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The walls, that interrupted our meditations. As usual, we stand on shaky legal, and ethical, ground. If things never happened, when they should have happened, they never will. Here we go! What day is it? All he's, and she's, and what they do to each other, at the carnival, it's all too much. A formaldehyde morning, unfortunately. Butter, and guns, standing in for money, until the point gets made, to a nation full of undergraduates. Absorbing Montana, through the gills, we all hold a special place in our hearts, for plexiglass. The sky peels back, people start to emote, shit, make strange noises, come out of the closet. Alien rapists, bronze fixtures, zinc coated tables, we belch, and mumble something, about our former ways of being. Distinctive, or destructive, in the nightclubs, with tape recorders, in both hemispheres of our brains. Twisted, and we'll never know, we went there, and came back. Pretend angels, and devils, master, and enslave, each other, with lubrication tools, near at hand. There are an awful lot of crows outside, today, cooing, and cawing. We try not to take anything for granted, but we all do. None of us are ever quite at home, wherever home is. A dream of a broken heart, high on satisfaction. Great big mistakes, that always come back to haunt us, terrorize, or just, annoy us. Reel it in, over the template, with a toss, cross, observe. Iota in the middle, like a soft spoken philosophy professor, hiding his "wild years," underneath the guise of education, and book learning. We built our own space station, out of wood (for our action figures). Demeaned by numbers, and the crossed out sentences, of what I wrote. Waiting, to vacuum up the mess I've left, waiting to leave. That page, is not first page material, it is found, dried. Through their land, of pale imitation. Bent open address books, full of dead movie star’s, phone numbers. One guy urinated, right on the thing, they dropped him right off, the police were waiting. Does it only rain, on days when a clown dies? After the lifetime achievement awards, have all been handed out, what then, what next? I think we all have a pretty good idea. Suicide watch, 24-7, at the Incognito Palace, tales to tell the children. Drifted, lost, bent over, spoons, this implies, infatuation. Can't keep up, with all the thousands of forgotten conclusions, it's all over now, anyway. Commercials, and numbers, militant lesbians. Get that mildewed mattress, off of the train tracks. Charged with grand theft tricycle, by row, after row, of medicated insomniacs. Mysterious, floral print, tulips, symbols, regarding, reincarnation. This mass of raw materials, that hasn't yet been whipped into anything useful. He's a why, and you're a what? Blind emotions, the importance thereof, perhaps those false starts, were the only one's possible, given the circumstances. Overrated freedom, is probation, community service, the unemployment, and parole offices, the jails, and courts, all the wonderful places, that desperation, leads us to. Anyways, this is all there is! We are at your service, and, we are perishable. The orange, plastic, laundry basket, and wooden crate, make unique noises, when kicked across the lawn, at 5:15 A.M. I don’t remember what I wrote in all those letters, it really doesn’t much matter, though. So, now, we are all cowboys, with all the rights, and privileges, thereof. All the errands mean nothing, it’s just meaningless movement. I'm "just waiting until something better comes along," that never will, come along, and I know that, now. I tried to clean up my act, it didn’t work. Is it, navigable? Staring at the coals, in the old fashioned grill, vodka logic, "fucking, asshole, pricks". Nibble, stumble, stare, and wish, at things, and for things, we want, but can't have. Everything's been spilled out, and it's been gone too long, to slide back into, or even, nearby it, it's over, and it really wasn't anything, anyway. It’s never been more clear. Who cares who’s in goal? There is nothing to miss. It doesn’t feel any better, to suffer this way, than that. You now have something to do. Even though, it seems like time wasted, that's really all there is to do, anyhow, and regret, is one of many, automatic, pseudo emotions, that flip through our brains, with atomic regularity. An egoeuphoric, narcissist, with his tubes tied, and everything else that dangled, cut off, or tucked under. The world can't kill us, unless we let it, but, we all do. Let's hit all the matinee orchestras! What does it matter, that we fill in every single blank, or not?
