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This is not life. The partial freedom, out, and back. There's no telling, what we are, I am. There are facets; some, I display, some (most), I keep hidden. There is this submerged potentiality, this adolescent-like, drive. This drive, to be not, "on the inside," or "accepted," or any other nonsense. I'm searching for quality, not really in the outside world, but, in my own prison. These flourishes, dry heaves, almost that! With semi-regularity, these humors, this entertainer. The trick, they say, is balance, that off centerdness, can lead to feelings of depersonalization. This, is the mark of a psychological disorder? Oh, well... then, they start talking about medication, I start looking for another job. Some people have seen, well, I've shown some people....mistakes, to do so, I shouldn't say that, but....just parts, facets, whatever; I can do that, too, and have, then, the next day, sitting on the floor, looking half dead, and stupid, drunk, or apparently, "on something". This, my, the inconsistency, again. Into, and out of, the hotel lobbies, train depots, "family restaurants," just searching, searching, searching, for one case. Magnetize yourself. Rapture, not admiration, always, not sometimes. So fresh, innocent, simple, to find no fault, to not look, or think to look. Absolute acceptance, and agreement. "Do nothing night," was the greatest night, of all. I'm becoming them, now, becoming it, now. And, it is the part that's taken away, that we mourn, and we know this, deep down. But, it's also the presence, the true grit, if you dare call it that. We have, and then, have not, like that flower, what was it? Forget me nots? The distinguished scientists, ripped the young woman, apart. It will happen, again. Back then, I didn’t even think I was real, sometimes. "To feel, what (I am me) we're feeling," she crooned. Killed, then, strangled? What's the sniff? Uh oh, do we have any candles? I don't think so. Hmmm....last step? Maybe she was just “exercising”, I'm only saying, it looked funny. Yes, my drunken ramble, was annoying, I told her I was boring, and it's true, but, why did I feel the need, to tell her so? I mean, it's obvious enough. The pretty girls…oh, give it up! Let’s enter reality, let’s learn to ignore, to walk right past. These commands I was given, to sit, stay, come, roll over, I’ve learned them well, they seem like second nature, natural, now. This is almost, human nature, we learn the commands, and follow them. Are you prepared? Yeah! And the meaning of life, is death, baby! Freud and Nonoxynol, lets open up the floodgates, and the blocked up sections, spill them in the streets, and drive around them, like gigantic puddles (but, know full well, that they are there). The highs, the lows, the ups, and downs? Well, it's not going to happen, tonight, that's for sure. Yes, I'm still convinced, that it will never happen; of course, that's a lie, let’s just say... lets just stop writing about it, and, of course, I never said what it was, anyway, so no one knows what it means, how could they? Towels, smell like fabric softener, but don't taste like, anything. Toilet paper, pretty much tastes like any other kind of paper. Perhaps, I should eat a little less, and use a little more, to wipe my ass. This is a thing, that is a thing, those are things, plural. It doesn't matter, what kind of particular things, they are. Just stuff, put, where we put it, either having a use, or not. You are elemental, like shore erosion. Now, I am taking time, and trying to find out exactly what it is, in my head. I’m not gonna’ stop, until this book, is done. Now, we are going to get down to the bottom, of why it is, that we keep getting ripped off. There is less around me, now, less clutter, where I 'm looking. I don’t know what the rules are, or even, if there are any. Nothing is happening, I'm trying not to look around, and I'm still heaving. It’s just not enough, what we have done. The twitching, grunting, and moaning, is getting worse. I’m not yet homeless. Such partial accomplishments. I await my final disaster, the whip cream and cherry.
