, on the phone? Press harder, where are my cigarettes? Chicken store, here I come! This total beauracracy, insists on a new application, to accompany the old forms; policies, and procedures, golden snippets, of pure phonics. Stop erasing, please! You're so imaginative, you're like a decoration. My sorrows, are as false, and put-on, as my joys. Increase your activity levels, exercise, clean the house, start your own advertising firm. Poison, or position, I just can't read Spanish? Who says we're innocent, until proven guilty, the blind statue? To my shock, a handful is all that is needed. Look at her go, dancing like an imbecile. Looking at the swamp, you'll never be convicted. The boat landing nudity, seemed like it would never end. The perfect little cherub, turning violent. It will take years, just to get this filing in order. Try a new tactic, survival. The riff-raff, fell behind, as fast as chalk could squeak. The factory was abandoned, some are guppies, some are salamanders. The tissues, from here, look like intestines. Every day, without fail, we get bored, and drive around. It’s alright? Things in boxes, that rattle, when shaken. It's been a long time, more. You worry about it. We’re melting into the chair, without scientific proof. Something beyond hate, and contempt, let's talk about death, alienation. Fresh as a little daisy, flower butt? Break for a commercial, look up the secret address, twirl, twirl! Be more than careful, when turning on the stove. Flit, stop letting them fuck you in the ass! We're all going suddenly, nuts, in here. So many (smells?) different kinds of sausage, pleasant feelings, calm feelings, meet General Havoc. You're your own kind of bunny, sweetie. Casual, not sloppy, slinky, not sexy. Type your own manuscript. These are not fantasy boy dreams, of glory, grandeur, and greatness. Don't get into that kind, of situation. Is this all really just goof off, and fool around, time? They would have thought you a maniac nut, had you sent that cryptic letter. This has all, gone hillbilly. Be stronger than shit, stranger than lice? Talk to the manager, act a little sly/sexy. What we need here, right now, are shapes, forms, chit-chat. There is nothing worse than being ill, and being unable to receive any treatment. There is no plan B, in case you're interested. If we were that, then I would be banished, to way over there. Presto goes the will-o-wisp, on an ordinary, overcast day. I felt so “country” today, that I bought a hat. The next book, will be just a re-write, of this one. We will never get along.
Our fortunes, are like variety candy boxes, with no little chart, to indicate what, is what, where, is where, and whatever the hell seemed so...oh, yeah, I'll turn the light off, in one minute. Try it while you can't see, and an hour and a half, after you woke up, wicked. Everybody's health, is faltering. Silence is a good enough change, to keep a few, twisted, thoughts, at bay. What you should be looking for, is a money-making entity, not a scourge of debt. I mean, think on, but do more, with what you think. I don't know anything, about anything, but I'd better learn, quick. It is as if you never went to college, for starters, it's as if you're seventeen years old. So, go from there, I mean, you're barely employed, anything is better than this. What a great day it is, maybe it'll wake you up, to what you've lost, as well as what you've got to go about, winning. Your mornings are open, these sketches, are those of an amateur, your situation is abominable, everyone is arguing, it is time to wake up. No one knows how the dead man, got up there. Try hate. It’s been five years since I took this to Mackiniac, K. Everything, has gotten worse. Catering, seemed good, while driving around aimlessly, in someone else's car, that I may have possibly, ruined. Flunk a year, in ten, what will it have mattered? This is it, this is the last attempt. What’s life, if you never get to the point? They were always wearing swimsuits, what did you expect? Go ahead, pussy foot. Some people are always there for others, and get a dribble back, in return. It can’t be Friday again, it just, can’t. I dislike my face. Just throwing something down, isn't going to get you off the bed, out of the house. Being too embarrassed to record something, is sure to slop you down, six yards. There is an eggplant to be stuffed, and if you don't stuff it, someone else, will. I have already topped out, in terms of salary, and I just started. It is past the time, to start moving, by