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FISH! This is declaration number one. Instinctual fish, forward momentum, on a crystal shotgun. Elephants squealing, for hot pretzels. Cranking Seminoles out, and discussing biodegradability. This is what I (Gott ist tott)... Transactional dialectic, for your fingertips. Wear the stolen black panties, tonight. Groin rubbed, anatomy lessons, gender bending, on I-94, west. I guess I’m just not smart enough. The nerdy days, are mostly, gone. Laughing in the middle of the news telecasts, show your bra who's boss, sister. It’s time to pack it in, I’m done. Blow off classes, doodling in the margins, get out of my house, or I'll blow you brains out, buddy. Was it, take a left into the cornfield? One, two, three,hold your breath, and jump! The view from nowhere, looks an awful lot like the view from right here. Painted on a two headed body, that's me, in line behind you. The differences between the annual, and the return, I ran like a rerun, into a vacant warehouse, someplace. It all comes back to the book. We kept regretting things, before they even happened. I want to know her, biblically. Ride the anxiety out, right off the split screen. The familiar town, that I'd never been to before, trains going by, deer in the field. She evidently, didn’t wear any underpants. Presumptuous letters sent, that were really, not true. We tried to get the bird out from in between two walls. All of the beautiful colors, have faded out. The peanuts, were roasted, right there. Clap marathons, refusing our medication, crying, and hitting ourselves; it's hard to tell who the caregivers are, and who's in need of care, themselves. Sex is a myth, of the California teasers. Sad, as our inspiration to get out of the pit? The time is now, in all respects, to act like a surrealist, this is the ballad of the keen observer, the pickle barrel man. The answer, of course, ends with more question marks. Double sided accuracy, makes us all cry out, with dead feet, dead legs. Another frantic downturn, another unstoppable bout, of uncontrollable laughter. "Next exit," bellows fatty, when he sees the bill¬boards for fast food. Lights in the back room, sparkling, and flickering, like fireflies, in cattail patches. I've jump started my Caligula, for something more appealing. The old hours, and hours, of cup, after cup, dynamite exclusives, were probably imagined! The dirt itself, was screaming at me, scolding me; over where I always used to see old man Cohen, the earmuffs, the bread on the side. I will not allow myself to be mediocre, or, be called such. Put it in a frame. The collapse, is complete, and there is nothing to be said about it, save for, "I am totally responsible, I willed it". Sacre bleu! An insane kind of gaiety, to turn up all the way. Crooked, alcoholic, the uncharted, misdirected. The time to turn into butter, is now. Crackling biceps, the hardened snot, flew out of my nose, off a chair, and fell onto the floor. "If gravity is working, it's magic", I said. Pour ethics on him, bankrupt us all. They checked the (pickle it, pickle it) dental records, on the body, because it's head was wrapped up in cellophane tape, so tight, that it could not be removed. Well, nothing matters, in the "great scheme of things," Traico-Germanic, leaping off into the darkness, and favoring his left leg. The woman in the passageway, between two doors. The big dead, rotted out shell of a carcass, the empty hull. The writing is on the wall, but I can't read it, it's smudged, the handwriting is atrocious. Write it all down on a pizza box. Drifting into the bathroom tile grout. The penis bent, but it still writes. "That's nice," they always say, after I shimmy over, and say something. These are the in-between times. Cut evenly, sliced, or chopped. What strange words we write, on the back of our hands. Zoned out again, in her own world, most assuredly, on something. Fine, but what have I learned? No gas in the tank. A slap in the behind, of all things human. Working in the aviary, sweeping up shit. But....not but's. Can I just paint? I mean, there are no stories to be told. Binding, and blinding, first decisions, the atoms are already falling out of their molecular formations. Balzac! The worlds largest swap meet/gun and knife, show. I dislike ping pong, only purchased all these books, to waste money on. Half an egg shy, of a lobster flambe! Books about books? The skeleton soup, and happy, jerk off, monkey toy. I thought I saw a bunch of people standing over by the hotel. People painting people.... and so on. A scratch on the sole of your foot, that you can't reach. Ah, the manic depressives amusement park, I just touched the controls, and this pod takes off, spinning around, like a whirling dervish, on mescaline. Crawl under the fence. What’s important, right now, is for me to take this karmic crap, and garbage, out to the cosmic curb, to be scattered, and redistributed. To leave this nowhere, for another, would be extraneous. Three hundred years, of nothing. Ruined, by baklava, and figs.
