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Still searching, for a meaningful project, to live for? Fuck meaning, fuck life. There is no such thing as "meaning," and "life," is impossibly, frustrating. "Let me explain something to you" (in the bathroom, of all places). Well, everything would appear to be in order. I will not play with your tits, you frighten me. Well, I just suppose, we turned out like this. Pelt me with dung, and glass, and used rubbers. Three ring binder excruciation, who are you supposedly, "talking to?" Make a few disgusting noises, that pass for speech, I botched the quote, and flooded the ion channel. Thirteen stray pages, has me reaching for the slide and glide. I couldn't understand one word, that the mohawked man, said to me. This is not a massage parlor, where shall we go to get touched? Two steps closer to the lack of a void, now, stand on your head. What is this scribbling, about butt plugging, bowel movements? Moan in Spanish, baby. Transatlantic, Our Lady of Broken Cups. Vomit all over the tome. Gerard doesn't mention cancer causing freon, anymore. It’s going to be another long night under the weeping willow, for you. It’s ludicrous, impossible. Somehow, this cigarette smells, and tastes, like antique, rotting wood. What is the diagnosis? I say that it can’t be, but, it sure as hell is! She's too proud to get down on her knees, to honor Teddy Roosevelt. We have so many damn problems. Doubting the kooks, and re-tiling Gibraltar. Everything has become, quite mauve. There is a guy in the basement, playing in the wet cement. Straight whiskey, is the brand, new, wave, of masculine, and feminine, hygiene, and protection. It takes all I have, to present to you: nothing. Laughing, to convince ourselves, or, just to put others at ease, not due to the inherent humor, of this, or that, event. Consciousness is still, our problem, our illness. Standing in the middle of chaos, with nowhere to go. What is success, and the supposed, "top," anyway? Make what, where? She caught three frogs, in two hours, setting a new elementary school record. Wet towels, mildewed, we rot away. Everything gets forgotten about, sooner, or later. Watching mice, or static, for hours, and hours. Optimism is a subtle vulture/virtue. The electric pelvis? They've got to be kidding. We should be used to life being boring, by now. I am only a caricature, of the self-loathing, young man, who projects his self hatred, outward, and pulls the outward, hatred, inward. Projection works, it always has, two ways. This entire book, every word, can be epitomized in the simple catch phrase that, "I mush myself, and want to piss." All told, what I am, is fucked up in the head. Psychology is never found, because it's invented. We want reality, once, and for all. Philosophy is a rich mans parlor game. We keep most of our moods, and emotions, hidden. My main goal, is to be a genius, even if I’m not. Ideas do not exist. Human beings are storytelling, electrochemical, organisms, and whatever the stories are (or Atomic Theory), they are all fairy tales, in that they, never come true. Whoa, whoa, wait a minute here, wait a minute... The brain isn't ventilated, it stinks in there. This book was designed to be interesting, but interesting ,usually winds up on the cutting room floor. It’s as dull, as another piss. Nuyorican, it’s all about, avoidance. It doesn't matter how, we're determined, it is only important to understand, that we are completely, and unequivocally, snagged, entirely so. All the years, and all the fruitless searches, the drugs, and all the pawing, and slurping, of one another, leads us, nowhere. We cannot change, entropy, is all we have to look forward to. We're left with our topsy, turvy, pointless, lives, we cannot accept it, on principle , we are forced into the molds, that pass us through the phases, of self destructive impulses; into escape hatches, and excuses, defenses, and lies. We try to make the meaningless events, of each meaningless day, meaningful, and how we've managed, to delude ourselves into believing this, throughout the centuries, is a mystery, to me. From day to day, the blockages, the ups, and downs, the inevitability, of it all, anyway. In spite, and with haste, to have someone to blame. There is nothing left to say, that is why I'm silent, not because of my much ballyhooed, lack of confidence, and self-esteem. Then, a feedback laden, outpouring, irrefutable facts, pass in, and out, of fashion, nothing shatters; no sparkles, no shame. Dean showed up looking strange, and was promptly, driven home. We remember France, synthetic, we remember the 1200 square foot, boot shaped, building, spreading herpes simplex, through the entire neighborhood. We're on borrowed time, at all moments. When you don't (can't) alter the behavior, that is causing your own personal hells... on, and off, the back burners of consciousness. I can’t keep doing this, because it won’t make any difference. Collapse the lung bed, into Vista. Dreams, are vague drippings, not worth writing down, analyzing, discussing in coffee shops, or, writing best selling books, about. Fling it, where you found it, partially. Erratic, and fogged, dipped, unchallenged, and safe. These are memories, but (I went insane) memories, can trap us, too. The orange on top of the stocking, is a wonderful memory, but it has something to do with being stuck, as well. Front yard whirly gigs, steel crows, pointing northwest, in the back. Tonight, we meet the girl in the felt pillbox hat, we decide what we want to be, who, we want to be. Was the suicide note, already mentioned, it laid it all down, left no cliché’s, to be bandied around the funeral parlor. Make her moan. Who isn’t chemically dependent, with the way things are set up? Reverence? Associates, of one kind or another, nylon covered sticks, margin notes, in extremis. It’s hard, but, so what? My death won’t even be noted, there will be no obituary written, just a short blurb, about where, and when, the internment will be (if that), and no one will bother to show up. We don't need any dunkings, or revolving boxes. There was a very short sentence, about Macedonian women, but I lost it, and can't remember what it said, exactly. I, "had to get out of here", two years ago. Sure, I'm tired of the Schopenhaur act, but that doesn't make it any less valid. Pessimism, nihilism, skepticism, are extremely valid philosophies, they are not "fun," per se. Not our night, for crying out loud, finish something. What ever happened to your idea, regarding the Socrates (ash can) movie? Hare Krishnas, can be found in the most unusual, and sedated, sections of town. Neutral conversations, are as exciting as stamp licking; those are some very inappropriate, milking maneuvers. My elbows got tired. This is a cry for help, Lord. We’re ready to live, a little too late. We used to write our own magazines.