The discrepancies have been solved, the pine forest lynchings, have taken place, the body has been exhumed. Accolades; songs for other people, for nobody, for the glory, of fade away, aneurysms. Things are a lot less "boring," when you’re in, and out, of courts, and marriages, talk shows, and "superstores". Destroy the factory, try to decipher your own handwriting, wherever it was spray painted. Have we all punched in, yet? Because, you know, you won't get paid, until you've punched in. Optical illusions, on the inside of the lampshade, are flitting across the grey, stone walls. Lets get moving, on that tape recorder business, we had all set up, on easy chairs, back when we didn't have anything better to do. Feigning interest, diddling in, and out, false, and phony, over, and over again, with no real, or false, starts. Staring at the fake wishing well, that doesn't have any water in it, wondering, what the fuck sort of town I've stumbled across, now. Ah, the "unpure urges," the most holy of the lot! Mistake, after mistake, and sale, after sale, transaction, after transaction. Bells ringing, and people jumping head first, off of the towers; porch sitting, gloating, imitating the 1970's, or something, even more asinine. Twenty-first century twerps, and the baton, has been officially, passed. Oh yeah, the "important parts," pffftt. He, and I, fairied around, but, there wasn't anything there, but grass, and stores. Long gone Stanley, like a streaky kind of crevice, in an uh-oh, spilling-like, moment. Violent, geometric, arguments, divide the factions, and fractions. Leave us alone, this is your final warning, and, this means you, asshole! Photographs of real pretty girls, in quaint, little, boxes. Guerilla, colon, good-byes? Sometimes, we want to, other times, we don't, it doesn't matter, what it is, but, that's the way "it," is. Is this the best I can do (hmmmm....pretty sure, at this point)? Hump the car, or at least, try to. We’re all, so easily mistaken, fooled, taken, bamboozled. The invention of god, and the invention of rolled toilet paper, are equally, brilliant. Alcoholism, is an affliction, that we court, not a disease, we can't control. The rat trap effectiveness, of writing a girlfriend a letter, to explain your bizarre behavior. The “things," I'm always obsessively, blabbering on, and on, about. The only problem I face, is that there aren't any solutions. Core issues, such as not liking the way we look, particularly, electrical impulses, zap, the frustration, is vented, the girlfriend, bolts, quickly turned off, by all the talk interludes, precursors, bullshit. We do, what we do, for ourselves, alone, or for nothing at all, what we generally do, is pretty boring, a lot of the time, but, who cares? The only goal, that can be, is that something, gets done, I've been dicking around with these papers, and words, for years, take it, or leave it. At bottom, it's nothing, but nothing, is important, it should be granted. I'm not saying my nothing, is any more important than anyone else's....fuck it. I'm done, laying low, as if I had something to hide, even though, my hands have been washed, and re-washed, everything has been said, and re-said, several different times, to several different people, in several different ways. Will it be published? Oh dear, dear, me! That great, big, frightening, word, that supposed to set me, trembling. I don't much care, if it's published, or not. I do things, I did this, it's done, beyond that, I don't care. Fuck the world, and it's cultures, society's, and symptoms, it's diseases, mistakes, errors, lies (take a stand, now), thewholeshithousesixtythreeways. What next? Who knows? People pay dues, to the club, where, the first line of the manifesto, is about partial responsibility, how no one's to blame for anything, but ourselves. Then I burst in the door, bellowing, “I am here, if you want to call the police, call the police.” Don’t do, what everybody else is doing, ever! Let the kids sleep, for ten more minutes, the bus, can wait. We are going to ensure that something new happens, something different, gets done. The suspect, forged himself, every which way, and filmed it, for a private showing, of close, intimate, consorts. Don’t wait too long, or take things lightly. I'm so deathly sick, that I've discovered, a new kind, of health. Mafia head tilts, from the guy behind me. What will we find washed ashore, next? My menopause occurred, two, or three years ago, now. Ask us, nicely. Free film, huh?
The integration of integrity, to this thing, with eyes, etc. Marked pedophiles, jerk off weirdoes, and what goes on, behind closed doors, public, and private. Antichrist type, crazies, that don't like being recognized. Have you ever wanted to kill anyone? The career path with the highest projected growth, is in the panhandling sector. Perhaps, there is more to be said about this, maybe, this can be expanded upon, a sociological study, conducted. Ego dystonic/dysphoric, entropy. Self loathing, sleeping in the janitors closet, on the clock. Bloodless wandering, with the moist rag, in my hand. Weeping willows, losing their leaves, allergic to needles, needing help, and toilet paper. Where is the luxurious? The obituary, never mentioned that the man died, while taking a shit. His favorite example, to use in the discussion, of his many economic theories, were also not mentioned in the rather short, death notice. Corn, thrown at scarecrows. What's the score of the game? This, is all people are truly, interested in. Mellow people, will begin to make you very ill. The glamour of picking scabs, that used to be acne, maybe still are, red marks, unfinished business, empty paper bags, and cups. Somnambulism, every night, in search of peanut butter. Being a screw up, becomes tiresome. Tribal idealisms, that translate down to, "only trying to have a good time". A small, inconsequential, burden, to carry, the price to pay. Ah, back to the oil soaked rag, back to the, land of no faces. The look back, at the wasted year, the glued in, snapped in place, fake, false, evil, lockstep, Nazi drills, I went through, against my will. I thought about taking out the "fuck you page", but, oh, no, that, if nothing else, stays in! First, I gotta’ get over a few omnipresent, sexual, and social, hang ups, I suppose. Buy love, happiness, please, don't be fooled! Money, is the most important thing that there is, it's completely false, and evil, yes, but also, the only invention of man's, that has any value. There are no "Bavarian misunderstandings," they remembered my name. I'm