126

I will be more desperate, not about sex, what's sex? I will be more desperate to live, I will implore, cajole, scream, sing, I will talk. Quietism is suicide, I don't care how up, I seem to you now, I will talk to you, and it does make sense. Then, you will talk, communication will develop. There is only one persons hair, in this car. Sitting in convenience store parking lots, thinking, “why I'd even leave home in the first place?” All that enthusiasm, all those plans, you understand, right? Seven million, no less. You, got me, high. If nothing is real, we’ve (grab it, tightly) got to make it all up. Someone is at the door. We are all planning for something, but what, precisely, ever comes to pass? How does the/is the, goal ever reached, are any of these plans, ever fulfilled? It’s not going to be confetti and tickertape, for most of us. Salvage me, spare me, help me, save me. Stand in the used section. I say, we'd all be a lot happier, if we had no plans, for one, and second, if we stopped listening to other people (all of them). What's so special about your silly goals and plans? Survival, you say? Seems like there are better ways to accomplish that, than in torturing ourselves. Look and you will see; that, is all there is. The grey, expansiveless, well traveled roads, the signs, slings and arrows, the plans, the music? Tell me, what so great about it? Empty wrappers all over the floor, about faces, and schedules. Tickets go on sale Saturday, we must be first in line! Here is your secret number, now go forth into the world. Do not fight against it, if it'll get you into any real trouble. There are some things, that despite their absurdity, we cannot ever change. So just gulp it down, but that doesn't mean you have to like it; endurance, it's what’s what (it sucks, but it's what's what). Stumbling over to people and trying to help them, they think I'm the one who needs help. Why bother, smell him, see what’s going on, I must not drink and drive (175 X), written on the blackboard. All I can do is whimper. Are you ready? Clean shirt or dirty, it covers the wayward cells. Some people look good naked (yeah, but how many, really?). Well, let’s just say that anyone on TV, and the movies, is not wavy or not that wavy. I keep checking the calendar, and washing my hands. I just can't stop, I don't understand, her ballerina x-ray fingers. Kiss it (what/who) good-bye? The low light monster, is God in the tempered glass. That's how it gets its nutrients, from the soil. Neatly discarded in a plastic bag, I loved the way the collar was. My pen bag explosion, try it on, and walk around. So simple, that I couldn't handle it. Not to remember the giver, but conversations, could have been. I am a wallflower forgotten, never separated from the bunch. She; her teeth, hair perfect, I've never quite seen a smile like that. Let this be a love poem, let that be anathema. This is really depressing, no need to preserve meat... it burns. What method of transmission? Painted on, Happy Halloween! Lay off the butter, Euclid street reminds me of (zut allors) layoffs, impossibility. Who'll be huddled, snug behind the refrigerator? Investigating freon, or trying to look interesting? Babby doesn't (rightly) like me. Quick like a bunny, back to the beginning, bitten thumb; at cross purposes, in the fetal position, and experiencing dehydration. Give me the glad-hand, stop doing whippets. Our hungers are what kill us. The homewreckers will descend upon you. Infomercials, rides home, recycled toilet paper. The jig is up, I’m near my end. A lot of this stuff is quite good, I can’t predict, or control what you think about it (in any way, at all). Wry comments/turn offs. Pleasantly exploding, or imploding, the sides are caving in, I milked it for its cleverness, I'm sick and tired of saying "I" all the time, but there is no we, in this tree fort. The magic of the past gets more discernible, the more of a past you have. It’s a life study, in a particular shade. And I know, someday, things will be even worse. You are all donk’s!
Hiding in my closet again. It seems as if I've made another mistake, but I can say now, a year later, that even though it was a mistake, I did make the most of my time there. See, I made the most of it, in my own way, I found the fringes, I found the fringes! Negative? Yup, and why not, why mask this? Yes, I wear a mask, a facade, a persona, just like everybody else, I don't like it, that's the difference, I tear at it, but the immeasurable layers. Seven, eight, nine, different kinds of olives! Amazement, utter amusement, the guilt. My annual trek to Athens, and still, things are the same, their substance and style, all an illusion. Figuring out where they come from, is never a surprise. They're shocked out of their wits, as I stir up the shit, with my presence alone; just stirring. Questioning anything and everything. People somewhere in the world, would kill for a handful of those. We just look at them, or in most cases, don't look at them. We lose our hair faster. It takes a whole lot of pretending. We would rather not be known as special. Give me some fucking money! This disorder and denial, happy church people, eating donuts, every Sunday. “Ship up, or ship out,” is what the marching order said. But when they really get to thinking, about what’s in store ... no one can really fool themselves, for very long, I'm not being vague, you'll find out, in due time. This must come to pass, there are no more maybes, enough with the fantasy worlds, enough with the distinctions, distractions, laundry, straightening, kidding ourselves. These next four months can't be just more waiting, more dogs barking. What else is there to say/see? We look like ants, and behave that way as well. Remember, force, charge, eat nothing but canned spinich, for one week straight. I wasn't there, but I was there, the point is, that it's the same anywhere you go, or don't. Pixie stick nightmare, or a couple of lesbians? The mid-air sex change, impressive. Excellent pastels, that got up and flapped. Lash out over the dust bowl. Just background noise, mice, seen live on TV, weird dreams at her house. Button nose expects an answer. Smelling the paw, stool softening bleach. Every possible minor ailment, she announces to the audience, but what a make-out machine! I stumbled one way, or the other. They are the other, we are the dead. Sniff the pendant, go to the Mothball Travel Agency. They’ll have their chocolate wafers. We find them the Okinawa way, give me back my eyes! Take a look at a different species. It’s all arranged, you dig? Everything ends with that hyphenated N? Don't you dare leave me, interrupt, stand there quiet. View the society, walk right on by, drive there for the tofu, eat in large quantities. The way, oh, I need things. Nonoxynol nine clouds up the airwaves, with appeals to mass marketing strategies. This is the way the monkey sounds. Just you try giving out my home phone number, free interstate calls, I hear you lurking in the background. My ass is stuck on the seat of the car, for the benefit of the perverted, the way shall/should, be cleared. Perfect, intricate latticework, you say this to me, while I sleep? How to have it both ways, a warm, soothing balm? If I were the last person alive on this Earth, I'd walk through your house, and look at all your personal stuff, the stuff you keep hidden. My dementia transverses the flyaway frenzy, encapsulates it… He’d make furniture out of the skin. We’ve got to make better choices. We thought we were better…