Where’s Nate? Visible galaxies? Take out, an apocalyptic sky is brewing. A vicarious catharsis, or something. Slippery tongues, worm my brain away. Whip in hand, at the country thump, and jive. The trees are screaming, and out to get me; terrorized, lost, dark, nuts. Staring long, and hard, into the gutter, to see what winds up there. This is it, this is what's going on. Terrified of my wife, “just not right", reminders, the whole picnic idea, my disease. To celebrate my pointless, fruitless, search for an agent, I started smoking again! I doubt that I ever did exist. Wound up, set free, back to the chains, again. Make sense of the scrawl. They rode bikes. There is grease all over the bag. Which line? To fuck or kill, that was the real, goddamn question!? What, poetry? Kick line, that, and drive recklessly. Pella, Macedonia, you are a weirdo. My skeleton danced, without me. The opposites, are the most alike. I came back from the war, a little bit different. Laminated, hub-bubbing, around fictional landscapes. Super high tech, feedback machines, what do we do? Shuffle papers around, run! Where? The room is puttered around in, two fish plates, hundreds of empty, aluminum cans. In an effort to escape boredom, we destroy ourselves. Within minutes, the project is completed. There are shit stains all over my underwear, and I don't care. Major financial problems, social problems, psychological problems. Glow in the dark moon muck, discovered. We can't win, but, so what, in regards to everything? This is what I write, years have slid by, nothing changes, matters, fuck it all. I am stupid, but, most people are. Rectified, solved (doubtful)? But, I did take a lot out.... blowing my nose on old shirts, and pieces of bread. Two, or three hats, missing suit coats, echoes in our heads, pretty girls, giving up, moving out, and into somewhere, a lot less warm. Not flushing the toilet, because I can't stand wasting so much water. We find out our limits, as individuals, and it’s always disappointing. I have spilled, and cleaned up, but there is still a stain. There are two, or three, openings, on this page, alone. The hangers, the way they get intertwined. Never met the crew on Park Street, collection agencies, insanity given, and it's too late, now. This is the part that needs the most attention? A huge paper mache carrot, with the illusion of fire, reflections in the window pane. Retirement, island life, I can still taste the alcohol in my mouth. The phone is off the hook, yet, ringing, people are fucking, planes are crashing, hands being shaken, change is required. You're the captain! All there is to do, is drive. All I could do was spit, during the post nova, tropical storm. There is always some new thing to deal with. Back to Kilometer Lake. More, and more see-saw, hee-haw, yelling, and screaming. Where's that diagram of the desperation/futility, fulcrum? I don't know anything about the original flavor, but someone must have cut their hand over the sink, and not cleaned up after themselves. Things are all, or nothing, now, in every daily affair, no middle ground. Nice, blowjob practice, on fruits, and vegetables. Mexican jumping bean people, are excited about their lives. Five years lost, in three dimensions. Unsavory aspects of a man’s character, the personal diary, of an utter madman. Separating wheat, from chaff, is getting really boring. Sticks of fake butter, sitting on top of the stove, to get peoples associations rolling. Potato salad, sitting in a car, eating it all. This is the comets trail, of what we thought, versus indifference… it works, for a couple of months. The pummel horse deceived me, and gave me a "backwards erection". Fingers pointing, and voices shaming. The place triple dosed me, and now, I'm punchkining, gesunheits! What was that lady saying? I have the facts? Snuff me out, with the clues that I have provided. Luck peeled me, and threw me over by the cotton gin. The Wainwright building is falling down, and I cannot believe that this does not shock everybody, that it's not a cross cultural phenomenon. I poured my heart out to a stranger, in the liquid tofu section, on