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Closed captioned, for the hearing impaired, they can read, can't they? They call it blues, but let’s be honest... how many copies can a piece of plastic, really sell? The tampon of the heart, about ten words, repeated a thousand times. No one’s independent, it's just a word we like to toss around. "No one will hire me," how many (as we wait, we age) times have you said this to yourself? Finally, something is done, or at least, very close to being so. But no one will read it... it's done, and I did it, that's all that matters! Uh-oh, I feel that Pocahontas sexual fantasy, creeping into my consciousness, again. Do whatever you want, but whatever you do, don’t get caught. Milk me, like those cows that you saw. C'mon fuck lip, listen bean dip face, you're going to where cherubs go, hell! Out of ink, again. They talk, but none of them give out. It keeps going. We went to the ice cream counter. Find your way, shovel fist, find your way! They’ll do a good job, at first, but beware! Let me into the damn engine! We’re all lied to. I'm gonna’ search you out, in truck stop showers: down on all fours, with a pained expression on your face. Three tokens, split between you, and that midget, can't get you twenty-five minutes in the "fantasy booth." Loaf eater, you shot the dog, asshole! You steal! Trying to shove the raccoon in the garbage disposal. Displaced, stuck, and butter knives, lying side by side, on the floor. My best friend is schizophrenic, with a beard and a back pack, all he could say to me was, "Yeah, you're the guy who's mail we screwed up, somehow!" I stood there. Ditch me, again. He obviously, doesn't like people he knew, to see him this way, anyway, he's more sane than any two good citizens, put together. Most of our pain, is faked. She was stared at, like lawn furniture. Someone was hiding in the bushes. In England, where everything is bland, well, at least from where I'm standing, you can wait until death forces you to make cemetery and funeral arrangements. My pillow is like an invisible girlfriend, for now. I would walk around in the reservoir, until dawn, with the tires, empty forties, and the sealant, tar. Plenty of free parking? All drawers are open, everything, governmentally stamped. Smelling the tape case, for years and years, comparing yourself to the man in the photograph. Three people, happy to have light in the morning, and get away from where their house was. Eels sleep enough, for three blowfish. The top of the stove, playing in traffic, again. No student ghettos (the real thing). There they are, on the mantle, sick and worse, out of control, with the hair clippers. It takes a lot of getting used to, hairless orifices, keep 'em watertight. Spanish couch, laid out, in between ragged pinch pots, Indian washcloths, roach clips. A new kind of obligation, no one’s home, drum roll, mighty big, corn taste. I've an idea of you, an idea of your mental state, an idea of the chair, an idea of an idea. Something’s gone wrong with the program, so far, there's a glitch in there, somewhere. What boring side streets, we've discovered. Is it really helping? The candle lighting? I'd have been more outnumbered, had they left the historical park, right where it was. To see it move down the street, like that, six miles, a party store; in line for promotion, arrested for fraternization. I just like radicals, I don't sleep with them, it doesn't make me a bad person. Just a confusion of ends, and means? Swallow a bit hard on the eucalyptus, stuffing a piano key with a slice of lettuce? Please, stop… We’re as realistic as a granite pit. His reflection in the knife, made him look like Bette Davis. Vitriol, plenty of it.
Hold the phone. I don't feel like it, c'mon, it's just a figure of speech, I know that, yet, don't care. What isn't? You’d think I’d be used to the hide and go seek isolation, by now. My next book, is going to name names, and take no prisoners. I could write so much more vicious, scathing, horrible text, about so many groups, organizations and people, that I’d better stop here. I feel the bullet pierce through my head, and into the jelly, then... everything goes black. For all I know, I'm still alive, in a hospital bed, being kept alive by tubes, and electronics. I got a gun, and know how to use it. It always comes down to, now what? Another thing I value, is isolation, not privacy, isolation. Sometimes, months pass, when I do not see a face, when I cannot hear a voice. So many people are so... let’s just say I don't require their presence. What have we really learned from people? How to live, that’s a big one, how to be disappointed, is another, how to be confused about how great (of people) we are, and how no one ever realizes it. Sound familiar? And after the event is over, the psychologists will have a lot to say, but it won't be true, will it? It won't, and can't possibly, tell the whole story. Is that vomit, or blood, on my pant leg, right now? No matter. Rich and full experience, why keep up the farce? Why would anyone ever want to be clear, when being glib, works so well? To look upon those that “they," deem to be successful, and to look close, and see that they do not possess a central nervous system. So, is it insanity, or speaking in tongues? Things have gotten so much worse, since I began writing this. The successful, are held up like puppets, and led around, like manikins. Jack off into a (spunk?) pile of dollar bills. We wound up at some pothead hang out. Some of us, simply can’t afford therapy. The toilet beckons me, for another shit, wipe, and flush, which used to be, really satisfying. My hand has a deformity. A really disgusting voice, a pathetic rumor mill. Listen to how they talk, listen to what they're saying, it's so unnecessary, it's just endless, about what has already happened, and worse, what other people have done. The most lively people, are in prison for life? Turn it around, grab a helmet, and a crutch. I'm pushing as hard as I can, and to be honest, this is the best that I can come up with. How have I failed the world, so miserably, so that anything I do, is so much chaff? What really happened to me, that made me dance into the crowd? These are the questions, and there are so many more! But rather than wasting my time, contemplating my goal, now is the time, to do something with what I have. No more, will I hide behind a book, for security, or bitch ceaselessly, about the cards I'm holding, not a bad hand, to be quite honest. I know time. What was so disastrous, that a mentally healthy person, can't go a day, without thinking seriously? Not what’s wrong with the world, or society at large, but, what's wrong with them? I'm sick of me, I've become a solipsist, without ever realizing it. And you will be a great man, someday? Over and over, I hear these words, what I want to hear, not live up to? Tired of tooling around in an aluminum alloyed box, letting every day control me, render me down. Hating my own face, my own head, my own voice, my own ass. Daily awakenings, are met with dismay, nightly bedtimes, met with surprise. So much pain, and none of it real, or justified. Simon, put down the lettuce. I’m burning with slow coal, my dear. It’s purposeless, totally. Twist, and fret. It’s not nearly weird enough to sell. It’s so easy to get stuck.
