067

I am more boring, than you, stoner girl, who I wanted to fuck, but, didn’t. Every month, I have to introduce myself, to people, I’ve met, before, sort of. It’s covered, in meat sauce. They could never, understand, what I meant. Let me lick your feet, during, prayer time. Slime, covered my, entrails. We’re encouraged, to conform, keep quiet. I drove in the country, for hours, the guest, in the car, didn’t appreciate, my poor, sense of direction. It is time to stop (moving, with difficulty), pretending. Too much oil, was spilled, or, sprayed, on the divan. Sensuous voices, channel themselves, the cornucopia, of slammed eggs, corrupted me. The…as I, age, I get stiffer, but, also, softer. Remain pensive, but, fuck, anyone, and everyone, you can, because, the time, will be upon you, shortly, when you won’t even, be able to do it, anymore. Even though, it’s considered, rude, there are people, who possess qualities, so as, to make it, impossible, to take your eyes, off of them. It seems to me, as if this book, needed to be, sung (I can’t sing). The greatest thing, in the world, is for a lonely man, to catch a glimpse, of skin, with his wayward, wandering, eye. When I worked in floral design, I would get so wound up, that I would take a sledgehammer, to the walls. Sensuality, is a camera trick, that should be made, illegal. It takes an awful lot, of money, to break free, in any way, most of us, are forced, to stay, right where (and, who), we are. This dark, gothic, staircase, I’ve stumbled, down, isn’t allowing me, to crawl back, out of it. My own ghost, just told me, to quit smoking, I told it, to leave me, alone. You’re going out with me, fluffer, and not on an angle, I’m the only one, here. It was real, I’m telling you, it was real. They find me, to be an interesting diversion, nothing more. The misanthropes, spit in my shoes, and took my money. I saw you, put (nw, I’m really, old) olive oil, on there. No more, nimies! The ellipses, may lead up, your ass. The stick, has (you need, some, arm support) been, waved, flung, hurled. From the herd, comes, hurt. That last gasp, and clench, the flushing, of the cheeks, mmm, well, we do, what we do, to get, what we get, out of it. A death, can really, interrupt, your weekly, plans. No soliciting, no appointment, necessary. The drunks, hit the streets, they frolic, and flop, here, and there, and enjoy themselves, due to my arrest, and conviction, I’ve got to stay, in. In my dream, a giant, inflatable, Ben Franklin, tried to fondle, my breasts. Argentina, is one, of those, many places, that I don’t care, if I ever get, to see. The…or, at least, my own, masturbative, tendencies, don’t ever go, away. Despair, is always, there, so are all the words, and phrases, that conjure up, similar images, because of that fact, they don’t matter, which, is to say, that they needn’t affect you, at all. The last time I got, drunk, I woke up, with saran wrap, around my dick, which I had, evidently, pissed in, so…it wasn’t, my, bed…still, the…look, put a lid, on it. The sex act/performance, with the spoon, was more than, my favorite, if that makes, any sense. I went to high school, in two places, at once, in Wauwautosa, Wisconsin, I was a, superstar. They shouldn’t look like giants, to you, they only look, big, they probably, aren’t. Man, being behind schedule, is an absolute killer, it is, in no way, wholesome. Don’t ask me to eat chicken, just because it’s already been, killed, so, someone, might as well, eat it, what’s the matter, with you? I was there, before most of you, were even born, don’t, yell at me. The banquet hall, was torn down, to make way, for a golf/putting, course. Well, I guess, what I was, doing, what I was attempting, to do, was, to swim, across the top, of the desk…I (need treatment) don’t know how well, it worked. I had no idea, how ugly, that I was, until, I heard those young, teenage, clerks, at the shoe store, talking about me, after they thought, I had, left. The truth, does, hurt. I said, antiseptic, Goddamn you! I am crime, dusk, crops, discord. Lust, freely. Don’t overwhelm, the help. Fuct, with a “t,” on the sidewalk. Yu ar so pink, so, real.
The world is flat, it was flattened, in ’82, or, ’88, I don’t, quite, remember. It is gone, it doesn’t make much sense, to mourn, now. Consumption, is a disease, without a treatment. I can’t seem to bend, the way I need to, bend, in order to do, what I need, to do. My hair, is white, my arms, are flabby, I’m depressed, have bad knees, and the surgery, wasn’t exactly, a success. When I was young, I thought that things, sucked, but, that, somehow, I would, find a way, now, I am old, never found a way, and not only, do things, still, suck, they have gotten, worse. When I did fire restoration, I would, sometimes have to spread lye, over the spots, in the burned out, houses, where people, died. The exit, of the party, is the most exciting part, all, ha-ha, and, we’ll see ‘ya, next time. My knees, are shot, I had an affair, with a school teacher, in 1966. All that matters, is sex, we say, that other things, do, but, all we really, care about, certainly, what we want, the most, is kinky, pervy, wild, crazy, sex! My life, is like a wrestler, in trouble. My intense desire, for weird, slurping sounds, isn’t going away, nor, will it. Too much lip, or, not enough, to be immobile, might, just, be, the worst thing, that came from, the accident. I must write the scene, that concerns, at least, some parts, regarding, the return, to the college town. Insanity, by its very nature, is a revolving, phenomenon, sometimes, there, sometimes, not. It’s the money, I want, not, the fame. It wasn’t the liquor, that made us do, what we, did. There is no sweet, smell, quite as, sexy, as sweat, in an armpit. Connived, convinced, way off base, with your partial, acts? And you, will play the oboe. The his, and her, towels, were a spectacular, illusion. The mixed signals, we receive, don’t allow us, the decision making, function/ability, of stopping, going, or, even, yielding. My coma, of the soma, is coming to an end. When I used to steal radios, I never questioned, why, I was doing, what, I was doing. Pumpkin, wasn’t willing, neither was, what’s her name, focus, on the present. Don’t forget to swallow, all of your pills, before bed! The doctor says, I’ve got six months, to live, believe me, when I tell you, that this is no joke (not to, me, anyway). Don’t let the house, burn down, because you’re not sure, if your soap opera, characters, are acting, believable, enough. I’ll end up, doing, exactly, what she, did. Add, until you can’t add, anymore. Ask a stranger, what size shoe, they wear, it’s one of those mystery questions, that gets conversations, started. The Star of David, itself, attacks me, in the shower. It will never happen. Use more, butter. I’m not fond, of it. In 1977, I made those vases, with my own, two, hands. My wife’s armpits, are so hairy, that we play this game, called, “baboon time.” Once, I started sobbing, so uncontrollably, that I had to be taken away, in an ambulance, once at the hospital, I had fits of laughter, that got so out of hand, that I had to be taken down to the ground, put in a straight jacket, and stored, in a room. Bellybutton depth, has to do, with something, I don’t know, what, but, it means, something. If you’re lucky enough, to have a choice, take the one, in red, or, at least, a reddish, color. Build things, just to smash them. When I used to walk around, more than ten years, ago, over there, my memory, was on, record, and nothing, that my eyes, saw, could ever be forgotten…it could be displaced, for awhile, but, never, ever, forgotten. Now, I can die, I mean, catch up, with you. It may be, time, to start believing, in ourselves. This is my last, great, try. All I have to remember them, by, is a music box. The problems, all compound, and get, worse. Flatten a surface, explore the surface, smash a dairy product.