Bastille Day, 1986. My shoes are blending in with the underbrush. Pinging around, and taking too much time. Right in front of you, cursive writing They probably do fart around you, on purpose. The sounds are those of a heater running on high, and soda being sipped, through a straw. We don't ever really know, what we're hoping for. The coffee tastes better over there, because there is something wrong with their water supply. South of the Mason Dixie Line, or wherever it was. Silly, little, sea monkeys, that guppy, evolving, then, scraping itself to the shore, specify, wings, learning, only through failure, after failure. Flunk us, we scream, so that we'll be sure, that we learned something. Safe no more, floundering, and epileptic, episodes, sometimes, gestures. It finally felt cleaned off. Oh, well, fold it in half way, put it somewhere in the middle. It's not as if order, and regularity, were interesting, anyway. Looking forward to the day I quit. This is more or less fucking, in a round about way. I didn’t feel I deserved new shoes. An upside down, and turned on, television, with bad vertical hold. Someone wants me, dead. Avoid stupid people, with things to sell. The simplest things, are the most baffling. E, I, E, I, O (next thing you know, you’re forty). We need vocabulary, awareness, living, is nearly impossible, so we clip, and tune, serve, report, gossip, wizz, piddle, and puff up our feathers. Dragging the dog, anger, I'm not one of those. Sue me, it would be a fitting ending to this nightmare.
My "frustrations," were just so much diddle in the sheets. Recent developments from the land of nod... nothing has changed, will change-ever! Drives in the country, killed a couple of years. High on India Ink, again. Chemical company lawyers, swimming, and singing, "this one's not polluted". Put down the pencil, I just want to be able to answer my own questions. Brain, to voice, to air, to ear, and back again, in a continuous loop, that doesn't solve anything. Stuck in the cerebellum, and there is no trephoning available, or, our insurance won't pay for it. Crunching with the numbers, I stuck my hand in the stove, and then in the sink. Hiding in the laundry room, making all the noises I like to make. The towel is underneath my ass. I am looking at the paper plates, and thinking about the motives behind my actions. This is molecular, has a lot to do with your daily behavior. The mannequins in the store window, define the kind of town you are living in. Desperately seeking nothing, though, that's not what it looks like, we're doing. My shoes are squeaking, and the blood is turning blue/green, breathing heavy, and lying on a heating duct. Accidentally washing my hair with bleach, then, years in a stupor. Observing rusted buttons, searching for truth, in between the sections of the couch. Hinting, only hinting, at everything I wanted to say. Woodward was fading, in, and out, the white, or yellow, hues, on the shoulder, were pointing off, into the car in the far left lane (not good signs). Now, can this new aversion therapy, get rid of these urges, doctor? Most days, are just geysers going off, every fifty two minutes, with no significance beyond that (wait (geyser), then, go home). The clowns bout, and the placenta, shifts. Death is an annihilation, the entity of fear. Ahem, oh, amen, amen. Now, for the yes, the no, save your shoes! Aggression turned inward, to never agree, to never sign. Two weasels, one way out. The wall is not really any color. Why would the Gestapo mod squad, be knocking down my door, at this hour? Corn silk masks, to hide the blemishes, I'm billowing, half fresh, thinking of flipping my monster truck. Neo-nihilism, is flailing on the bed. Some myths have ceded, I'm still quite dead, still no clear, diplomatic way of going about this. Beyond life, three days in the sensory deprivation tank, emptier, and emptier. Seeing black, hearing silence, wondering how I ever thought there was anything else. The repetition, is what kills the creative sort, mopping every day, same, this, same, that, same everything. Slowly, but surely, the artist in us, rots away, and is quickly burned, forgotten. Bitterness, and angst, have their own cynical appeal, welcome to the group, we are the truly damned. All maybes, all chance. No more heartbeat. To forget, and forget, and forget. My hands look crippled, but beautiful? Chance events, and mere exposure. Looking at arms, all will be for naught, if you continue to live a life of mental constructs, if you keep thumbing your way around the problem. Was it a voodoo, love experiment? No! Where