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The key, the answer, is to spring out of the molecular orbits, in which we revolve. The libertine, the dilettante, the alcoholic, moron; not happy, or unhappy, either. Doing something, sort of. Can't be achieved, as a goal, but can only be cultivated, in the attempt, in the aim. Lines crossing, re-crossing, discriminating, rancid fish, meat, etc. Getting weirder, and weirder, and weirder. Life is like throwing water at a moose, well, trying to fight back against it, anyway. All of the Jesus dolls, fall off of the shelves, and reveal their true natures. Peeling, not a thing, at all. I hate you, I don’t know you, I am you (who is this?). They asked me why I wanted to hurt myself. And then, there’s Dilly, with, “the bust out.” We are like those that died before us, hopefully, we can pick up a few lessons from them, from what they did, how they lived. We don’t like what has happened to our stomachs. I will act like William James, pretend. Put the old windows, back in. Some silly woman, said something. Go alone, stay alone. God looks back at you, from the mirror in the kitchen, the same old. We've always been limited, unholy, weak, mortal, stupid, repetitive, vague, and very, very, scared. Progress is destruction. Weird, unbeknownst, images, drift in, and out. How did this happen? How did what, happen? Nothing happens, that I can see! No modulation, to this brand of frequency. Slowly, the self therapy, becomes individualized, I keep my germs, to myself. Mold, lies outside the realm of control. My days are numbered at the factory, and, in general. Language dissemination, and recollection, Indo-European, truffle sniffing, pigs. Driving around, for fun, even though, it's not fun anymore, hasn't been, for years. Somehow, losing a minimum wage job, can be a turning point. How much lower, etc.? The door keeps opening, and closing, but no one’s walking in, or out. Abdicating question marks, in memory of Johanes Brahms. Put us at ease, Lord? Some fun, selfishness, some more. Beaten straight, beaten, normal, beaten into being a man, into doing it their way, or else. I made sure to graduate, so I could tell people that it didn't get me anywhere, apparently. I am, or, will be, a salmon, I will spawn, and die, float back down the river, but I will not float downstream, now. Science can keep me from spawning, but not from dying, as per, the preordained, schedule. The gray, withered thing, on the shore, was at one time, an Alaskan, Pink King Salmon. What do they mean by pain (physical or mental?)? I am scratching at the veneer, of my inside the tortoise shell, self, trying to get free, I do not complain, or comment, any longer, about "mental anguish". I don't really think anymore, at all, why? Low serotonin, is the reason things are this way. Blending in, is a disguise, for digging your own grave. Reminded of my old acne problems. This retarded globe, is not enough, possibilities, are unpredictable. Stuck, is being stuck, usually, not recognizing it, as such; thinking that it's education, practical, wise, etc. I wish I had become a taxidermist. This is not very impressive, not too much of a point… What is there left to do, with the supposedly, sixty pages to go? Perhaps, I only imagined people, to be laughing at me. The room is full of maps of Canada, just in case. If necessary, please forward to the new address. What I do, and don't do, fucked me, and stuck me into right here, right now. Things that seemed so cool, cute, at the time, hands shaking, heart pounding, hello. Tally up your standing, on the social readaptability scale. Let the Magnet School, burn. Hack the estrogen off of your spleen. I played sexy, acted so, never actually believed such and such, to be so, it was a bad act, to being with (eh). Wanton, happy accidents, nihilistic madness, and of course, not really understanding the question, that was asked. What country are you from, originally? Thus, going off on our own tangents, willy nilly, like speed freaks, even though we don't do drugs, it only looks like we do. Of course, there are no bottom lines. My "solution," for a while there, was to work eighty, to eighty eight, hours a week, my solution, mind you, really, the problem, of course. And yes, it usually seems to work out that way. Let's play clip and save, for awhile, and see what happens. Moot evidence, blind conjecture, hard to find "the facts". Lines that are missing and gone, haunt me. It was an accident. The neighborhood has been getting weirder, and weirder. What's with the "non-tree hugging," environment, that I am always whining about? Things as such, are not quite apparent, certainly, not certain. Charlatans line up outside of the welfare hotel, with endless doctrines, of hokey pokey. They get us all worked up into a tizzy; but the doom, and gloom, still shoots through, in between the lines. Where is the guy with the spoons, and the proof, when we need him? More time wasted; maize, or corn, what's the difference? Gott ist tot, and we're still standing. Who art thou? Shit, lets not get into that. Whisper the coldness, to the maniac at the swap meet. Robbed, stripped, then handed back an empty hull, that really isn't a hull. Is there even such thing as an original thought, really? Robert grooves on tax forms. Three pounds of this, these excuses. It felt, so good/right, but was, so bad/wrong. We get told to clean the cat litter, it's written in red pen, the cats are in the kitchen, retching, and puking. In the dark imagination, believe me, I'm someone else. We want to fuck, but for some reason, or the other, we’re prevented from doing so. I swam in the fields of wheat, virtually. It is all my fault. We know the backroads.