Don't punch (pinch) your best friend, in the (ass) solar plexus. I just ripped this page out, by accident. It’s as if your indifference, has been magnetized. It's good, to be left alone, safe, it's good to stay away. I have certain faces, stuck in my minds eye, and I must poke, said eye, in order to get those faces, out of there. I don't want to think back, and come up with something, amusing. All I'm doing, is reinstating, and restating, the obvious; now, the obvious, can be disturbing, but everybody knows that. This is funny, this is almost comedic. Like I figured, all this amounts to, is a change of perspective, a shaking of the tree, and trying to get all of the bile, out of my system. I could just as easily, masturbate, but that wouldn't really be what I want it to be; that is… unless I did it in the street. I'm drying my laundry in the open, or whatever that old saying, is. And a nose, is a nose, there are no ugly, or pretty, noses. I'm not rubbing his ass, I have feelings, right now, that impart/impair thoughts, to me, that, to drive, right now, would be extremely dangerous. I do not know how long, or short, my dick is, I think I have measured it, a couple of times before, but, I forgot the length. There is so much I want to write about, but of course, there isn't time. I don't regret this, but it seems that inspiration, always strikes, at the most inappropriate times. C’est La Vie, and that's fine. As I begin to "feel the dissonance," it is really imperative, that I pick up a pen, and scribble. Too many people, spend too much time, sitting. Prove it’s gone, now. At this point, I don't even know what my intentions were, what was so, all fire, important... and that's, what bothers me. Be critical, cynical, pessimistic, etc. Well, I'm off, again (New Delhi seems docile, compared to this). Keep your expectations, unpredictable. We're full of enzymes, pushing shopping carts, worthless degrees. Things get in my head, I go through rather dramatic, and short lived, phases. Completions, connections and connectors (trying to fill in the cracks, and holes, with murders), some beauty, flashbacks, memories, crying jags. The whole thing, is worth it? Chase us, wonder, catch on, crash, make it a happy ending, make it a happening. Some question marks, but exclamations, too....We missed it, and it's better than fine, that we did. The moments, quick, or you'll miss them, wrapped up in camouflage. You got to, got to, got to! That's a seashell, and if you hold it in your fingers, fine, but try listening to it. Morning, mourning, moaning (maybe I should shut up, and try to remember better times, for awhile). Maybe, I should brush my teeth. I should try to sleep, again, or keep writing, thinking, exploring the uncharted; at least, pick my teeth (I mean, I'm giving off offensive odors, girls don't like that). This is a study of becoming, and introspection, this is a study, of one kind, or the other. I used to dilly, dilly, dance, my way, crazy, I'd kick, and jump, and shake, and move, and groove, and it was great exercise, and let out all kinds of bottled up, whatnot. It was "over the top", a little exhibitional, but I didn't want that to be the case, at all, it was a need. I haven't danced, except briefly, in the living room, for a long time. I could go, tonight, but doubt very much, that I will. I'm scared of the people, and some of them are friends of mine, some, are enemies, I just can't handle social situations, very well. I get weird, I mean, delusionary… weirder than normal/usual. My heater does stink, and it's coming out of the vent, in my thoughts, it's part of the bad, neutral dream. Someday, this will be nice, clean, and complete, but I can’t imagine it. Fuck god out of her, do not pause. From now on... You die; clean underwear, or not. Life, and writing, are two, very different, things, which is why I don't carry this around with me. Life is nearly impossible, writing, is comparatively, easy. I shouldn't, and ultimately, can't (what?). There's still an idea, a spark, a maybe.. but, it's all in the past, and I cannot go back. Why did I ever decide to write this book? Did I already blah, blah, blah? Who are we, to say? There is no way of knowing, that I know of.
