071

I think, some of this, is good, but, I don’t know, can’t tell! The old man, pissed his pants, at the bar, another man, threw a glass, breaking the mirror. It’s all grime, food, and ashes, at the diner, these days. Get someone else, to do this, shit. From now, on, it is my intention, to act Jewish, for a lot of reasons, and none, at all. People, can usually, tell, I’m not on the straight, and narrow, ledge, quite, quickly. My favorite jackets, keep getting, ruined, not, “a little, worn out,” but, ruined. I think there is frosting, on my boot, and, I can’t figure out, how it got, there, I haven’t been near, any, frosting. Let me understand, that polymer coating, of yours. Get your big, neck, refitted, maybe, we are, darlings, maybe, we are, freaks. Strapless, strapless (we know, about the rhombus, and octagon). Please, no more of those, half, barking, noises. Whatever, this, might have been, at one time, it, most certainly, isn’t, anymore. Everything looks good, from afar, heads bleeding, and blending, into bodies, and so on. At least, we have, decadence, that’s, one, thing. Ride out the influxes, of color, soon, there will be shapes, and feels, little, plastic, dog-men, come to life! That hat, looks like one of Grandma’s, rose bushes (who used to own, that, one, house). Don’t lie, about the parking lot, attendant. She thought, that she’d go grocery shopping, with a pencil, up her ass, for some reason. These songs, of the whales, I, I…understand, them. We’ve gotten that (this), far… We are all, just, stuck, in our lives. You will take your medication, or, else. I was speaking, in tongues, nobody, was listening. We can endure, much worse, than this. The pumpkins, are the same, every year. Oh, my gosh, a really, crazy, butt, or pair, of buttocks, appeared, to me. Don’t be, the least bit, intimidated. My, the smell, of that filter, ugh! Window peekers, go away. There could be, sort of, a town, in that picture, I drew. All these bite marks, on the pens, every pen, the incisors, get their work done. Some bands, have better, background vocals, than, others, I think, this is, some kind, of secret. The paper, this paper, right here, looks like a mirror, with cocaine, on it, to me, always. This is more, than a short stretch, into indecency, stay suspicious; of what is in, your neighbor’s, basement. What we don’t know, is what’s, got us, what’s keeping us, down, out, here, there. Whatever it, is, is, devastating. Write on this paper. Patch, the disaster, when I saw you up there, on that stage, looking, the way you, did…I had to stalk you, and I know, that, deep down, you understand. Shit, like a worm, for all I care, undress. I can’t do this, anymore I want to, no more! Nothing will be remembered, that I, did. There used to be ants, in this house, long ago, it was quite a problem, then, all of the sudden, they disappeared, rather mysteriously, I might, add. I can’t even, look, at it, anymore. There is a gun, to your (if you don’t write it down, it’s gone) head, what, now? Let go, of my, nderpants. Now, drink! The dream, of clean, wood, will soon, be realized, like some, forgotten, revelation. I can’t even describe, any of this, I mean, it can get to be, so, bad… The two, connected. What have I, done? Yeah, yeah, frustration, discontentment, blah, blah. I’m fittin’, to piss. Erratic, behavior! I can’t make up my mind, about the, apostrophes. Let them (the car, wa, crushed) feel, the straps. We’re on the lowest, common, denominator. See, I got up too early, in the morning, to be doing, this. Ants, can’t get into, the canned, food, my melancholy, is fueled, by various, hungers, for things, I can’t, have. I haven’t hit any raw nerves, or, any kind of nerves, at all, I’m just a fat, tired, sick, crazy, half-man, who can’t seem, to get his life, together. These are not good, positive, feelings, that I’m having, at this point. My anger, is like a leaking, tire, no, a blowout. If I were to go over, to some, office building, not only, would I be, laughed, out of the office, but, probably, escorted, out of the building, as well. Let the pets, settle into, their chosen, spots. Was it, moss? Motivation, and energy, and the lack, of those qualities, is why, I am, or, am not, where, or where, I’m not, where I’m, supposed to, be. Things, like getting to class, on time, were not important, to me, in fact, not very much, was, at all, way back, then. Oh, sure, I clowned, but I didn’t think that I’d ever be recognized, again, that didn’t turn out, to be the case. The crazy, white boy, got kicked out of class, for good. Something happened, over by the woods, last night. One thing, we need, is money. They piss, and shit, wherever they want to. It feels like, a rocket.
