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You are, and have always been, real, to me. This “drifting apart" (that to me is recognizable), should not occur. I know I was a shit, I'm still a shit. you always seemed to know to take it with a grain of salt. When I put on the paper bags, and hoisted the tin foil, or whatever? The moments, gone. Standards, that not much seems to live up to, some things are (or were) certain, in the mire. Kalatucky, no surprises. He’s going to live in Madrid, etc. We’re still stuck in the same high school… what have you. Not that I'm comparing, just contrasting, I'm sorry if my maniacal diatribe, is tiring, shit, I’m tired of it. I do not exist, toad me over, out of words, no thesaurus. Worm me in, set another place at the table. Tissues, like intestines. I'll bring these tools, everywhere I go, these tools (like a carpenters), are my livelihood. The noises, like a live birth, are what I need to explore. Tin can invigoration, I've already done that, died with my boots on, on my own terms. Brilliant saccharin, my two eyes, innocent leper, ostracized genius. I want to own this joint. I can kick you all out! Big rock, from the lunar ice capades. I was a guppie, you, a salamander, unending grief. Finding out, that cancer is a real thing. Things we tell ourselves, that are just not true, not healthy, or recommended. My time will be mine, they will not enter in. Now, again; an up-start, drunken, love affair. Capitalize on your divinity! So, you’re all grown up, and stuff, you don’t say? I will live with my definition of time, I will walk slowly, but think, very fast, the system can't be changed. Here we go, and yes, this will take some editing, I don't want to be repetitive. Wanting to be alone, I went to the most popular hangout in town, this works, every time, without fail. I was bored, and just driving around, that song was playing, I heard the catcalls, and was flattered. Hank went way too far. We know, we just don’t want to. I want the years it took to complete this book, back. I too, thought they were yelling for me, everybody thinks that the applause, is for them. You could've taken me anywhere. Trying to re-convince myself, constantly, of things I'm already self determined, to think. Not trusting my decisions, constantly vacillating, and looking, always looking. I possess no compass. The concept of skulls in a room, was practical. I've been driving in the country, for hours, no idea where I am, and almost out of gas. I don’t want any tiger’s milk, I don’t want anything. If I stopped at a house ... I'm absolutely without bearings. Calculus decomposes, there is no such thing as I, it bellows owl sounds, into the night, the people who were driving by, couldn’t fathom what was going on. There was a silhouette in the window. Are we only for the good times? No idea where I am. Can't stop at a house, because there aren't any, or they're all dark. Fill in all the holes! No way out, no way out. It involved butt fucking (something on television). My only company is tall corn, and telephone poles. Apparently she left it there, she claimed to have quit drinking, but was seen a half an hour before, with a beer in her hand. I fed her lines, and offered her a ride home, which she refused. To fall so far behind; negative, no leverage, no negotiation. Plan, organize, control, time for economics, the land of milk, and schizophrenia. Books, of what use are they? Oh, by the way ... well, my little “novel project," is dead. Always, with the, "let’s look back and see," until everything sucks. I am still the guy, naked under cellophane. I met a real one, even they need clowns, to keep them amused. A word, a civilization, I feel bad, and don't, I really have let go. All and sundry, bye, see ya. Dipsy-ways-¬of-going-about-things! Credit, debt and degradation, all of that prattle, that I've shipped off to you, you knew, full-well, that it was prattle, and the "care packages," did they not indicate a mind, that was not possessed of a body? Again with the lunging, I am class consciousness, I am Paris, I still stink. More money troubles, I stare at memories of bygone eras, I share in the inebriation, that seems to happen outside. I am dead, and Greek, and in love again. Pencils or surgeries, to be honest, what’s the difference? The strap finally broke, and I tumbled into obscurity, I have insurance now, oh, be still my beating heart. I am as if I were a Hindu! I like her shoes, this is really happening. All the doubt and contradiction, she is ... um, I'm in love with her, we'll see what happens. Maybe I shouldn't write until Kingdom Come, it'll only make it arrive faster. The whole stinking thing (greased), is beginning to grow on me. I am the thing, the thing, with its corpuscles, and lies (or, were they half truths?). Kent had nothing to say about this. My face is still dissolving, the funk fest, is still not planned. Good-bye ditz's, or the bottom really falls out. How are you? Drop me a line, just a few pages, put it in the mail. The whole town is made of iron, atomic fusion is a reality. Mardi Gras means trouble, anonymity, strangers, bloodshed. So, I guess I’m pretty darn stubborn. This book is not important in the grand scheme of things.
