070

Self absorption, meaning, too many, things, and, the end. There is some kind of silly, carnival, are you going, to go? No, ma’am, I don’t want to, “hit the doobie.” Don’t burn out, like jet fuel, on a canvas, of blue sky, on a pleasant, summer’s, day. Of course, the tanker, overturned, our worst fears, were realized, what else, could, happen? The roller coaster, needs to be disassembled, they raise the prices, on books, and justify, charging, ten, to twenty, times, more, by putting a new, colorful, cover, on it. I am God, and you, will obey me! Back when I wore an earring, people, must have wondered, what the hell, I was doing. There is too much, too many places, to hide. Soggy, wet, drippy, stinky, we’re bulleted, and buffeted, fished out, wasted. The east wind, is blowing, about, nine miles, an hour, the tape, has been, cued, the regulators, are after me, the health code, was violated. Right now, I’d be happy, just to be let back, on the bus. As a species, we should stop acting, like, parameciums. The clank, reminded me, of contractions, of the fog. What I did, during my, most recent, blackout, seemed to go, well. This is not, sex. Perhaps, in the not, too, far off, and distant, future, I will begin to use, that black bag, for carrying shit, around in, again. Sell off, all your panties (there is some, fabric softener, fixation, happening). The moping, got to be too, abstract, too, ridiculous. We pissed, on the wrong tree, I guess. Too many, cavity searches, confidence, gone, lost. The people, just love, the free samples, but, they never, buy. My voice, sounds, double tracked, I think my spine, was chinked. There is nothing, that I really, want to, see. We picked up the corpse, and put it in the back, of the van, it smelled, horrible. The number, five, reminds me, of a penis, that has been severed, put through a meat grinder, and spread, on a counter. On, we moan, bitch, cry, and wish, and not, one whit, of difference, does it, make. This is an all purpose, piss, up a rope, it is not meant, for official/internal, use. Another pair of socks, ruined, but, who the hell, cares? We are working on, a gingerbread house, one, that can’t be, huffed, and puffed, down. Stop grooving, your head, back, and forth. A snowstorm, for the first day, of spring. Retire, play the cello, murder, spread topsoil, don’t sleep, forever. Suddenly, people, are reminded, of, James K. Polk! Smart people, don’t/can’t/won’t, do, what I, do. Money, is hard, to come by, I think the anger, and rage, are real, this time. The paintings, were, identical. Tap into the lawn, like oysters, on the half shell. Don’t look back, yet, however, tempting, it might, be. The stove, is an oven! Tsk, tsk, tsk, in regards, to, that. This isn’t, very much, like returning, recyclable, cans. Thick bursts, of transom. Most everything, I read, winds up, being, heavily, underlined. At some point, I lost, all control. Damn it all, to hell, the goal, is to, produce. Leave the forklift, over by the crushed, paper boxes. Well, I’m embarrassed, about my life, but, I refuse, to do anything, to change, it. More than anything, else, my writing, must improve. And, what I want, to do, what I, really want, to do, is (so, late, and, so what?)… Can these problems, I’m having, be identified, and solved? One, strange, flake, will drift, asymmetrically, downward. As I, age, I become, stiffer, yet, softer, which is, to say, that, all of the…are not being, adequately…There need, to be, things, happening, that don’t, usually, happen. Don’t give the dog, too many, treats, you’ll make him, sick. The optional, can be done, between, four, and eight, P.M., as can, a lot of other, things. Nobody, is going to help me, get through, these difficult, difficult, times. I’m almost, like the guy, with the cellophane. Well, she’s a woman, now, but, not likely, to be attracted, to ex-cons. This escape behavior, isn’t working. The soap, is shaped, like a skull, the bacteria, is attracted, to my body. So, short of breath, now, is the time! My body, is getting ready, to swell, and burst. We just, don’t have, the ratings. Lately, the self destructive, stuff, has… Damn you, for damning, me. What was that phone call, about the, group room, all about? We, just, suddenly, decide. Yuck, yuck, yuck, hardy-har-har… They all, wake up, eventually. Do not, let yourself, become, like the repeat function, on a jambox, from, 1986. The destination, keeps getting, fart her, away. It happened, in the car, we, watched. No one, can figure me, out, neither, can I, not that, I don’t, try, and, not that, anyone else, would, either. It might, already, be time, to vacuum, again. On the floor, is a free invitation, to some function, I won’t be, attending… the luge, of impulsivity? It’ll take, a few hundred, more, years. Five, will get you, six.
