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Hooray for clucking chickens, fish, and mimes. The worms aren't invisible, just kind of, see-through. And they fall, like we all do, and feed on watery eyes. Cut out cartoon pictures from magazines, and coloring books, put them in a bag. Running, and splashing my way through the campus fountain, of course, the cold walk home. Poppy eaters, are shattering our foundation of democracy. Let the city state, fall, these are the cries of those who couldn't care less. So much the same, but the flowers still looked like Eskimos, they didn't take the time to understand me, at all. A lot of loose change lies around the room, with my name on it. Opaque, if we'd have taken the time. Time, that we have too much of (if we're lost, within ourselves). Along the same lines, I found my"self," to be no more than a case of mistaken identity. Sitting in the clowns dressing room, deciding to ourselves, that they're really not that funny. Hey, tell her I'm nice, and smell like oil. Mere imagery, infatuation, bursting, from one side of the room, to the other, chanting, "how can they go from that, to this"? The fish, drying out, and dying, in the white, mesh tomb, is the perfect example, for explaining the concept of realism-anti-thesis. Months, and months, years, and years: yeah, yeah, yeah. Surrounded by the dashboard, and rattling noises. The molasses-like feelings, after many dreamless nights. Not vicious, uninterested; open your lips a little bit, for the infidelity on ice, show. Obscurity, the buckshot technique, eventually, we stop waving to trains. What's so nasty about stool softener, except, most don’t imbibe? The goth, punk, funk, bitch? The tollbooth thieves, the ones who kiss everybody. Responsibility, and guilt, anger, shame, discipline. Coming off another self-destructive streak/spree, the signal, trash cans, overflowing in Mesa, Arizona, was not enough to keep me from limping around the parade grounds. Financial news, market data, arguments, and long distance travel. It means something else, now. Cold winter heatstroke's, black, barren, lost lunches. This is just a small part of the parade. "More and more radically", equates to a tea cup ride. Waste another day. Count the items in the basket. For the most part, it’s out of our hands. No reason needed, for a good mood, a nice day. Dive into the deeper, and more tumultuous, waters, go over the fence, and into the restricted areas. Lighting cigarettes, transforming the atmosphere from this, to that, in some fringe scientist's, wet dream. It's like, uh-oh, the anticipated variables theory, blown apart by a word, a wayward molecule. Gratify yourself on your fetishistic, free range, actualities. Avoid the bastards, at all cost. In the next to last scene, we get delirious. The game can be lost by forfeit, if you refuse to play. Any thoughts of Buddhism being viable? Check into it. Disengagement, detachment? Who'll pay for the casket? What do we do for fun, around here? Driving around to convenience stores! We, act not. Having been defeated, in our quests for grander schemes, for our own benefits, alone. The creep has been defined, and demagnetized, lying on wood tables, and thinking about who knows what! Everyone started driving, like she did, with rhythmic convulsions, even though they all knew, she was prone to seizure activity. Don't steal dolls from peoples set up, outdoor, homes. Echoes caused the ghost, to hopscotch. Fucking "what's her name," for lack of anything better to do. The challenge that normalcy posed, was not possible to solve, given the periodically literature, that we were handed. I couldn't pretend, like everyone else seemed to be doing, that I was "profoundly moved," by what passed for brilliance, in the 1700's. So, I slipped back into my crib, and haven't really emerged, in years. Society insisted, I put up some resistance, but ended up complying, after all. As for the instant, I call, write, visit, explain.... got dumb, real fast, and was embarrassed about it, but only at the time, and it didn't last long. I'd forgotten all about dying, and was caught up in the problem of trying to live. It was so easy to get sick of ourselves, being battered around the rooms, as we were. I get crazy about trailer parks, not ironically detached. I became kind of professional, fillet, swarming into the wigwam, trying really hard, to blend in, and get sane. Happy birthday, even if you’re dead. Like everybody else, I tried to improve my life, make something of myself, and, like many others, I was left unchanged, unaffected, in short, left high, and dry. Nothing changes, happens, matters, we find out nothing can. In other words, who cares? It doesn't matter what we do, we wind up dead, and not leaving much behind, it's sad, but, only in a way, because there isn't anything to be, or become, there is no way to, "improve ourselves". We're duped, that's all, and it doesn't matter that we are, except that nothing is added in, or subtracted out, no matter what we do. The spice rack, needs to be cleaned, I clear my throat, constantly, hacking, and snorting my way into Nirvana. Freezer burned tongues, bad attitudes. They can eat your face. What? Whoa, that's a good one, you really threw me, there. Dave had on a boddivistra outfit, for no apparent reason. The border between this, and that, is like tingling sensations in your legs, from the leg-less. Refuse to, “talk about it.” You can’t stop any of it.