Looking out the window, trapped in the room, at the desk, maybe I can duck out the back. There was nothing else to do, so I chewed on my pen. I want to look like you, so we'll have something in common. I don't want to look in your eyes, I'm not scared of you, anymore. Nothing but bulk rate, in the aluminum storage box, at the end of the driveway. Sounds provoke thoughts, this one gives me reason to believe, there are reasons. The pen is merely an extension of my hand. There are very few of us around, they seem to want to die early, and by their own hand. I don't blame them. There are a lot of clipped toenails, on the bedstand, and brains. How can two words sum everything up? Maybe I'm really left handed. Take this rubber thing off my pencil. How the government could endorse this sort of behavior, is beyond me. They raided my home, just to play with my toys? Work it all out. Obviously, some sort of drug induced, "live-in," but, they wore suits and ties, and had military upbringings. They said they believed in "Kalms," and played music on the jambox. BIZARRE! Everyone has one of these, in their basement, small ceramic miniatures, that are quickly sold in estate sales. Do karate of the mind, to get rid of all the accumulated concrete blocks of thought, opinion, belief. I drilled a hole in a mannequin, so I'd have someone to fuck/love, and I place it in a variety of positions. I find myself in too much difficulty, much too often. One day, alive, the next, not. She knows me, she understands me, and when I look into her pale green eyes, she is me! Lying on the couch in repose. We learn by mere proximity? We played dress up, and I spilled the milk. Out the door, and to the Indians. Like a little girl in a midnight position. Have water, will imagine. I'll bet they don't sell these, at plasticware parties! And you'll get secondhand cancer, too. Moving across the carpet, thoughts get us to thinking, we realize that time is the pit, in which we wallow. How many words, in the average sentence? Fashion, I never was privy, was I? Red light, green light really threw me for a loop. You, the "one," etc. How to correspond? The final, sinking gravity nod has taken hold. It seems as if it never happened. Calls at bizarre times, and under bizarre circumstances, mangled fingers. I wrote it, don't regret driving around, with, or without, company. The hand moving the pen across the page, nothing else. Yeah, love, but, hey, I mean, hey! I still, you know, no good-byes, just constant reminders. You didn’t shit, but I needed you, for that apparent, lack, there are no lacks, only intrusions. The time we have on our hands. I see the writing on the wall, but don't read it, or didn’t, now, it's just too obvious to ignore. What the fuck are poems? Nervousness, is the proof, that we're alone. Catch the green, and then disown. Fusion, cold or otherwise, the destination, forgotten, spirited chariots, lies, and infatuations, stripped, like this. Followed into oblivion, down on the sidewalk, get down on the sidewalk, deny everything, backwards. Misappropriate the factors, the dance for the dime, my version of the hand job, solar axis, get on the bus, with the wrap around in hand. Gold embossed, photo albums, to keep our memories as vivid, as the instant, if and when, they ever meant anything, I'd be sure to clue you in. Spell me on the outside, the correction fluid of forgone conclusions; meaning, destroy the entire nervous system. Crazy, or the semi-tone, what are you doing in my dream? This is part of a novella, having to do with, not much at all, but it feels good doing it, and that’s all that matters. Of course, there's no guarantee that this will ever happen, just another romantic idea, likely to be crushed, by the lightness of reality. Things that can’t be predicted, or controlled, doctor. We both have boxes in our backseats, this is where the comparisons end. Black-listed, by hairpin fractures, all over the dashboard, it didn’t fetch too many shiny pennies, or alleviate too much guilt. Too bad, some people get stuck, in what’s out there, they are likely to be very disappointed, later. The same goes for thinking that offspring, provide immortality. “No son or daughter of mine,” get ready for that. The garish signs, are oddly placed. Get ready now, for overpopulation, I think I'll write about compassion, too. Perhaps, our lives will change. They will continue to rub themselves. Let me shift over, you fucking, asshole, prick! Don't mention any names, my groin really itches, right now. Opera singers, and pinball parlors. How do I know? Because she never left her dwelling, unless it was absolutely necessary, and every time I saw her, she was consistent, and contended. Yes, she was safe, and also sheltered, but everything I told her about what was, "out there," just made her want to stay inside, all the more. I defined one kind of freedom, as being no different from another, however, there are, different kinds of freedom. Me, now, here, away from all of you, is better than all of us in a room, pretending to agree. That introduction, sounds like a dying goose, that deep baritone is saying, "fuck me." When we can no longer do things on our own, those things will be done for us? The nervousness I feel, while standing in front of you, and talking, is what makes me incessantly light, and re-light, this plastic flame product. That's how I did it, whoever was in my direct path, got a wave. Confront the other self. The tangles will come out in the comb. Can’t live, can’t die, can’t do anything. Other than that, I slid away like a hibernating snake, never again to be seen, and I'm not sorry, anyway. Only a small number of people know how difficult, easy things, are. So, this is where the faces go, to stare at each other, this is what you'd call, a mating ritual. I want to say too much, many things, of which, I don’t even believe. Be courteous, and put the seat, back down. See them slowly, saunter by, inadvertently, touching one another. A man looked down from somewhere, up in the tree. Rest in peace, K. Francis. The road appears to be a long one, with lots of detours.