is that incense smell, coming from? What lasts, is an accident. Get out your tools. Casting the demons out, by shotgun blasts, is not the answer. That’s not milk. The thick layer of dust, is yellowish, mauvey, colorlessness, in a word, nondescript. Some game was being played. Re-fill the trough… It takes close inspection, of the ashes, and dust patterns. On the inside, a rip, a division. Right now, a hair from my head, or an eyelash, maybe, is stuck to my hand, and trailing it across the paper, as I write these words (it keeps hanging on). Day in, day out, listening to the white noise. Water is dangerous, so are words. Gone, are the days of transitional words, transactional analysis. A fear, bridges, and wind, food, to focus our attention on. Sandpit serenades, no enrichment, spider bites, infatuation. Just like light bulbs, we've clicked off...and on. To be honest with you, it is already too late. If nothing is what we're searching for, we're doing a great job. You are being tracked. Make a face, have a clue, dig a ditch, set something on fire. Only moving our eyes across the page, flirting, flitting, from scratch, to scratch, mark, to mark. The in and out motions, create friction, bang, and it’s over. Cut all ties, break all bonds, stop being the way you are. Heat emanates, from a central, control system. Winter, and percussion rhythms, but seemingly, responding to an order, of sorts. Social acceptability, drifts, and slithers, at you. Expandable commodities, with their fingers up their asses, while laying on sofa beds, on their left sides. Love is like an enema, that we give to ourselves. Read people, interpret people, like art murals. The doorknobs, will far outlast, anyone on this world. Not normal fingers, Hepatitis B: death of a vampire. Halloween, is our Christmas. Slaps in the face, with a wet fish; fish everything, fish everywhere. Self-help books, never seemed to do a whole hell of lot of good. Looking, just looking, deep, and contemplative. Mockeries, and mere halves, shoes made of clay, or they look like it, in this light. Patrons are affected, dentists, are annihilated. More chance events, more petty excuses. Bloating in Mexico, doing our own Vietnam, right here. Being standoffish, and indolent, not doing anything, nor, accomplishing much. Whining about dullness, tediousness. Always, "growing up", nothing to prove (or lose). I've seen the ivy covered buildings, and dark, and exclusive, night clubs. Fantasies about coffee, with what's her name, and dinners, with who's his face. Three years apart. Or, be made of ether, wet, with pseudo perspiration, and fashionably late. Society needs men, construction worker men, with construction worker hardons, to work! False hopes, wrong books, one of a kind, doesn't mean much, any more. I wanted to be Syd, for about a week. Too many reality checks? It’s really only difficult, when I pause. Repair the fan above the stove. Now, my wrist is bending too far, inwards.
After, procrastination has done it's damage, after the "so be it." There is no time, for one of my atypically, typical, manifestoes. Back to the sandbox, I am going to let the rest of this sentence, trickle off.... It's time to throw away everything we own. Now, a free flowing, ramble through. Eyes like a tattooed spider, this is who, "the hidden, are"? Wall flowers forgotten.... this is the old stuff. Washing hands, never separating from the bunch, the herd. Let this be a love poem....let that be an anathema. Whatever happened to all of the Emily type gals? Pimp, whore, fractions! Spatio-temporal posturing, bulk, and motion, primary, and secondary properties, some sort of declaration, by someone, somewhere. No matter how much, we may try, it would appear, to be impossible, to know what we're feeling. I don't think anything’s really, "figured out." Kindly ask that Buddha figure, to stop staring at me. What provides, "more of a kick," than invitrofertilization? The faint, but prominent, sounds, of a radio, hissing, and crackling out, secret messages, sounds, that even deaf people are affected by. Dreams, left unlived, on the floors of our living rooms. Freon is a conversation starter, as are, micro ceramic pens. Euclid was right, when he predicted that I would only sit on the couch. I've got to find the edge-sharp, blurry, or otherwise. Then, we can ignore everything else, then, we can live out these new, or newer, ideas, we had. This is some anachronistic, alias. To see the wastelands, to take pictures of the styrofoam. Clever, clever, but not on Thursdays. Limited by the instruments we were using, meaning, all some