Round three, in the heavyweight championship, to kid ourselves, again, and again, to slip, and collapse, knee deep into melancholy, but still, to keep both knees off the ground, still holding onto the ropes. The most absurd characatures, are anti. The Russians, took the stage. The same small, country grocery store, everything is hillbilly, and the same. Make it be, what it isn’t. They’ll put me in a camp, for sure. The trend of the nose ringed girls, the sitting around, waiting for something exciting to happen, to grow into our own rows, to slowly, watch bleach blonde hair, fade into brown, again. The gene splicing controversy, bedroom blending, chameleons, big time, lost following, feeling like a fruit cup. Fuck the view from the top of the parking structure, the assumed names, ages, and birthplaces, the toast of the chosen few. The tape ran out, toward the end of the discussion, always conveniently, lunching in the Flamingo Room. The bouquet fell to the ground, untouched. It’s absolutely pointless (but, shhh, that’s our little secret). The smell of the smoke, or the smell of the fire? It’s a dismal, little dittie, we composed it yesterday. How dare you get inside my head, and disrupt my equilibrium, yes, there will be a reversal. Hundreds of years, seem to pass by, in the span of mere, hours. My shame seems to go really deep down. The recurring dream, of the figure, who never answers my questions. No more lilac, for the year. I mean, how do you make it different? Jump starts, with electrodes on my nipples. To be so unceremoniously, brought up on charges, for a few comments, off the record, at a girl’s, camp jamboree. There is no such thing as regret, there was, but, I got wise, or, ambivalent, rather. Seminary masturbation… still ice skating, if you know what I mean. To not throw one’s life away, on things that can never be believed in. Dream girls, find shit stains in pants, to be a turnoff. I'm doing all of the talking, to myself, in the corner of the coffee shop, again. No coherence, just flip, flop, random mileage, ex-fears, ex-inabilities, ex-plans for the future. More fanciful notions, more blending contradiction, and paradox, into nonsense, and absurdity, ridiculousness. Endure the crotch. Morning rollover accidents, old diary entries, about suicide, death, nothingness, insanity, lies....these days, I really don't care. This is going to take a long time, I'm afraid, but it must be done. Looking at thc cobwebs, and dirt piles, in the wrong way? Stoned, but testing negative in the drug test I took, in hopes of being a janitor, at a parking structure, the same one we used to hide out, on top of. Forget the queer wrestling moves, move on. Abandon me, please. Dreams of, and/or about, projectile vomiting, cursing out the boss, shaking hands with someone, while wearing gloves, at the time. Picking scabs, and dandelions, in the side yard. The family dog has been sprayed by a neighborhood skunk. Sure, I knew all the sorority girls, especially, the ones I bled all over. Then, trying to explain myself, and that nothing mattered, a little blood must be spilled, etc. Barefoot, just filling up the raincoat, with magnets, and sobriety chips. With retrospect, with this twenty-twenty hindsight, it's plain to see, that all the of those glorious things, beautiful things, never meant two whit’s worth of anything, at all. These are dangerous times. There was snow, and pornography, everywhere. Tooling throughout Pontiac, in defiance of all murder statistics. Blacking out entirely, and going for a little stroll. I have this tendency to appear, and disappear, in peculiar, and mysterious, ways. Two hours gone, is just the beginning, given the way I've been doing things. The ridiculous, became me. "Horrible sentence structure", she hissed. Wisdom, is like an enema, that you give yourself. I do not need any of your pussy hole, redundant. I mumbled, half-aloud. This infernal, internal, critic, must be eliminated, at all costs. I've spent the last four years, crossing metaphysics, with alpha-hydroxy lotion-to no avail. No more questions, it's time for some answers, not about the nature, of man, or the universe, but about your own flesh, blood, brain, and shit. Me and my image, with scrawny arms, no grip , no real power. I am "everybody else", I just haven't quite accepted it yet, apparently. Most of the last project, hasn't even been glanced over, since the first time it was jotted down. The coat hanger superhero, that somehow survived, the endless prickings, by invisible hands. Now, I emit ashtray enthusiasm. Uncertainty is the anvil on my earlobe, prosthetic limbs. Shall I elaborate, here? No, I think that's been gotten across. I'm reminded to take my medication, and to not bite people. I am already immune to Chinese water torture, but think I already wrote that, somewhere, earlier. Can't go on, sure, I can, it's gonna’ happen, no, it's not. To pull the string, slip my way out of this mess, in my limited way, with my limited resources.... to drive around the world. This is not the real me, I'm not quite my I, yet. Somewhere in between, doing whatever it is, we have to do. "No other possibility," etched in the solid oak counter. Self-confidence, power, et.al, really don't have anything at all to do, with what gets done. Revere the confused, the inconsequential. Even after all this, I’m still searching for reasons, and meanings, explanations, solutions… to the kinds of things that don’t have any, at all. On the heels of madness, I snap. There was a lot of pain.
