153

Back row/lunch box, I believe, it's time to start consolidating. A few small things, that make existence, tolerable, what are they? From the depths of our ignorance, what are they? Memory, I look at my hands, the same 'thing', as on page five? Near the tree, in the gutter, is this some kind of continental pick-up line? Wearing orange, now, I have no desire at all. Yesterday, I'd have put on miles. Just wedge into the core. Soon, all of these things, will become one. The odds of returning next year, are slim. Masochism, I can't leave the bed, for twisted, demented, reasoning processes. If I went there, what would happen? Frightened, by your pin-up horses. They like the same kind of spoon fed music. Forsaken, desperate, forlorn, anxious, struck out, erased, deleted. Pounce on a preppie! At this point, it’s up to you. Wave your arms, wave your arms!! There was a blanket in the room. Surrounded by candles, I said I had to leave. Up the stairs, lost my breath, wanted to turn back, blow out the candle, and expand your repertoire. I feel like I’m being followed, at all times. It’s not exactly what we wanted, or had in mind, ever. Rotting through, passing a kind of police radio, gold tooth. I guess you could say that I had to write it. Just, go to work. They'll never catch me in any backyards. Empty hulls, remain, only. We wish we were what we were. Without this, I’m nothing, in fact, I’m nothing, with it. Keep your thumb on the thing, I don’t think I’m going to succeed. Sometimes, I insist on holding my hand out, other times, I let it be pushed back, against the force of wind. There will be a lot of powerful resistance. Listen to this absolute flip fest, listening to this insanity, seven days a week, and staying here, suckling, like a little piglet. You hate, as much, or more, than any love you feel, I thought I was beyond yelling, and servitude, now, I know, I'll never be. Like a guest on a talk show, the crowd can't believe, how unaware, of how wrong I am, I'm beginning to think this is enough, for one day, but of course, it isn't, it's never gonna' be enough. When things are going well, they shoot you down, when you’re down, no one cares. Do you see some patterns developing, here? I'm standing up, and now, I'm angry! What a dinky, ten cent, hide and seek game. Invisible moon, dark sky, or at least, what you'd call one. An emotional witch, I just want to sit in here, all day. Why don't they know which one comes next? Are they on some pedestal, like inebriation? When I feel like going over there, I will (don't know when that'll be). Mixing together ingredients, I'm the egg, always the yolk, remaining the same, even in convulusion. I like to look like a victimless, crime statistic! All the rice you can eat, for free. Up and down, with both hands, grappling the stick, into the wood, cylindrical tube, up, and down, shake the barrel. Get it all coagulated, use only fresh cream, don't let any stick to the sides, use your finger, if you have to, but wash your hands, first. Hygiene is important, the product takes on your odor, be careful, don't go to fast, or too slow, this is a very delicate process. It must be perfect, or the outcome will be disastrous, nobody will want it. The consistency is important. Remember, the next stop for this, is a dish on a table. No ones looking, but don't be lazy, there's always someone looking on, from behind the barn. Where would I go, how far away can I get? I can't afford the price, in fact, I don't want it, even if it were free. Time, is now crucial. I stand up, it feels like I'm about to have a stroke. It's my job, to pay attention. I'm so soft, in comparison, I never used to be, I'd sound right into the mix. Of all the important things, of all the things I thought I needed, none suffice. Doing nimble knee bends, in the Zen garden, I've tried to fake my way through everything, and I usually get what I deserve; fined, cut, graded down, ignored. This is only relevant, when you consider, that I always expect more, without having to make any effort? This is being overused, a cliche'. The drain bellows out it's indigestion. Everything looks yellow, when you're walking asleep, not in a dream. The endless flow of barbiturates, looking for morning, strung out drug addicts, on the east side of town. Blooming in teacups, defining, ‘gorgeous.' Blatant poets, handling their infatuations, with cherubian abandon. Reading the encyclopedia, they won't catch me misspelling idealism. Hokey, or Bill Erickson, belching in distress? It’s base, droll, and minimal, it’s lacking in any central, or recurring, theme, or point. Like pure filth, in Arabic.