The process, the whole thing, reading the inside care instructions, and listening to you whine. Art is pathetic, don't waste your time on it, don't waste your time on anything, or anyone, ever. Don't be nice, if you've been so all your life, change completely, right now, and don't apologize, either before, or after, for doing so. Think about every dead failure, who’s ever walked upon this Earth. Please imagine a few of the disciples paying off the guards, rolling back the stone, stealing the dead corpse, and making up some stories. Look at the World, look at the sickness, the lies, the fundamental unworthiness, what is there to value? There is no answer, quit your job, laugh at every opportunity, louder at funerals, they couldn't do it, either. We speak so respectfully, when ruminating about how Fred so-and-so, spent forty years at the same job, making a living (what is so great about that?). I am stuck, empty, miserable, I made a living, didn't live, nobody lives. Work, money, work, money (the disease). We are right where we sit, being horrendously, deceived. It’s mostly instinct, that gets us through. The utter and absolute disappointment, of a college degree. Then, I got rid of my feelings. This is all that there is. Repeat to yourselves, fortified with iron. There is plenty of the other way. You remember, the college degree, that everyone told you was so necessary. Guilt ridden, hence, passing out the gifts, again. It hangs on my wall right now, with a pink pushpin through it, and coffee stains all over the lettering, which is starting to run. Why budge, it's the same, or worse, everywhere, at least here, we "know what to expect" (nothing). When did that ever become something to live for? Have you ever met someone, who took a real risk? Not bungee jumping folks, a real risk. What am I going to do about money, specifically, the lack thereof? Adrienne Ziegleman, tore my sleeve off (and my heart away), by law, no crime has been commited. "Well, you're more of a sissy boy, than I'd even have imagined," the sergeant said. You possess no individuality, self, honor, right, privilege, life, limb, et. al. You are the thing, I'll never let you gain those things back. You are what we want you to be, now, and forever. Welcome to determinism, the old (it’s my loss) fashioned way. Singing happy birthday to Jesus, finding out about Santa Claus, shouldn't it be the other way around? Lean over really close to me, green an encore. What we need, is a mind full of brains. I wasn’t even the student I was. See, I just want out of the damn teacup. The girl you'd never have expected, has eyes for you now, no reason for this, at all. I’d better watch it. You saw something!? Bully to you, buddy. No one would've done this to him, a great guy, a tremendous person. We miss our real teeth. Last stop, Dowagiac. Not looking into the abyss, picking up the car. Listen to your tape again. Everything's for sale here, even the signs, that broadcast that fact. We know what time it is, what the date is. Playing with science, we arrived at our conclusions. Normal is a challenge, a quiz, you already know the outcome, or to find it, through of all things, human reason. Difficult jigsaw puzzles, without any rules, two puzzles, tossed into one box. Who inverted this picture? Rules do not make a paradigm? The steam runs out on even the most cleverly constructed, stock car kit. What are the assumptions? Finality. The novice meets the expert, to find out they really knew the same things, we learn with appliances. In the cafeteria, endure the rock salt horse near the abandoned house. Ivory handles covet sharp knives, so do the martyrs, the Dutch, the Malamutes. Orchestra sounds, drown out the loudest soprano, in the cheap seats. Given to a face? She knows about budget (insipid ass) restrictions, he knows his mathematics, see how happy he is? The day has just begun, another shooting, another robbery! Vandalized piano, drained snapshot (loose girl’s diaries). Clip the hedges, just survive. Be pissed, quietly. We don’t know what we can’t understand. Don’t do anything.