I attempted to fashion my prosaic whims, with multiple teeth. Would you mind terribly… changing your pants? No doubt, I shall have my critics. They were shittake mushrooms. This is the key to my thought, and behavior, not that you should, or do, care. I can read in between the lines, not the lies. After the fever broke, of "how I thought things were supposed to be", I doubled over in my lap, and induced vomiting. Back in the day, dignity, was the last thing on my mind. What do divorced parents, have to do with the future success, or failure, of their offspring? To take a steak knife to a stick of butter, to drag it to the bean, on the lip. Perhaps, there were a few things that I did, that were "a little bit extreme,” but who will take thc chicken out of the freezer, after I'm gone? And now that I know, why did I ever want to? This schedule, those oh- so important, things, that needed to be completed, or else. The value of all this work, must lie in the middle of some page, somewhere, this can't be all for nothing. Theories of personality, not a guide on how to obtain, one. A sullen, cheese aftertaste, the quickest way, brown shirt, means lose weight, wicker baskets, and potpourri holders, are all over the vacated room. Well, it was so soft, so plush, that I couldn't call it toilet paper. Leaner times, past, meaningful scribbles, more blanket statements, about paradox, without an accompanying explanation. Hickory sticks, were swung. Rewind to the end. We went into the neon and didn’t come out. Don't let them, like a hammer, drive you deep into the wall; don't listen, don't answer, don't do anything at all. People who "have something to say", usually don't say it. Racism still exists. This is what happens, towards the end. Burning candles until the wicks are gone, fiddling with math books, and television remote controls, leaning back in the chair. Disgustingly negative, true, and real, nonetheless. To the first joint of whatever finger, stains . Talking about cremation plans, and pre-arrangement, but will probably get a grave plot, whether I want one, or not. Holding our tongues, and swallowing them, too, if it were possible... lying there in the snow bank, bloodied, all things were equal, and spinning around. Nothing was particularly rational, or humorous, except for the description of the thicket. All the thoughts that we "meant to share," are now forgotten, anyway. Seconds remain, in the infinite loop of memory, two-fold approximations. Turned off, turned loose, and off. Oh, give me long term, clinical, psychotherapy! I need a lot of money, this shyness act, needs to fade away. The world won't let us be, what we want to be. Announce that we are bigger than the world, that we were all God, Christ, Buddha, Mary, and Joseph, rolled into one. After the check is cashed, we can stand on corners, and sleep in graveyards. Easy money, airy ambience, untouchables, time on our hands, crumpled up pieces of paper. More tragedy, picked up on the ham radio, concluding with: "plus the killer, who blew his own brains out". The investigation continues, into the claims made by a man, that brain atrophy, made him compulsive. Officers fired rubber bullets into the crowd, which had gathered around Lardo's Superb Foods, a coil of steel, blocks the right lane. Befuddlement is enlightenment, my anger is in a dead, kind of numb, state. Rumors were confirmed today, that a necrophiliac is roaming the corridors of the county morgue. Thousands poisoned in the gas attack, semen, fresh semen, was found in the slightly decaying sixty year old's, corpse. We made the incognito appearance, on the way back. Oh, the faces they'd make, the skirts they'd wear; bitching about the new stop sign, trying to travel back in time, correcting past mistakes. As if some kind of breakthrough had been reached. I kept mumbling in the corner booth, that something is very, very wrong. I look through you dirty laundry basket, and find outlines for essays, that I'll never write. From the new Hong Kong condominiums, going up by the freeway, you can see every flipped over car accident, every street sign, formula. With guilt complexes, and headaches, they look for reasons to go on living, they say to themselves, that there are none to be found, then, they go out for some aspirin, and forget the whole thing ever happened. A demonstration of how to fall down, is about to commerce. The charade game, can burn, and these sayings, are pure nonsense, excuses, and pollyanna whining, a result of childhood conditioning. It used to be, this road, was gravel. My gallon tank equation, had me perplexed, and underlining what was thought to be important enough, to put in quotation marks. The rubber band snaps, stretches, snaps, stretches, and there isn't any end to it, but why should there be? Philosophy, that former lover in the forest, was finally portrayed, as the "beyond luxury," waste of time, that it really was/is. Archery games, a lazy mans excuse, my former mask, my former excuses. The wolves are at the door, and they are screaming about Portland, and Seattle, cough syrup. By, or because of, love, liver, or law, we put the bottle down, as for what that's all about... the string was broken. This is our cause, our raison d’etre. The cake is burned. Love the girl at the Custard Cup!