Make up the facts. There will come a time, that they will understand. Oil spill in the soft drink cup, this must be why straws were invented. So he wields his power, like a munchkin. I'm proud to say, I survived two probations. You're becoming like a worn-out religion. Throwing bread into the crowd. Leave me, I need you. Shoulda' been gone. Oh, how partly true. All being said and done, it was a huge mistake, a lived error. You sound like a cat in heat, your touch, is like battery acid. In the book lined living room, there they were; in a little wicker basket, drained eggs. Little holes in the bottoms, where the goo was drained out. For your viewing pleasure! The scandal of the century! The masses are running into each other. I'm nobody's hero, nobody's best man. So that’s where the climate is right. Snot-like, stuck in nose, drive me home. You look very regal, driving this car, kiss me, lost, forevermore. I have slowed down, sufficiently, I am not pleased with all this, any of this, and beyond, way beyond. Maybe tree limb girl, would like some of the action. She has it, whatever it is. It was while imitating inanimate objects, that I decided that I could do more with my life, than I had, up until that point. What is repeated, takes it's time, to settle in. Commercial break, wait for the laughter to subside. I’m warning you, stop that, stop hurting me. The guns were brought out. I am exactly like your ancestors. Listen to your portable guru, in a boom box, logarithm (I can’t reproduce!). There are many moral/ethical reasons, not to. All the bedding, has been greased, we were tickled pink. Well, I'll have none of it! Keep that blasphemy, to yourself. You just sit still, sit still. Next to the corn stalks, regretting, even traces, in the cardigan neurons. Alexandrian ignorance, and interbreeding, pods for the free flown, tribal, est, whipped. Groins with problems, sedentary illnesses. Yeah, driving around, unnecessary overpasses. The launching pad is open, tree flies, populating Bridgeport, high flying, asparagus. Don't look at me that way, profanity is hiring, Libra, misleading, and afraid of heights. We'd hate to see you go. Mopey faces, exploring coffee cups, drip-dry, welcome mats, the smell of fresh ink, is a “woo-hoo," I've seen her street. These things are called pallbearers, put on this band. Rooftop questions, remain unanswered, Hell is in the hammock, they were all on saccharin. Plumb, bee, share the affluence, rig the drive train. Abandoned supper clubs, insurance salesmen, involved in the revolution; square the flea orbits. Hearing this acquisition, lugging Chester, outside. She knows how real everything is, blown away on indignation, elevators. The thousand dollar Truman button, is not much help. A basket in a river, is how I felt there, adrift in the undertow, moisture, leaking through. They all kept trying to give me hope, and bring some color to my face. Stuffed with foam, it will lose it's shape, tastes like gravy, looks like you. Answer the want ad, talk for a change (how can I?). I'd lose out on time for reading, and writing. Excuse #1. We can, I, at least, can justify, and rationalize, everything. You are changed, by remaining the same, by all the things, you do not do. The things you do, really, don't matter, it's the things you lay aside, don't get to, avoid. The Void, can be defined by the above, an utter lack, tension, like enthusiasm. The circles, and lines, don't exist in your brain. For not, mighty, morphine, power, larger, higher. He's a little nervous, forgotten dissonance. I drank a highball, made with gasoline. We speak with accents. The partial slapstick, isn’t funny, anymore. Talking about morality, as if it were a fashion trend. It smells like an old kitchen. Rat on a tattletale. All over my backseat? I'll pay you well, it’s not worth the trouble, of finding it (how much, I'm loaded?). Most experiences, are degrading. Remember to forget, the underlying reality. Moving right along (not really)? Mix it, in mono, blow out of the void. I feel, “already homeless.”
What, maybe, he didn't have the courage to do? During that time, after the war, things were different, the majority opinion, was everybody’s opinion. I don't regret you, for porcelain, but I lace my own shoes. What is the score, how's the weather? You can do better! Morals are falling out of hot air balloons, drifting westward. Walking, arms following the beat, I was a milk box child, graduated, to poster boy. Looking at the scraps left behind, I hate you, for your fake accent, that no one can call her, but me. Watching girls, who's all caught up in the tree lined, what? Making emphasis, like the backseat, to claiming leitmotifs. Melodic scrappings, of metal, on glass. There was a party in there. Problems with rust, and copper roofs. That’s the subtle, hanging upside down, in a tree. Head inside the canon, one 'n', cannon. Give me seven days, in a tank like that, consumer grab bag, take it all back. She's selling food stamps, to make it all work. Whimsy is dead, take a card, obsessional mirror maker, sure, it’s not our problem. Perhaps, the drippings will cease, today. On the pant legs, are found ... puzzles. Go for the tuna plate. They say its only a flag, decluttered, upside down. My idea of refreshment, are some new sorts of antibodies. Inside, you are like a missing button. Try to measure the fluctuating maelstrom! You know it's gone, and it's kinda’ upsetting, or, annoying, yet you just button up the rest, and forget about the ones that are missing. The pale Queen, subsides. An obligation, trust funds, what kind of marriage would that be? I’m not going to let my destiny occur, not that one, anyway. Put this with the clothing we’ll never wear. I can’t even act pleased, with what I’ve done. Unaware of innocence, what is the connection between backaches, and sexual virility? Everything takes so long, seems so impossible. So, who do we think we are, tonight? Let’s do some kind of karate, over there. Been kicked down? The hen will lay it’s eggs. And if you should die, before me, I'll sew up your mouth, before I burn the empty shell. Something I loved, was gone, and I can't even seem to see you alive, inside of me. All your charm, goes up in smoke. I tell you, that it's all too much for me, and medicines won't work - to blur the pain, the cupboard is bare. The sale of indulgences, smoking joint, after joint. Things are getting curioser, indeed. Now, I'm alone, limp to the kitchen, for a midnight snack. First, the bad judgement, so what! Then, traffic cleared, yet, I still had to wait, and fill out envelopes. Why should we have even a passing interest in the portfolio of a dead man? Who am I talking to, thirty something, concrete, lions? I can't even presume to understand, if that’s the game, I'm sure there are lots of players. Last track exception to the rule, maize, made us all act like idiots. Confident quirks, and a hand, for the cutting, pencil, mimes. They were like us, but, quite headless, not into matrimony. Existence was sad, in a happy way. No walking by, privacy, is there such a thing? Infuriated, some, pressures, working, philosophers, thumbs, really trip them out. He wouldn't touch anything, that he'd never seen, she was up most of every night, counting things. Experiences collide, some people don't get the dream. Repeating ourselves, because we are jealous, pulling muscles, or canaries, someone has more fun than me. Half vomit, half burp, some kind of indigestion, yanked in, and out, of the car, for hours, we carry our bodies around. I'm an epiphenomenalist, and I think I have a problem with this. The colors of the vacant field, the crime of looking through the milk box, in line, to take/borrow, deferred alchemy. Pearl faux sights, from dusty windows, there were flies in the sink, rumors of the genocide, sycophants, and orphanages. We heard stories, and made some up, ourselves, while writing an honest biography? Unwrap the self image, do away with it. It was no calling, it was a mental illness. There were drugs in the army helmet.