people could see in the microscope, were their own eyelashes. Broken cigarette lighters, say a lot about a person. Heels dipped in tar, the whiff of lilac, the research is complete. Tin can breath, tripping over boots, and books, and shoes, or something. Rewinding our lives, that have been fine, so far. Ill regarded, backs, and necks, beginning to twist, out of order. Going from inappropriate, to inarticulate, in the span of three days. No light, no darkness, no sight, no sound, everything inverted, and “not quite right”. Could have, always thinking, "could have". Huh, what? A question of handwriting analysis, handshakes, and "what's your sign"? Is it true, that dirty hands, mean dirty minds? We thought some pretty nerdy things, were really, cool. It is not a big deal. After this trick is played, not much remains. He showed up late, short of breath, with stains on his pants. The mob beat the man down to the ground, with their fists. So far to go. When bored and/or, stressed, I smoke, hence, two, or three packs a day, are consumed. Try to keep the bones dry, for us. Hack out the too revealing. This dancing, is a strange mating ritual; waffling, fascinating, sex smells, in the old factory; lubes, driving everybody mad. Androgynous beasts, pulling on breasts; runny yogurt, sponging sophistication, lint on the floor, eyes bobbing, no cutlery. Stolen roses, rotting in the closet. Another guide to immaturity, bears, overtaken by the fumes. Gorging, and regurgitating, the young woman, is disgraced. Time is the enemy, one of them. It’s no use giving a diagnosis, of a dead patient, amongst other things. Evil, is the oil, in society’s car. All wishes denied, by default judgment. What a freakish character, we must appear to be, with our mummy masks, and sunglasses. Repair the robot. Space filler, clipped out later, with rusty scissors. Don't even try to buffalo her, tonight. No interesting girls, anymore, looking at people in my group therapy session. In the mood for some of that sideshow singing, and dancing, in other words, turn on the fan. Where's the missing page? Should I be so bold, as to go over the mispronounced words, and present them as part of the Sanskrit language? Make it a lot crazier. Salute her veal shank, and cutlets. Inflated balloons, glass eye collectors, inflatable women, with "love grip hands". Black, and blue, ink blots, bumbling, over dandelion roads. My essence, has become another. Then, for no reason, Mesmer walks in, with a long, flowing robe, and turban. People are depressed, staring into the corners, where the refrigerator used to be. This could be bad. Pancake face reminiscing, after all these years? It's proximity alone, that gives me an erection, every fifteen minutes, not anything she does, or doesn't do. See the UPC, on my upper forearm, that's a sign of things to come. I thought you had a chiropractor’s appointment? What kind of circle, was he trying to square? Be persistent, and embarrassed, by the department. Circles of light, reflecting around circles of words. Just went out and bought a beer. To celebrate, but there is nothing worth celebrating. Getting more desperate than usual, the ugliness of everything, randomness, predictability, haphazard glory. To drink the beer, before going into the theater, but the theater hasn't opened yet. My invisible friend, more of an invisible nemesis, invisible enemy. Nothing more, yeah, yeah, yeah. Now, I have a little exercise that you must try at home: hoot, pfft. Hoot, pfft, hoot, pfft. Try this, c'mon. Hoot, pfft. Hoot, pfft. Hoot, pfft. Hoot-like an owl, kind of, but actually say, "hoot". Then, like you're showing disgust at something, or don't believe something, "pfft". That's it, now try it on your friends, new sound effects. Be warned, that this is highly addictive, be careful! Take leave from Stinkpot, oh, no, not that, again. Weakness, shortcomings, self perceived, slanting, in the negative direction. Thoughts have a mind of their own, most times. Good books, are only deemed good books, because someone with power, and authority, tells you they are. Shit, to destroy evidence now, would be nigh, impossible. This is not a crossword puzzle! Turn me into a Dutch figurine. She was upstairs, going apeshit over C.C. Marroon, polyunsaturated serenades, are no bother, at all. There is nothing left, to rebel against. We haven't done anything that merits going to confession. Fact/fiction: no different. Evolve, or die, once, or for all. My sadness, is real, and I refuse to be embarrassed by it, any longer.They forced me to bowl. There won’t be any more hiding, trembling…