Try to get this point, across, that there is, no, point. We live, too safely. Shit, is definitely, adding up, now, well, not anymore. With all the money, that’s at stake, you’d be stupid, not to, try. I slipped off, the rope! My head, is a sponge, yours, is the water, hers, was the soap. I want to tear off my own pants, and ravage myself, seeing as, how, nobody else, is all too, eager, to do so. The need for sleep, gets in the way, of too many plans, of mine. The moment of conception, feels like snagging, a football, at a professional, baseball game. The car companies, were the responsible parties, for the removal, of the street cars. Wrestle your way, out, from wherever, you began,. at. By the time you’re thirty, if it hasn’t happened, it isn’t, ever, going to. Who could forget, the cold touch, of those stainless steel, tables, at 5:30 A.M.? Lately, I spend all my time, smoking cigarettes, and forging, various, forms. I happen to be, your ear, not a fig, that you muscle, and pick at. Leave your fears, outside, the lean to, or, fallout shelter. The cobwebs, are still, up there, right where they, belong. Keep plugging those holes, pogo boy. They were a perfect, handful, from three hundred feet, away, it seemed like it, anyway. This is one hell of a weave, I’m in, I feel like, a beehive haircut. My, “vigilante era,” got me about as far, as the restaurant, and back. Perhaps, we should bring our crossbows, Don. Do you remember that time, I was, silly, acting, silly, saying, silly things? Whoa, I just got roped off, by the air molecules, in this room. Please, put your socks, back on, this is not some, sex gymnasium. Stand there, in front of the post office, waving a toothbrush, or, screwdriver. We are going to the thrift store, and that is the end, of it. I need, yet, another, surgery, now, people are talking to me, through the heating grate, taking pictures of me, through my bedroom, windows. This is like a lilting, Alaskan, summer. 1989, was about, hard drugs, but, then, the coma, well, 1989, was sort of like, a coma, too. We can only sing, in Spanish, we can only take, baths, there’s just, something weird, about the shower. Help me get my grip strength, back, after my stroke, when it happens. The shirt, makes up, only, one part, of the makeshift, desk. Vertical lines, horizontal lines, droning noises, interspersed, with breaks/beats, that, kick in, then, go off, at will. Lately, I’ve seen way too many, car crashes, which tells me, that I’ve been out there, too much. I think, that I’m going to wind up, falling asleep, before I finish, what I need to, finish. Waking up, at 2:30 P.M. day, after day, shitting, too much, eating, peanut butter, day, and night, when I promised myself, I wouldn’t eat it, anymore. This is the tender side, of serrated. My neck, is like a dick. People leave their homes, now. Everything, has become, too easy, there is too much, idleness, no productive, thought. They live off the thrills, we’ve never had, one. It doesn’t seem, right. I lay here, just, lay here. My own mortality, I thought, I faced it, already, I was mistaken, you never, really, face it, until, you really, face it. The scratchers, get all the bones, the diggers, and scratchers, find all the truffles, you have to be down, in the dirt, really, really, down, in order to climb the trees. Today, was supposed to be, payday, it wound up, being, yet, another one, of my, “I don’t care, anymore,” monologues. Someone, told me, today, that Mexico, had recently, been, neutered. The story of the day, is lost, on me, as are, many things, that shouldn’t, be. The suitcases, have been packed, if you catch my, drift. We’ve got to move, all that shit, around. The gum, is on your pants.
Last chance, this is my, last chance, at this. I went to keep a diary, of my bowel movements, with (green/ blue) photographs, and written, commentary. The blueprints, were wrong, torn, bewildering. This has to be, great, and, it just, isn’t. Willpower, is in short supply, and, it’s all, that’s needed, now. The university, shall remain, nameless, nobody needs, to know. The uncanny feeling, of envy, keeps me up, to catch the late show, and has, for years. My own dandruff, makes me, sneeze. The name of the game, is, work, and, it never, stops, nor, should it. I just, can’t resist, those teenage smells, like that time I stumbled, drunk, into the wrong, locker room. I saw all, that she had, to offer. There will be, a lot more, loneliness. The entire Province, is on fire, or, under water, either/or. Give the puppy, a squeeze! The word, no, is so, familiar. Tuesday, is for sex, Wednesday, for the hand, Thursday, I forget, Friday, nevermind. Reach, way over there, for that book, by that, dead guy. Sometimes, what we need, is an extra strength, antacid, that hasn’t been invented, yet. There is no more, glee, we don’t have a decoder. The obsessive, want it, the compulsive, get it, both, to be/have, both, is a blessing, indeed. When we absolutely, can’t wait, one second, longer, we’re informed, that we have not, yet, begun, to wait, and are shuttled off, to another, line. And I feel, so gloved. What is this shit, knock it off. Such delicate, mushrooms, need to be handled, very carefully. Too many different minds, come together, in the hardware store, for it to be a pleasant, experience. Keep your important papers, hidden, in the kold kooler, fruit/vegetable, bins, of your refrigerator. Please, don’t ask me to play, funny/sexy, with your tuna, anymore. The tears, of students, dry up, quickly, those, of a forty year old, never stop, flowing. The pie, was divided, cut; we only had to count, and take that away, from what was, left. Assume, that they’re, asleep. There is no, professionalism, anymore. There is no (this could, push it, over, one thousand), you, and I. The madness, of this, must end, soon. Like the faintest, of notions… Make a