I've gotta' get out of this prickly honeycomb, of insecurity! I'm trying to write left handed, to see if I say anything, anymore surprising, or revealing. Still, no solutions, still, free association, and "help me," scribbled. Eliminate alternatives? Oh, now, hold on a minute! Sure, when you're knee deep, you gotta’ dig, but, what is slipshod, bargaining power? The polar opposite of that, is the truth. Why were Chinese restaurants used, to explain the exchange theory? Or, at least, all waving straws, or sticks, at people? We'll suck you, till you blow, red hot asses, spread wide for you! See, these are the kind of sentences, and statements, that people respond to, thus, that is what's being written! Arguing the relative merits of narcolepsy, inventing meaning! Unpleasantness, equals escape, or, an escape attempt. Vomit, written backwards, on a bachelor of arts degree. Death, and the anxieties that are produced by this ultimate end (positive and negative), are the major themes, of all of my writings. It's the diary of an iconoclast. Johnny on the spot, here, doofy-there. So what? That's life! Ah, the embarrassment of my former, and current, psychiatric disorders, put on paper, for all to see. It did bother me, for awhile, I guess. She could've dressed up my interior, but a lot of people could have (could have, always seems to be the operative word). Could've, should've, shouldn't have, bag it! Guess, after guess, ad infinitum; relativity, assumptions, talking about concrete, and the poles that are stuck in it. Buck naked, on a rocking horse, linoleum slapping. Electrochemical, however it works, and 98% water. Throwing out the jerk off, pin up, photos. Shifting questions over, another graduation, unjustified assumptions, the zygote divides, and keeps re dividing, eluding, until we can't keep track of it, anymore. Ostensibly, we extrapolate. Vertical, versus non-vertical, in true, and false games, that measure, not intelligence, but only, whatever the test measures, x. Keep track of Dinky's whereabouts, pining for the playground full of used car, and truck tires, ice cream socials, and innocence. Begin life, now, that is to say, log on. Ah, the long overdue, commencement, maybe. Hiding our rage, underneath thin veils of blank expression, that only look apathetic, believe you, me! African spears, with tassels? Gloom, seemed to be spelled out for me, in one those strange, yellow, shower illusions. Can't mention what, to who? The obvious, the predictable? Budapest, has its good points, I guess. Sad farewells, and ambivalence, for the most part, at the same time. Us, spent poets, had best band together, fast, the sideshow is moving on, without us, it appears. Playing with the seatbelt, struggling out words, and a can of bad beans. Fine, be a pervert, lust, as long as it doesn't interfere with anyone else's, perversity. Told you, tell you, all absurd. There was a flip over a rail, and onto a table (I thought it was a chair), but I can't remember who I was talking to, that actually, witnessed it. Things do get done, but they take a long, long, time, to get that way. Smiley is resentment, or a close approximation. Mumbling things into the lens of a camera, without having a clear idea, of how the information I was emitting, would be processed, later, or where it would be broadcast, or anything, beyond the smell of the farts, after a night of eating cheap hamburgers. Who were they, why was I there? The memory of someone, who'd rather not recall; wasted! Let those who still (what is appropriate to this situation?) believe in pleasure, have it. Go off on a rant, rave on. There are indentations in the pleats of the corduroy fabric (it wasn’t polyester). In Tahiti, even the Hilton, is makeshift. The disputes, will not be resolved. There aren’t many excuses, I haven’t tried.
