133

I didn't particularly like my compulsions, but I was powerless to do otherwise. The percussionist, has something to do, with how I see things. Keep his brother out of debt, keep him clothed, debt free. Things have been much worse, for other people. Let's do a pretend rain dance, and see if anyone comes outside, to see what's going on. Even way back then, we secretly knew. The great, are pushed out by peristaltic action (like shit). I feel like the gizzards they stuff in a bag, inside the gutted fowl. It makes too much noise, doing that, in here. The banal and mediocre, run everything, plus the rest. Every time that I inhale, the flame heads my way. We’re not equipt to handle, what we take on. All of the concerns of such common folk, inheritances and dimes. So, let’s get this straight, you want to have intercourse? It is all my fault, there is nobody else to blame. The sasquach type beast, has a choke hold on me. We spend too much energy, flattering the pretty. Most of this is new, but how can we ever know? To just scamper around, like she did. So much is added, removed, replaced, reiterated. Please be careful, I'd like to see you tomorrow. Grinding and scraping, or, trying to remember. There still hasn't been time for an introduction, or conclusion, thus, I don't think that I'm going to write one. There is no "out of order," here, everything is described, and color is attached. Almost as an afterthought, I was ... "You're cured," he said. Oh, well, I don't notice any difference, but thanks anyway. And Dorian Gray's hair turned brown again. He said it was all the mulch in his garden, and too much ambition. This is the tumble into the van, that I've been fearing. Almost as if we went in opposite directions. Let me fly the jacks and spades, into rum and cokes. The vertical crotch that she crawled under, I wasn't about to discuss it with him. Things tied to my hands and feet ... joy can turn to despair, really quickly. The window provided me, simply, with a view of the outside world. Rituals, you call them, I call them lips, like hot dogs, boiling and bubbling away, with the white foam surrounding them, and Willy Nilly wieners on the phone! There is a fire? Well don't grab the picture frames, get out of the house. The emotion came on initially, as a tingle, turned into, certainty achieved. You can believe in them all you want, but whatever way you turn them, they are only words. Anger is seeping out of every pore, yet I remain nonplussed. You want an epiphany? Put that in your tank. There my manhood dribbled, and there it will remain. As my scars become more apparent, sometimes you understand, that endless reconfiguration, isn't the key to a happy death. They held a postcard up by my chest, and in front of the camera. How many people really kick and scream their way through this? I've finally agreed to take it one day at a time, four, or five years late. There is the smell of dirty boots, and incense, here. The characters people create, are too much like themselves, or at least, what the author wants to be. Why create characters? I can't do it, my vision is beginning to fail me, there is nowhere to go, my friend. The wolf is concerned about my howling. That was fashion then, five years from now, I won't be able to believe I ever wore a hooded sweatshirt. Even if I never buy any, I'd like to live near a liquor store. There was a three A.M. compatibility about us, that never had a chance to cheat on our significant others. Who the hell knows where people disappear to? Yes, my photograph of magnesium, will be displayed. They get wise, is all I know. Sickness, is not health. Look down into the latrine. All the comings and goings, shit, fire at random! Read the book. Nonsense, has it’s place (the trash heap). I'm clawing and scratching at this promissory note, but it won't rip. You've lost your mind. They won’t get this far. See there's proof, proof of Karma, obsession, and the fact that once you start staring at light bulbs too long, the light within them, burns out on you. I saw them inside of there, laughing at me. There is nothing, ever, to prove to anyone, you know that by now. The windows of opportunity are only open for a few seconds, once in a lifetime. No psychologist can do anything other than bullshit you, for money. The festival was a great, big mistake. Smile your frown off, cheaply.
Hoodwinked again, and I'm seeing stars, that are probably molecules. You, you don't like it you can get the f (stutter), f, fuck out! This is always said, when you can least afford to leave. But let me tell you, this is the wrong country to be poor in. No one will ever hire you to shine their shoes. When people's shoes get dusty here, they just buy new ones. We die, one eyelash at a time, the nightlight can't take away the fear of this. Where's the unemployment office? My whole future, could go up in smoke? My lines are crumbling in on themselves, I took the staircase up to your landing, a few times. Those hedges are the ideal type, to fall into. Nice try, but all show, no go, a lot of talk, not a lot of action. There were things that I desired, because I don't want anything, not anymore, not after what I’ve been through. The red tie was (another bad idea) chosen. It’s happening again. They took our intelligence, too. The moonlight throws the shadow of the thinker, across my forehead, I wish I could have told them how sorry I was. My whole pressure cooker philosophy, is rigged to self-destruct, pre-rigged, somewhere beyond, in a Platonic netherworld. If it weren’t for estrogen, who knows where we’d be today? Go ahead, tell me all the reasons how, and why, this book can’t be marketed. Please, don't get angry when I put the deodorant on you. The fear of worse things, like that this is only the beginning of the downward spiral (like a roller coaster), that drags me down, or is it, what drives me on? The lightning is visible from the corner of my eye, again. And yes, I'm feeling melancholy, now. The dusk is biding me to stop. Anything could certainly help. Why despair? If they cut off the electricity, we can steal candles. I resolve not to stop, no matter what the ghosts of dogs may do to the shadows, on the far wall, near the psychedelic light switch. I’ve got to view this from the outside, looking in, to gain any real appreciation of it. If it's going to happen, then I wouldn't be so sure. I put the comma in the right place, I bought the stray cats their food. That man is not a renter, he's of the old school. To mark the occasions of languidity, she would pin poems to the spot. It was only until later, when they could be properly transcribed, on her word processor. There is a point higher, where the flames end, there is a starting point, where it gets its fuel. Beyond that... is the indeterminate lean, the flopping, gleaning, promise. I've already had my good days, apparently. She, and he, and it, came and went so quick, I couldn't even throw my arms around them, they were like saxophone notes you couldn't forget, and now they’re only ink stains, on white ruled paper. Do you want a hit? I'll give you a hit! Not, "Do you want me to strike you," but, "do you want a hit." There are weirdoes all around us. I used to have this strange tendency, to reveal a host of true things, that no one would reveal about themselves, but then lie, about inconsequential things, about my past, I still don't know why. I guess it had something to do with wanting to appear… The irony is that I fooled no one, they all saw right through me, I could say anything I wanted and as true (albeit, bizarre) as it may have been, it went past, unnoticed. Even perfect strangers got into the act, anyone with ears, heard about my peculiarities, they were all true, but they were too unbelievable, to believe. I actually used to think I was "misunderstood?" I personally, threw the wrench in the works! Apparently, I'm "in tune with the sages," because I bought a copy of the longitudinal book of the dead, I read the preface, and the notes to the anointed, sections. The preface was at the end, and the epilogue, was up front, this is what happens when the Ivy League gets their mitts on these things. "For fun," I said, there was nothing else to buy. There was so much feedback, that swallowing my own vomit, seemed to be a new pastime. Lying on top of the graves, silently, I used an oil soaked rag, wondered what it was doing there. It only shifts cleanly in and out of gears, when I'm not looking, or anywhere near, the thing. I suppose Bishop Tar Water strikes again! How bizarre we seem, with all of our circuits visible. Out the window, and over the hill, to the parking lot, just to show that I wasn't afraid anymore. I knew the campus cops, by name. "If the climate were warmer," she said. "No sperm could replace his," she continued. Crushed velvet stockings were placed on the bookcase, to give us all the impression that something very special was going on up there. And all these rituals and atonements, I couldn't admit anymore. I am not the I of these pages! You might be surprised to know, if you did. We’re all out of silly/funny, around here.