To lose one’s hold on ergonomics, to trust the pallor, into sublimation. To correct alone, and make amends, likewise. To see yourself jetting out, and to smell the past, that is all. Childhoods of Chinese money, of no value, or, the greatest hits collection. Blind in the quarter booth, two Park Streets, not divine. Left turn jived me, thrown into the salvage heap, into arm marks, juggernaut, alabaster, turn around. Subtle little changes, lies about policemen, and the mayors on the phone. Hair salons on the television, my eyes are one way, sleep. I certainly can’t tell you that I’m “perfect for the role,” but the fact remains, that I probably am. Turn into a master, slowly, like an asphalt truck. These are the times, when nothing happens. We’ve got to get something going, pronto. Post as a tenor, post exotica, the counterindications, turned me into Egypt. The driving lady, lost her teeth. Handwriting, and thank you's, for a chance to be someone else. Everything, each and every little, partial thing, sickens me. No more Delmar, no more meditation. Perhaps, one for the road? Sorry, must get this out of my system, must mail this away. Old student identifications, litter the room. Now, suddenly, its a letter again, shit, I'm sorry if it makes no sense. How did I know, how do I ever? Just agreeing, agreeing endlessly, it's a good sign, two legs. The file can flip to itself. I kill all bugs, who make loud noises, in my room. Help me, I don't even know who you are, or, where this thing is going. Understanding and genius, are not recognizable qualities of the World, in itself. This is some kind of shit pot, and we all seem to die young. I'm hopelessly indebted to you, whoever you are, I am yeast, yeast. They go on and on. No, just words, and language, I am the problem, of which, I should be the cure. What five true things, what five antinomies? Wrong partridge, different tree, code word, we have cockroaches. Flabby farewells, still not done, or apprehended. Where's the good stuff? This is bothersome, like discerning between, yo, and nes. You don't have to always have a problem! A workable, unshakable technique, for living? Keep going with commercials, smaller than grime. Things move in here, without my permission. Eye contact is just a memory. Car rides, help me quell the pain. Sitting there, I just couldn't help but to think, of those who have came, and went, and that those I'm looking at, don't really matter, according to any perspective. See, I've found God too, coursing through my own veins. Too late for preventive measures, little reminders, strings on my finger. My senses are working way past their capacity, I've reinvented my invisible friend. Quell my curiosity, indulge in caramel/carnal candy, with strangers of ill repute. Slumped over the steering column, dried up pens, a matter of timetables being juxtaposed, unbeknownst, and strange. Like a pear, I needed her. Tomorrow, would have been too late, “tomorrow," came and went. Lost, only telephone poles. You are as dead as I am, no question marks, no ostriches. Sing the song, aloud. Too much silent observation, leads to unspeakable thoughts. How can I, I'm totally terrified right now? What, now? We’re just sitting on the couch! I find your rituals laughable, predictable, and repetitive, however, if I notice them so clearly, I'm obviously around, and welcome your assessment. Maybe someday, we could talk about it. Every time I see you, you look the same, and your friends, they look so... why, oh, who am I, to really say? I only know I'm not one of them, yet, we're probably very much the same. Who are we/who am I, trying to fool? You look like you have two snails over your eyelids, and two teacups underneath. The sand in the hourglass has run out. The color is consumed, distributed. These are the pages that I dream every night, these are the echoes that I hear in my head, this is the smoke I inhale, this is the car I drive, and the water is running. Let us fuck, as opposed to, pray. The caucus is about to disperse. The missing in action, are dead. For as long as I can remember, there has been a knife in my room. Myths are unhealthy for children, sex is disastrous for adults, both of these things, have the same effect, lost hope. Being on the outside, looking in, bitching about it all the time. It’s just one of many contradictory inclinations, that are engaged in, everyday. We said forever, but we made a mistake. There was much screaming. Synthesizer music, pour over the rim of, "right and wrong." Who's it to, who's it for? Share the contemplation, spare the "la-la-la's." Volume, overcrowded, genetic identification, nonsense about boyfriends, and girlfriends. Far too much settling into patterns, no, just Platonic Netherworlds, and repetition. No real shit, plastic shit. Fish! New song, "here’s the story of the inhumane." The bow around this, is not so pretty. Time passes, rheumatoid arthritis, psychoanalyzing the TV listings. I can’t even grab this pencil. I became a know it all, when I admitted I knew nothing. Spinning, fix your sociological stirrings (there are no such things). I am totally in love with her, not only doesn’t she know this, she can’t. Film unopened, scattered all over the floor of the room. We are on our own, free, to fail miserably (or worse). But see, with him, the thing flows, flows in a way that makes sense. And the deed is done, no matter who's responsible. Tossed into the hooskow, before the cream separated. A marked man, I miss her already. I “knew,” they were talking about me? It's not going out to anyone. Cut me up, and fuck me on fire. The cross turns into Jesus, the song turns into air. Falling in a style, akin to torture. This town has something to do with a line of crock, out of the head, or something. Planes crashing, always terrify me. Not in the latter instance, where nothing happens, you see. Get Lily’s mind, into the mail. The origami unique. Not drunk, just, overly taken care of, out of state, like being siphoned, down a long funnel. If this one is successful, there will be more, if not, no.