now, you should have moved. It may not be quite possible, to become famous, for being a consumer of other people's goods, and services. Start from reverie, and then get it to somewhere else. There isn't going to be any discovery in the back bin, for you, unless you start hopping. My whole aurora borealis, is a joke, at this point. Sin the zipboard into Fera’s, get a line on the board. The scrounging taxes, took a back lot, this year. Today is the day, I thought I was going to die/win. We're sitting, and trying to make connections/corrections, from life, to life. Expand experience, to include a few days of work, into your repertoires. Here comes somebody, carrying paper bags. Birch trees, somehow, look more fragile, than the other kind. Let us wake up, and do something, other than brush our teeth. That see and say game, is not going to work for you, here. Topple down the exit ramp, land in a heap, fulfill the axiom lingo. Humor is a drawn-faced man, or woman's, attempts to, "turn that frown, upside down." As little help as I provided, gives me an uncanny assurance, of being written out of the candy dancers. Our early morning arguments, don't do much to squish Sasquatch, as he rumbles through the early afternoon. Was it sleep, that came upon me, or a sort of blooming orchid? We sit in traffic, for hours. If it isn’t pretty, most people won’t see it. Let's disengage the handle from the pan, immediately. The gases accumulate in my mouth. We masturbate, a little too often. I no longer care, about anything. Take your only good pair of pants, off, before going to bed. Death is the real end, the windows then, close. We are all in some kind of high-end trouble, choke me, stroke me, don't forget to poke me, maybe, I'm alive. Invisible safety pins, hold the artifice of knowledge, together, repaint. This is slowly, all there is, lets go find some sand dollars, or starfish, somewhere, anywhere. These hours, be damned, this isn't any one way ticket, sexy. Be polite, be intrusive, be a bully, be a charmer. There are better things to do than prod your ass, at some home, nearby, and imagine how the other half lives. The cultivation of the cauliflower, should be done by next Thursday. Contribute to the fund, to reallocate funds, from such, and such, a charity, to such, and such, a rich man. Get longer, into the short stretch. Rejuvenate your hair follicles, and squirt some philophilus, into the ten year, high school reunion. Fun is picking up cigarette butts, after a few years in a solitary confinement, bad dream. There are no auras, and no gasses, and we're all out of wine. Swim to the captives, tell them to lighten up a little. A square plug of incense, burns longer, and brighter, than your ordinary brand. Signed letters, don't get sent from here, very often, no one can seem to believe, that anyone would actually take the time, to throw trash, on a ringleaders, stomping grounds. Make up a way to be solemn, and witty, at the same time. You've got a (kind of a) forehead. Don't forget about Zeus, and the porch, the partridge, the solitary scratchings, of someone, out of his mind. Crumple up the paper, and start again, lay down on your mattress pad, and close one eye. Will there be a piglet race, on the kitchen table, tonight? Don't think about her, if you're so inclined. The kids run by the house, just like I used to, that must mean that I'm, “that guy.” A treasury of insights, into the climb up the tree, for a thousand different reasons, which couldn't be climbed. Pace set a foray downtown, tonight, get your pleasure on the backseat, little ham hock. Do a four-corner bed, or whatever it's called. Think yourself a roly-poly, and dingo, tonight. Make up some excuses, to encourage, without getting involved. Who is this mistress, with the fresh air, and the big book? Fish on labels, can't swim, what's in the can? What do you “swear by”? Be fair, be fair, while being pushed down into the mud? There will continue to be vicious, and horrible, betrayals. We all want to attend the world's most glorious fair, or carnival, while in reality, we sit in our rooms, afraid to venture out. It’s all bullshit, done because it can, be done. I fucked the car, with vim, and vigor. Try to do something different, but all the while, keep in mind, that people are probably not going to like it. Ohio, is a long way, away. If you have a split seam, it is probably a sieve, with crushed ice falling out. We can do more for ourselves, than we let on, at present. The signs do not bode well, at all.