studiously, self-indulgent, but that still equates to, being a self-centered, ego-drunk, nihilist. Looking for the right words, through this morass of indifference. My sarcastic insecurity, marked the definite end, of the demonstration. The system is designed, for you to merely, break even. It is time to sit still, and, of course, I’m the least able to do that, at this time. You’ll soon see. You can't think yourself out of it. There are still apathetic tirades, childish outbursts, oral fixations, small, inconsequential, annoyances; anyway, I lend them no credence, they are binary blips, that somehow, don't correspond, to the CPU's commands. There are many things like this: radio commercials, billboards, books that the author hopes will be turned into a movie, someday. I keep sticking my hand into the septic tank of culture, and am still astonished, by the fact that my hand smells. They say, that death motivates us, towards annihilation. No one wants to hear what I have to say, and I don't want to hear, what anyone else has to say, we subsist, in this half life, like some microorganism, full of agar, red dye #7, and whatever other preservatives, are thrown in. We don't want to be preserved, or to persevere, but these things are out of our hands. How many good-byes, until you don't have to say it anymore, how many invitations, how many maybes, soons, high standards? What then? A very large, and assumed, set, or sets, of false beliefs, that are supposed to organize, and make sense of things, for us. Like, there are no accidents, well, let me tell you, yes, there are. Turn on the siren. I’m obsessed with this book. The third sign, shall be just like the second. That's almost it, in a nutshell. Do not believe you’re getting anywhere, or making any progress. How many why's, that can be attributed to blind chance, and luck, alone! Many of my comments, were inappropriate. We try so hard, and get, so little. Be superstitious, nothing else, works. Not a win/lose, kind of chance, more of a partial convenience, idle amusement, ideas of possibility; not actual, possibility, mind you, possible possibility. No invisible dice, are rolled, you were drunk, she was drunk, or vice versa, the cop was busy with some domestic dispute, you drove drunk, across the golf greens, things like this, many things, like this. Lucky, or unlucky, has nothing to do with it, that's the key, to understanding chance, it’s it's own thing, chance, is almost, it's own mitt. There is no security, of any sort, at all, I may, or may not, have mentioned this, previously. How does what happens, ultimately, occur? Out of words, no thesaurus. Most of us wish only for sinful things.
Flappy, sappy, slap happy, stupid, both, as a secret mask, that I'm required to wear, and, as a genuine need, to let go, of the screwing, dried up, bloody thought trains, that go choo-choo, through my head, blowing hot steam through my intestinal tract. And thoughts, are very funny(fuzzy). As I've said, many times, tragedy, and comedy, are two sides, of the same mask, they’re attached up at the top, somewhere. If you laugh, when you are alone, it is a good bet, that you are pretty healthy, emotionally. It's a funky, little phenomenon, though, isn't it, laughter? It's usually for the benefit of the neighbors down the street, or some buddy, for their comfort. Don't cough, don't die, and don't hesitate, don't let me turn away. I'm here for a reason, that I give to myself, everyday. I'm also here, and want them to know this, and I'm not letting them know, other than by my occasional appearance, or out of place comment. I had the potential to be normal, but something happened, along the way. It's hard to tell, whether these changes, these "differences," are good, or bad. In a way, I'm trying to. Every rebuke, or slight, I've received, met with a standoffish, aloofness, a "fuck you," attitude, even though, I just stand, or sit there, like a starving calf, nearly crying, and not half drunk. All of the things that I have done alone, the failed attempts, sudden creative bursts, of activity, crash, worries, fears, about uncontrollable, natural, phenomenon. Tears, real, or imagined, by just listening to the right music, at a certain time. So quiet, pickled, damaged, nailed, crossed off, pissed. Medicine taken, effect, unknown. It's "all our own fault," only after, we cease to care. "Help us help ourselves," the damned, screech. To wish to be remembered (uh, no)? Yet again, tricked, appendix b starts, and stops. It feels good, to go on, beyond just a bare (banal), statement, and really explain, the statement. It's also very shady, and difficult, in that it makes one, uncomfortable. Of course, we all know that pain, and discomfort, are the two proofs, of your own growth, there are more, perhaps, but not less. Never believe one who offers you, "the seven keys to love," or any such drivel. Don't believe me, either, shit, don't believe anybody. We were in the cemetery, and we did see a tombstone, with only one word on it! Nearby, was a plaque, that was laid in dedication of a great oak, that was planted to commemorate some centennial, or whatever... there was the plaque, but no oak, anywhere in sight, not even a stump! Here we are, and yes, graveyards are exceptional places. No matter how great you are... we all fall down. Does that stuff have any effect? I can no longer control my problems, even slightly. To bury bodies, though, a tad archaic, don't you think? People who have been dead, a great, many years, just don’t seem to be able, to leave me alone. As it is, now, at present, it won’t cut it. It won't last long, but still, the idea (we do such things). Now, do the orders. We saw what we could have been. Do the dance! Keep going, and keep moving, dancing, screwing, drinking, whatever you happen to do, do it. Hula hoop? Well go, cat, go! Cultivate it, if you believe it to be lacking. Yes, it's overwhelming, but, it's also convertable, in a limited way, in limited circumstances. We found pearls by the lighthouse, there was no body. There will be no, “weekend at the cottage.” Not to discourage, no, to encourage! Attribute the underwater era, to a non-clinical, phenomenon. Don’t you dare, say that to me. Go, melt the wax figurine, put the crab meat on the sidewalk, with the candles, and the cartoon character lunch box, mail a letter, tear out the mailbox, loop de loop, with toy cars, or whatever is at hand. Pump the gas, have a vision of many snakes, shame on you. Perhaps we will endure, but, I doubt it. So much, went so wrong. Overcome indifference.