big enough, dent, or, gash, in a wall, or, a head, and it will be there, forever. We’re designed, to crash, hard. Fill up, the air (load, radio). I got kicked out, of the all you can eat, buffet, for gorging. Please, let me (we want, to know), snap out, of it. We’re stubborn, and obstinate. Why is my life, out of control, now? Don’t attempt, any of your subtle, tricks, to influence the outcome, they won’t work, this time. Settle the debts, get the properties, up to code, you, know, that they will pass the extra costs, down to us, consumers. Ella, give me your, beaver! If I put on those girl’s, underpants, what’s in it, for me? I’ve fallen down the mountain, just like, everybody, said that I, would. I tried to hide evidence, of some of my past dalliances, of course, it didn’t work out, very well. Thank you, for destroying the papers, that needed to be, destroyed. What is needed, is a job, but, as usual, that, is not seen, as a, pressing matter, even though, it is. Did I, stuff all that clothing, into the closet, that way? In a way, I’m an assassin, but, certainly, not, a good, one. To the bald, take heart, new procedures, and techniques, to rob you of your money, are being developed, every day. Well, sure, if I look back, there have been a lot of fuck-ups, but, I don’t have to look back. The thrill of the ride, in the big car, is gone. In the sawmill, I had so many drives, and ambitions, to rise to the top, that I was quickly, laid off. When I cut meat, one, good thing, came from it, and that’s, that I don’t eat meat, anymore. I don’t care, who wins, which bowl, or cup, there are plenty of those, in the cupboard, to go around. I stopped speaking in clichés, at some point, and, by doing so, I found, that I’ve stopped talking, altogether. Things can, “happen,” in the home, things, you wouldn’t, count on, expect, desire. Don’t deceive, yourselves, fool, others. I just, don’t think, all that, well. More than anything, else, writing this book, has made me, the craziest. Don’t pretend, to be, blind.
Life, as it, has been, set up, is for, work, there is nothing, that can be done, to change, that. Stare (why resist?)! This is a monstrous, calling (of some kind). There is no time, to, “slowly, build up your confidence,” it’s too late, you have to, have it. Try it, and see, it doesn’t matter, what it is, you’ll never know, until, you try, so, do it. Although it seems like, I’m awake, right now, I am really, sleeping. So, it’s going to be a couple more, years, of crossing off, and copying down, I guess. The uncontestable, fact, that my life, is ruined, becomes, all the more, worse, when I pause, and consider, that I, was the one (the only one), who ruined it! I wouldn’t be surprised, if I lost my hair, everything else, has gone wrong, that possibly, could. My employer, was a little bit, surprised, at the pants, that I chose to wear, to the interview. I am disillusioned, and disappointed, with, everything, most of all, myself. Very highly, distilled, not that anyone, will ever, notice. Sometimes, we wolf, sometimes, we get, wolfed, but, most times, we’re, lambs. Whatever you do, don’t get caught, with your pants down, if you do, there is nothing, I repeat, nothing, to say, no way, to explain, things, like that, away. No one, ever, found out, who, exactly, was responsible, or, at-fault, in the, “accident.” Breasts, might, just, be, “one of those, things,” they just, seem like, so much, more. The bang, bang, sure woke me up, this, goddamn, morning. Did you talk shit, about me, while I was, downtown? What the hell, was that person’s, name, who was in charge, of the singles dances? That styrofoam skull, looks, so, real, that I keep poking my head, to make sure, that mine, hasn’t been removed, somehow. Dozing, dozing; please, stretch me. The angles of the walls, and ceiling, look so modular, from this trajectory. Comb your down under, neatly, clip, clip. Once upon a time, nothing happened! Baby, no, there is just no way, that I’m going to do, the peanut butter, thing, with you, again. I like the fake filing cabinet, for it’s 1963, aspects. Don’t hit the dogs, head, when you open the door, you know that he’s sitting there, waiting, to run out. My little party, didn’t work out, I wasn’t, the most popular, kid. My fingers, have somehow, taken on, old smells. When I pulled out that mildewed, towel, and shook it, the lint, was behaving, crazy, the lint, would not behave, at all. You should go, in order, no, I don’t recognize, “halfway, done.” The way my leg, is swinging, right now, you’d think, it ran on, batteries. As we surrender, and collapse, into our own heads, each, and every, turn, brings us closer, to the context of…Things, in the most general use, of the term, are meaning, more, and more, to me, the more detached, I get. One of the options, to twist onto, is diarrhea. Make up a story, realize, before you do, that it probably, won’t be any, good, (don’t write the story). Yell, but, realize, that your yells, don’t mean, anything, anymore. I am now, one of, “those weirdoes,” that I promised, that I’d never let myself, be. As my world, starts spinning, in opposite directions, from the real one, well, my concerns, grow, but, see, I’m at the bellows, pulling the levers, oh, this is a crash, I never counted, on. There are cords, in my penis, they feel like, cords, that are going to need, to be, replaced. What’s coming up, on our favorite, programs? There is no way, that I am going to carry on, as if I really, have a job, I don’t. These situations, they are, not, solutions, what kind of surprises, are going to happen, to us, next? The Doctor, looked on, concerned. Color it, yellow. It’s the trick, of seeing both sides, of the coin, the whole, philosophical (beware, the mystery), enterprise. This is not, a novel. Very little, really, ends up, happening. Just, sing along, mumble, the wrong words