So many delicious, buttery, cookies, that to eat them, would inflame us, like the alcoholic woman, in rural Idaho. Stand aside, is all it takes, to get in that party tonight. Roll up your pants, and put a chicken in the oven, ‘cause this is gonna’ be an international, biscuit baking contest (of some kind). We need to invent a new place to go, to have fun. The study of so many different, and divergent, disciplines, ensures that you'll never fully know, any one of them. It was a year ago, today, that everyone died. The overall mood of this, is soon to change. I chose not to fall into your traps. The way you argue, says a lot about you, the way you smell, gives away a lot more. We’re getting ding donged, off the bell curve. Go into the kitchen, and take an inventory of each, and every, thing, in it. Be both! Underneath the overpass, and around, and around. How much for this car, squeezebox head? We're going out tonight, and if we wind up at the drool puddle, infirmary, so be it. The castle looked majestic, all lit up in the night. Practice what you're going to say, before you are required to say it, that way, when you're interrupted, there will be no coo-coo, sidewinding (wink, wink) maneuvers. Hopefully, we can get this teepee up, by nightfall. Here comes the romantic, carrying a bucketful of oil. The sketch book, is empty, we never really know if we're active participants, or ardent admirers. Try to curtsy, and curl out of the womb, a bit cleaner. Ducks have bills, in order to grasp their prey, easier. Idiocy, is a new sort of genius? Forlorn bystanders, can't recall what that one word was, that got everyone all riled up. Let them say what they will, who can ever really be sure, what the dumbfounded man, yelled? Everything is more expensive there, the dry cleaner, individually, staples those little paper tags, on each, and every, garment, the bank will probably not decide, to give me the loan. If you simply must masturbate, do so cleanly, and correctly. The label said something about there being numbers, cataloging, involved. We will fold the boxes, and put the ribbons on them, making everything look neat, and clean, and dainty. Skin is rotting off of you, right now, it is falling down, due to gravity, and eventually, it will reach the lowest point. Camouflage the fact that you have passion, power, influence, and desire, for, others, will not like you very much, if it's too obvious, that you are a positive person, who likes him/herself. Scratching, shifting, and wondering what's going on, is what most people do. No one will read it? Very well, then, no one will read it. The more concentrated, your attention becomes, the more you miss, elsewhere. Winding bass strings, wasn't/isn't, very satisfactory. No, I can’t say I’m happy, the disease is so damn thorough. You rest! Stuff those brooms into the closet. If you are too old to be a proper piece of the puzzle, just wear your matching outfits, and look cool all day. The mystery has been revealed, there isn't any. Shake the pen, as if that will allow the ink to somehow, dislodge, and move down to the point, like it's supposed to. Don't ever give up, or let the fact that it's impossible, make you despair. See, that's the challenge of the game. In the table of contents, can be found clues, in which to live a better life. Go down to the candle shop, and order a bunch of shit, with no intention of ever purchasing, any of it. Wasted dawn, comes earlier, and earlier, these days. What kind of dull drift, did you void? Don't ever catch yourself thinking about limousines, again. It's all grammar, sentence structure, and what you can do with it. Anything that I have "going on," is a direct result, of not having anything, of the kind. Once my neck is broken, I will type with my teeth. Muffin is doing just fine, without me. Drop down into a stumble. Just the general delirium, that I saw all around me, was the influence, most cited. The consequences, are the intentions. It is now time, to get it. Just burn along with the flame. Someone spoke Chinese, I fell out of the chair. I would like to be crazy, or crazier, because I think they have a lot more fun. Forgive them all, it’s the nature of the species. There is simply not enough time, allotted to us, to live the kind of life, that would be, as most people assume, satisfying. It is not that I intentionally, write in a off handed fashion, but I believe, that to transmit meaning, it needs a form, other than that in which it currently exists in. Things simmer, it takes a long time to get them heated up, and you can't rush, it takes it's own time, it's like the dog, taking you for a walk. I would rather be a person who makes other people's dreams, come true, than to have my own, brought to fulfillment. I will never be a lot of things, many things of which, I would like to be. It is possible to think that such, and such, a thing, or person, could bring all of one's dreams, to fulfillment, but it doesn't quite work out that way, we primarily, live in a world of delusion, illusion, confusion. It sounds like a familiar car engine, but it could be anybody. I wanted to unload myself, cure myself, get some troubling complexes, and perplexities, off my back. You've got to take bread, and make a sandwich with it, the sandwich can't make itself. Well, boring things, don't make good movies. That was a doozy, a little ditty, they come, and you'd better get them down, as fast as they do, or you're going to miss them. Everyone wants to be liked, it may be more in their best interests, to like (doodles of lawnmowers) themselves. Just throwing some ideas, into this so-called, arena, that I was afraid to enter into. Stampers, and die makers, boiler makers; have a zone they go into, all their own. Some people make it look so easy, but, it isn’t. The good stuff, leaked out. Give up on faith and hope, etc.