More boundary anxiety snapshots, talking about being one of those, who make things happen. Ah, so this is the world that we are sick of? Eat your beans, and follow me to the campfire, for a sing-a-long. Tongue, like a salamander, slipping back into chameleon mode, Mr. "Last one to realize". What day-glo orange, bomber jacket? Mental landscapes, only seem, four dimensional. There is nothing to lose, and everything. The "days of wine and roses," are blurry now, gone. Going Hemingway, without realizing it, until it's too late, four, or five, years of (we are all so dull) Universes, colliding together. Leave that, out of this. Another radical issue, another straw poll, my goddamn seatbelt, is broken. You somehow managed to damage me, and it’s my turn, to attempt to damage you, now. They pay us with Toledo, with Greensboro (wherever that is). Wondering to myself, why the mirror is so damned peculiar, with light ray-like, emotion. Dora stumbled in, with stains on her dress. Fake flowers, made of plastic, make for these unsightly funeral blankets. If you look too close, you will dissolve. We now return to our regularly scheduled broadcast, direct from satellite. Our heads were as big as the side of the yard, during the pretense/propaganda phase. Talk about salt in the beard, loose aluminum siding, the poetry reading, after you've run from the scene. In a trance, in the county jail. The reason for writing them down, is because they're fleeting, in an all out effort, to remember the pumpkin pin. Momentary ecstasies, you can lime, and you can lemon. The environment contains, many, many, "answers". He stumbled drunk, into the crisis hotline center, screaming, "hey, you fucks". Don't expect all sunshine, and cereal, was what they were trying to get across. Bark, bark we're dead, then... erasing the blackboard, with our tongues. Everyone will be safe, and sorry, the long stretch through the subculture, landed him smack dab, into what "they" were doing, all along. Let the cat chew the straw. My twitching, is becoming less, and less, frequent. So much so, in fact, that I think, I'm cured. That was the, "turn left on Drake Road, song". Deirdre's hands, make for fantastic rock, paper, scissors. A hat lies somewhere, decomposing, what large, wooden, hiding place? Rajwei was teetotaling, and rocking out, I am a semi permeable, membrane. Pigs sleeping against the barn? 30cc's-but, that's impossible! Coal yards, tabloids, green beer, equates to no more Tai Chi cowering. Too many miles already, tied into this cubicle, computer smells, old air. I'm already ashamed, of the degree, and the discussions, of Baby Lunia. It’s pretty scary. Come out with your hands up! Yet another, lollipop reference? Transmission problems, financial problems, with the pretense of, "simplifying our lives". Well, the "trick," of it, is that one can't possibly know, that he's like, unconscious; until it's made conscious, for him. They keep us quiet, with medicine, and soothing words. It's plutonium time, kids. To become one of the dismissable. Say hello, Rhinelander, Wisconsin! Bleak, black, monks fuck, too, when nobody's looking. My umbilical cord, was saved, long after it dried up to the size of a shirt collar button. It takes everything you’ve got, and then some, then, you discover that, somehow, it’s just not good enough. The inimitable smell of pencil shavings, in a removable, sharpener compartment, and it seems like they poured it all over our food. What the hell was her name? My entire central nervous system, is aligning against me. And from Pittsburgh, we’ve got Judas Iscariot, on piano. It all costs way, way, too much. I know nothing, which is to say, that I am part way, wise. The big questions, are only presented in a primer of, or, intro to. This paper plate does not need to be reused. I used to dig it, when she would talk about herself in the third person, unknowingly. This is the fear. Inebriated, this is Mars, this is Venus DeMillo, calling. I'm into split finger launching pads, solipsistic orgasms. The crying, was to remind us of our blackout surprises. Curling lane, to lane, let’s have some fun . Put the poets into the black stretch limo, that's waiting at the curb. Peter Puff-Puff, on the horizon, catering to the descending pigeons. To "build a better atheist," is to melt away the face plate, get rid of the mascara, to deny immediacy. The statues seem to be looking in that general direction. Popping common sense pills, talking about the great, new, marketing strategy, and whipped cream, sex fests. I stole your fish, and trophies, fellas. We're all pantheatrical, and stoned. Dandelion fluffies, are floating up, and down, the street, in the distance; always, why? Nate called me a woman, he was not entirely wrong. Frillies create themselves, by getting up early for work, and still, reeling drunk. Reflect on your essential pointlessness. Even if I leave, I'll still be here. Delight us, at the rifle range. Becoming queer again, three deep breaths, people sitting in chairs, across from each other. Holding up the wall, as if that gazebo, were any different, from any other, we've been in before. Land shark, waving across the threshold, with pale faces, and green/red water. Lobster tails, trick of fins, on lettuce, love strangulation’s, right in the middle of the Tony Italiano Hour. Another caffeine caused aneurysm, some kind of mansion imitation, the inside of their coats, are very clean. Obscene, obscure, obtuse, oblong; who cares? Snakes, and their wraparound copulations. I could write your vaudville act, but I don’t want to, see? The severe dissonance, will continue, as will the hopelessness, and despair. As simple as can be, wasn't simple enough, in retrospect. We all have one month, one week, one day, to live, and no one gives a shit. Consider this a loop de loop, of chittering, and quipping. It’s as if I am playing cat and mouse, in a cage, with a T-Rex. Perhaps, this will prove to be worth it, someday.