The museum is housed in a gigantic, plastic fish. This is how it smells, even. Pistols rust, at civil war battle grounds, descendants search with metal detectors, up, and down, hills, and in the mysterious places, where trees used to be. Working midnight's, in the second richest county. Boy, do I need that suppository for some, "get up and go". There are ink stains on my tongue, now, from chewing too hard, too long, on the wrong kind of pen. Pontificate, wildly. Alternatives, choices, autonomy, individuality. Withering around the walking dead, while letting your suspicions, out. White, brings out the dark, in everybody. Statuettes are for desks, but we'll probably never have desks. Do not eat any food again, as long as you live. In many ways, drained, thus, feeling most assured, confident. Ah, Marshall, with its absolute humanity, and old-fashioned stores. The wrong things, keep getting left out in the open, the wrong self, keeps asserting itself. That sweater I stole, is all stretched out, I review my long list of obsessions. As years pass, I become more, and more, empty, and the more empty I get, the more fulfilled. Who's Anne, and why is her name written on my checkbook? This room is full of dust, and bugs, and toenail clippings. I tried to pick a scab on my hand, but its time had not arrived to be picked. I try to get comfortable, it is a futile gesture. Conjoin the effervescent, together. The overall mood, is one of.. ..it's more of a smell, a raw smell, that I can't really describe, unless it's hovering in the air. Forget the old way, invent a new one. It's more, or less, a stagnant smell, but, it's also, somewhat electrical. To sell out, would be to buy in, and that's, what I can't do. The knuckles are pink, there is still dirt under the fingernails, the tobacco stains, still there, slime covers the pillow. For me to have been there, for as long as I was....some things (many), that you would have thought, impossible. We are responsible for our lives, entirely (but, we must know, that we will often, unconsciously, sabotage ourselves). No experience makes it all better, equates yin, with yang, or really, gives anybody, any real grip, to hold onto, at all. People wait, to tear your body from yourself. This must be one of the reasons why I sleep all the time. This is my only hope (our). Ingrid's mine, forget me not, two wrinkle free dogs, in an automat extractor. Songs about vaginas, and "the next day, after that". Well, is it growing, and evolving? At present, I believe so, but only time will tell, in these matters. I am extremely addicted, to artificial sweeteners. What passes for joy, nowadays, are dandelion fuzzies, flying down the street. Change is a Poseidon, empty. Wearing a beanie cap, carrying perfume boxes, from Dondy, and Jop. Sexual innuendo, fourth degree, grilling, phone calls, outside of the area code. Black fingernail polish, blond hair dye, loud music, in the apartment down the hall. She was of the type that I yearned for. It is against the law to mistake girls, for women. Ambiguous, but adorable, even in the midst of wiping grease, out of the bottoms of doors, in factories, smelt canning sweatshops. What we've seen happen: part of the cacooning process, blue serenity, framed pictures, the wrong pants. Amiss, is something, obvious, yet secondary. Misanthropes, die young. Far out squares, with words for computers. Pretty soon, I won’t have anyone to, talk to anymore. Tongue tied, when asked to explain, anything, really. Little do they know, it takes a hundred years, for a tree to grow, five minutes, to cut it down. As for the latest style, whatever we conform to, honesty, is usually a lie. Everything afterwards, and backwards, antisocial, schizoid. Sister urinal mint, that no one would agree to touch. Half baked, to jump full on into the give, and take, slap, and grab, here, and there. Years have passed, just killing time. We've been to jail, as many times as we've screwed, and that's a handy ratio, to keep tabs on. A book about masturbation, stimulation, and why, why, why?! Sliding in, for the guy in the kitchen, talking around it, too male, for a female side, obtuse; then, in the middle of the room, in front of everybody, the jackrabbit screams. They lock us up in the pen at night. The floor will never be clean. Hey, wait until you're off probation. So many beautiful backyards. We've gotta’ add another name, to the list, carve another set of initials, into the tree, get out of the trouble we're in. Three years, versus three months, three weeks, sixes. The twenty third day of every September, is the cabaret, the cabaret. Good egg boy, has gone bad. Push down the plunger, badda-boom. My parole was cut short, due to my affliction. Shake the car, hear the moo.