Most things, just don't work out, most jobs, you just aren't going to like. You, whoever you are, are never going to have as much money, as you would like to have, it is the hopeless dream. No work of art, properly constructed, will ever be finished. The diet drinks, aren't working. There is no, “going any higher.” No one really wants my help, they think I'm lazy. Be a doer, not a winner. Calculus is at the heart, of all applied sciences. The spotlights in front of the store, have burned out. Color coded dishes, make us feel alright. Being prepared, isn't just a slogan, or motto, anymore. Maybe they're looking at, or talking about you, but, such things, are doubtful. This is for sure, though, if they want, they can watch you, watching television, and they can hear you, listening to the radio. Look at your hands, with a hat full of memories. When you're down, no one cares, and why should they? The mix is so soft, in comparison to so many others. Don't be anybody's hero, or best man. Sew up the mouth, read the printing on the pen, and burn the empty shell. Yanked into, and out of, cars, for hours, we drag our own bodies, around. Sentimentality, is a one skyscraper town's, annual picnic. Hit yourself, until you learn. Investigate the things, that you, yourself, have made unclean or unclear. What is your goal? Deloused, debriefed, every day, seems the same. Needing help, just makes the helper, want to cream their own corn, that much more quickly. Perhaps, we can't reason our way out of a paper bag, we want you, to let us, leave you alone. Who the hell was it, you were secretly hoping, would choke to death? Use up all space. Regenerate electricity, thus, allowing things to be used, twice. How many times have I heard that I was carrying a lot of drinks in my hands? This all seems like someone else's, idea. Your alma mater, sends notice, that yes, indeed, the unstoppable, can be stopped. We don't really have any need, of most things. Some products sit on the shelves for months, before being purchased. Slip ups can't usually be heard, they usually have to be felt, or experienced. We want death to stop the pain, not the numbness. We are absolutely, positively, sick of the radio, and the songs they play, over, and over again. Intuited nightmares, can throw you out of bed, faster than some girlfriend's, husbands. Once your mind is lost, it can't be earned back, in order to be lost again. Start at the bottom, and work your way upwards. It’s designed. Whatever was on the clothesline, started to look more and more like a ghost. Backlash, backwash, I’m in great pain, I’m overly dramatic. Move, or stare, by the power of nervous instincts, we need a tripod. Crank it out, no complaints. When I end my life, it will be of my own free will, with a clear mind, and conscience. Memorialize the moments. Lean on, in. We need a little more than courage, around here. Of course, it is! Hot for/hit by, and the predictable floodgates, open, and close. She was so beautiful, that I didn’t think that she was real. Treat it as one thing, see if it fits in with the others. Collect dead animals, do spine research. The one who does all the cooking, can't sit around making lists, and trying to catch every ounce, or gram, on paper. If you don't use drugs, it might take you a long time, to learn your way through a breakthrough, or breakdown. The plants in the windows, serve as a reminder, that life has been brought, from the outside-in. Violence churns, in much the same way, as an empty stomach, does. Real love, is a smile, and a few other things, not to be forgotten. Get your inner tube out, if you still feel the need to keep afloat. The same kind of region, exists, down there, as exists, up here, and it's okay to sleep around, as long as you're not lead around, by who you're sleeping with. Go down, to come up with something. You better put your chef's coat on, help out more than you have, thus far. You are real to me, brand X. Now that you know how much time it's gonna' take, you'll see, what bizarre sights, there are, to see. Let it all rot, read it aloud, know who did it, let all the lies, crumble together. Climb the pastel tower, act twenty-five feet tall, don't you wanna get there, sooner? Vomiting, and death, have little to do with violence, per se. Everyone is mumbling, that they're fine. Affairs, begun under the influence of vast amounts of alcohol, do not last very long. Never again on the upstart, try to re-use the raw material, mold your life, like clay. Refuse a ride home, from someone who has been stalking, and/or sexually harassing, you. The pen is out of ink; glory be, what kind of faggot in the park, who will not be ignored? Late at night, the girls attend the party, troubled people, wind up becoming, very afraid. Lean into not allowing thoughts, to dictate your behavior to you. Find another person's leg, to scratch, never listen, there is no way to do it, other than by doing it. Your current frame of mind, is becoming very clear. Good enough for the buffalo’s, who always stop by? Some seminars are so lame-ass, stupid, that you can't even comment. You think too much, about the wrong things. Don't shit on your girl, or boyfriend, without good reason to. That’s the price you have to pay. Get out your tambourine, cause you're gonna' start dancing, and dancing, right here! There is going to be a renaissance, and it is going to start in the little blue room. Strategically avoid the void, get your bread on the side, go humdinger; you don't need any mentors, you need a reason to stay alive. Shall I scrub the toilet, again? Countdowns, documents, and resolutions, so what? The wind just tore the door off the barn, goes to show it can happen here, I guess. One ear is perked up, another one, flops. Turn into a pigeon.
211
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…
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…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)