After fouling up, everything, he goes out, to find something, else, to do. I demand, of myself, a real life, or, death, forever. We are driven, taunted, by, ourselves. May the feeling, or, lack, thereof, of being, totally, and absolutely, alone, never, strike, you. Like a poor man, down to his last dime, time, slows, then, stops. The two of us, felt like, nobody else, when we were with, each other, now, we just, feel, like, nobody’s. The millionaire, next-door, just, died. Raising the ban, seems like, a waste of time, to me. So, what about, your, problems? Day-glow, colors, are being, unknowingly, ingested, you know, what I, mean. The taboo, against, fucking, even if, they want you, to, is a strong, one. What wonders, our eyes, have seen, and nothing, can compare, to a dressing table, kicked, or, pulled, over. I’m tired of the smell of shellfish, candy flavored, lip gloss, lost, and found, anything! I don’t even, squeeze you, anymore. It’s always, about, twenty dollars, and change. Over by the tree, I always piss, at/near/on, is a little note, a note, that says, please, don’t urinate here, which makes me, wonder, long, and hard. Don’t make me, dry heave, into you, baby, I’m all out, of juice. Slowly, the sounds, sink in, to our spines, from there, they enter into, our, electrochemical, makeup. Make sure, there are plenty, of good, clean, strokes, and that there is plenty (enough), to go, around. The long, or, short, version? Prepare, to be, not quite, maimed. People’s, wide circles, seldom, intersect. Either, the dry cleaner, did a shitty job, or, the stains, are permanent. Scurvy, incontinent, impotent, isolated, adorable, deplorable, unquenched (whoo-whee), insubordinate, torched. We’re nowhere, near, the end, we thought, that we were in love, but, we were, wrong. The interview, led me, to become, a dorky, fuzzy, lime, cardboard, crushed ice, what is this, what have we, found? Are those, ghosts, currently, attempting, to sodomize, me? Should I do that ghetto, trick, with the TV, antenna? What good, will it do me, to meet the marble bust, of whoever, that you keep, on your mantel? The process, of making a life, for (yes, yeah) oneself, providing, for ones, family, is, inhumane. It is, as if, my drug use, and abuse, is escalating, that’s the only way, to describe, these troubles, that are assaulting me, high, and low, right now. I got so drunk, that I, wasn’t myself, and I talked, to women. The unbearable, or…there are too many, commercials, far, far, too many. The end, is near, not, of the world, my, end, so, breathe a sigh, of relief. We expect, a golden penis, to be slipped in, instead, it’s a cold fish. We are alone, no matter how many people, are yelling, at us. Eventually, they nailed me, at that, last, place; so, perhaps, not, perhaps, not. The walls, come down, but, only, to be, built back, up, again, with invisible bricks, which are, much more, strong, and durable. Sometimes, things, happen, and, sometimes, they don’t. Some people, have nothing better to do, absolutely, nothing better, to do, than to argue, about whether, or, not, Lake Champlain, is a, “Great Lake.” Break every rule, demand, that a candle, be lit, in your honor, these pellets, feel like, bb’s. Clyde, drives, with two, fat men, in the car. It is important to crush, smooth out, and, re-crush, the packages, that we thought, were garbage, they were, not. It wasn’t me, that threw out, all of the lists, it wasn’t me, who stole, the salt, and pepper, shakers. I don’t even know, what a wench, is! There is going to be a press conference, to explain, why, it was not, done, or, rather, what the hell, maybe, I’ll tunnel myself, to the ravine. Her farts, didn’t smell like incense, but, I was, hooked. Go to the, “Beef Room.”