Let the death speak through me, here we go, let the crustaceans fall where they may. Insanity, this is something that I value, to no end, in fact, it's probably one of about five, or six things, in this whole farce, that I do value. Because nothing will ever happen, unless you're a lunatic. You may be thinking, that people laugh at lunatics. Yes, but if you really care what anyone, anywhere, thinks about you (or does to you), you've already failed. On to the next subject, I will not wait until thirty. There is never anything magic, about "waiting until you're a little bit older," when deciding what to do with your life. Waiting is just cowardice. You may not have another day. The key words are urgency, necessity and now. Death is so real, and so certain, and so permanent, God is dead, and I can't kill him, anymore than has already been done, and you can't resuscitate him! Therein lies the paradox, anything goes, but not in a positive way. The guy who played so and so, can sell you psychic assurances, and worst of all, the world will continue to lie flat, and stand still. Necessity of the type I'm blurting, comes, the minute you walk out of God’s overpacked funeral. You must do everything, and anything, that you want to do, or can, right now! There are no tomorrows, repeat, there are no tomorrows. We have discussed the relative merits, of back scuttling. I've never actually been physically, biologically depressed, I have made myself feel that way. Names scratched into the big plastic wheel. The orgasm is achieved by hard work, an effort of will. Beware the manipulative, have a thick skin, make a lot of money, because, you’re gonna’ need it. They are with their other friends, tonight. Grey lining, red, inside the guitar case (huh, what is this?). Question marks by the door, questioning your right to leave. You, without a vehicle? I talk in circles, out of both sides of my mouth. Acting like your own rhetoric! To keep those biorhythms unencumbered. Cold and rainy, outside the boutique, tonight. There are the periodical guides to literature, there is the director’s cut, the original script, all the sheets in your foot locker. Questionably, the same. Am I the only one here, who appreciates elves running around, with sausages? Mark that as the good one. Too many times now, no use for superlatives. Making gestures at foreign exchange students. To capture the right type of family. Ribbed, searching my drawers, every night. Anything, you just take? Munich will burn, I just dropped the match. The last page, the stuff you want to see, my left boot, arch side away. Stress points, in charge, got their jollies, with falling atoms. The world outside the skin, the womb. He left, to join a cult! We seek another singer. All fucked down. Toodle-loo, dynamite users. Her hip gave out, start the countdown to the end. Upside down cooking, with Henry Wilson, bring the brownies, Alice! The red teepee, is mine. Now, the dry creek bed, is wet again. I’m in the fucking bathroom, again! The red light is the indicator, the key to a happy life, what is guj? Freelancing, to bidding wars, metal work cribs, keeping us, indoors, away from predators. Make it work! Feel it, red. Things coming at us, from the inside of the box. The gun, album, mixed up in the potatoes. A critical reader, a defense mechanism, a florist’s nightmare, stains all over everything. Don't let them break you. What he said about show business, how he let it all get to his head, and then denied it all, too late? I became a dumb-dumb, by accident. I really like the way things are going right now, and no, I don't know why, it's just that, sometimes, the neurons realign. Money, the cure for/of America. You remind me of a watermelon. People selling us spray on butter, that get your fingers back to where they belong. I'm on your side. It’s a slow drag, through the mill. Anyone will stray, everyone wants a better situation, let me tell you though, that's not the problem. The problem is that we want something better, want to improve our limbo's, and cannot. So, another lover, somehow "solves," that difficulty for us, is this logical? Fuck no, but it’s a sliver of human nature, and human nature, is monkey nature, and so on, backwards, ad infinitum. Oh, and yes, the whole thing is one pathological sand box, full of kitty litter, clumps of shit, hardened piss balls, that modern technology has given us. Gentleman, don't get your hands full of sticky, wet mess, keep your pants on, even. I want the date to be known, and terror, makes that impossible. I'll be fine, actually, I'm not so sure. There is a tear in the fabric, and it looks like this. The way I hold my arm, should cut down on fatigue. The top of a broomstick, reminds me of a candle. The ceaseless dripping, activates the seven month itch. To be free! To be free? Four poles, holding up a thing that used to be brass, long, fabricated metal posts, that used to be attached here. A book on how to type, a book on how to live. And to think, we thought the pain of the Cheyenne, was lost from this world. Held together with a thought, shirts we've never worn. Matching every question you've said to yourself, aloud. Nazi's want to be your friend, and meet you at the corner store. Money earned over the years, just waits in piles, for someone to put their whole hand in. The tag inside the canvas luggage (for airplanes, for carpet installers). The master of association, or a played out accordionist? Is that really the color orange, floating around in the space above the 4 x 4? Lines in the back of the television, tell me where to go, and how to prepare. That’s tough, ground in, dirt. Walking, or rather, storming into robot land, where no one understands. I was let in, initially, but they grew tired of me, quickly. Not entertaining enough, for that typecasting. "Uh, looks like an urn" … drunk. Putting cards on their heads, taken for a ride, or for granted. The same shade of grey, let’s commence the game, again. Microwave pizza, knives in the corkboard, that holds up the wall behind the sink. How can you get so far in that business, without having to use words? The songs especially recorded for the deaf, contained flawless syncopation. What is with the hair, Allez? Let that be a lesson to you! I'd forgotten everything, again. The last place they'd look. You are God, but, so what? Mirrors are the secret to every Hobo’s magic trick, mirrors and strings, don't act so amazed. Let’s just say, that I could give some speeches, that could shock and offend, a great many librarians. Does that mean I don't exist? Droughts and torrents, waves and recessions, lamprey eels. Too much yelling and screaming, not enough good, honest work.