There’s got to be a different way, a new way. Imagine your leg, infested with gangrene. We are sick of nice, peaceful, pleasant, things. Keep going, with your badge, and all the rest of it. Ah shit, what am I gonna’ do, here? Record company squabbling, should break up more bands, than it does. Yes, from atop a large building. Enter the disco nightlight. Smell clean? Several items have been discontinued. Don’t let them manipulate the pants off of you. Three month marriages, last three days, no one ever has the slightest idea, of who the person is, they marry, no one. People wonder, "what happened"? Oh, come on, let’s enroll in human nature 101, and cut this shit out. It's doomed to failure, impossible, you'll catch them, there will be a bitter divorce, custody battles, and dividing up of the fortune (or money, anyway). You'll lose, everybody loses, it's always stupid, and they admit it. Well, why do it? Don't do it, just do yourself a favor, drink your stale beer, and accept the fact, that nothing, outside of yourself, can do anything, for you. Or, fall, if it exists, do the song, and dance, then, see what I mean. Jot down your turning points (big mistakes, eh?). Forgiveness, is a funny, little subject, because you really do, have to forgive, everyone, every injustice. I'm serious, they, won't suffer, for your hate, for them, only you will, and you'll suffer, a lot. There's a small drift, a strange wind, blowing, the seeds of cancer, are already within me, just waiting to be made manifest. Other things are, too, and, it's those things, I want to have, before the cancer hits, spreads, kills, and turns me grey, or whatever color, victims turn. It didn't make me at all uncomfortable, but it did, and does raise certain questions (of, why?). I mean, there's certainly no conspiracy, it's not my line, and I don't know what people expect me to say, or do. We are required to sweat it out. Art is menial, and miniscule, mental masturbation! No one cares for him, anymore, no one remembers the name of the last book, or last album, last signed lithograph, Warren G. Harding autograph. Was that the one they dug up a couple of years ago? Looking for poison, stealing last names. Nice smelling cars, nice smelling hands, inability to stop, recover (or maybe, I'm wrong). I'm coughing, the story is being written. He lost his yo-yo, or the string broke. They have a ferret, he has a ferret, ferrets are a kind of a weasel, but also, half dog, half cat, basically, un-identifiable. Long, is the winter, deep, is the snow, epic in scope, and proportion, drum beats, missed meals, channel 99. Let us do what was done there, let us copy that idea, and let it rhyme, as well (or, nearly as well). Fight it, fight the hip-hop, car chases, names, unknowns, forgottens. Everyone has a collection, or two, dead relatives. This is a raging, yet flowing, series of hey ho, boo-hoo; a long time, that isn't long enough. There is something stuck in my shoe, chicken shit, the last decade, or this one. Many divisions, and almond shaped eyes, on the leftovers, we wish them well. We know what went on, we're powerless to really affect, or effect, much of anything, at all. Very much is easy, but only places we can drive, walk, and all that shit. There was a falseness, that was so real, slick, and underhanded. A manipulative player of "souls", even though, there are no souls. I know what you mean, when you do speak to me, maybe, too well, perhaps, that's why you don't speak to me, very often. Am I trapped in? I truly hope not. I can't remember the name of the restaurant, where I used to go to on visits, strawberry something, I think, it was Strawberry Patch? How do other people, do it? Let me love you, let me open up your book. Quality? Oh, we're strange, and Lucretious, too, was strange, but I don't agree with him, entirely. I think it was Lucretious, but, it could have been Epicurus, who gave the here/there/if/then/there, speech; and I did like it, but still, don't entirely, agree. What am I going to do with my life, and yes, I realize it's a bit to late to be asking? I slapped a new ending on it. Sure, I asked myself earlier, but didn't believe in the question, much less, the answers I got, from my feed bag, metronome head. Hint, at the true horror, yet to be unleashed. I called him, “Face.” I still do, for the most part, what I've always done. My list of great things? Convenience stores, fountain drinks, fountain soft drinks. Edit the fuck out of it, now! It’s dull, awful, horrible, terrible, but, simply put, there is nothing else to do. Sustenance itself, is insubstantial, nowadays. This used to serve a purpose. Could you imagine someone checking all of those dials? Arty bought a half a pound of Red Snapper. How many peas do you feel, freak? Espresso... and shit, I forgot about cigarettes, which are probably, number one. I will act Phillipinio. Straddle the emptiness, rise from the table, put some salve on the wound. I drove by, twice. She was like the temperature. All the tuna talk, and other garbage, is just water under the bridge, and I knew it was, when I was stating, and re-stating it, over, and over. It was a common ground, first, then, kind of a metaphor. And this goes out, to no one, nowhere. She didn't live there, she'd fuck there. I was both, amused, and not amused, by her sorry attempts, to manipulate me. I did tear the head off of the antelope, that was handmade, out of firewood. This is modern day, we're still not eating astronaut food. To be honest, things are boring here, there are no UFO's, no vampires (vengrus), no fun (tun), no Anton Mesmer (Anton Meguire), with turntables (the tunbar art robea)…