on the shore.
    standing up.
    awakened.
    no one was there.
    have we been here before?

    yes, we have.
    back when days were hot and nights were warm.
    now, ice wind blows.
    the days are a glimpse of light and the nights are long darkness.
    darkness we can sink into.
    darkness that has flesh.
    darkness that speaks.
    darkness where reality and dreams mix socially, exchanging secrets.
    darkness full of memory.
    darkness is memory.
    memory is darkness.

    i can tell you many things, she said, she said.
    i can tell you what you won't tell yourself. i can tell you all the names you were known by. i can tell you what you hope for - what you fear.
    he stood at the gate to the garden watching her as she spoke to him from inside. she paced back and forth. a lioness.
    what shall i tell you? she stopped, looked dead at him and smiled.
    i don't know if i want you to tell me anything, he thought as he replied, i want you to tell me everything.
    i cannot tell you everything. not yet.
    then i don't know. there must be reasons i don't know the things you have to tell me.
    there are reasons, she laughed, and maybe they are what you want me to tell you.
    can you?
    yes, she sighed, but you cannot write them down in this book you are writing in. i can tell you, but not with words that you make me speak. i am not just a character from your imagination.
    he felt frozen. he could not turn one way or the other.
    and that is where this is left for now, he writes.

    wild symphony.
    horses and cows untamed running across expanses of where they are and where they can go with nothing holding them back.
    choosing any direction.
    undescribed.
    following each other.
    not knowing that freedom is something that can be denied or not denied.
    fences are forgotten as soon as they are no longer seen.
    there is no consciousness except experience.
    no safety.
    no danger.
    life continues.
    or it doesn't.
    that doesn't matter now.

    a waste of time.
    a time where nothing is.
    a time unconnected from the rest of time - of measured time.
    not the time that is exact in its meaning.
    not the time that is all pain and pleasure.
    not the time that is judgment.
    away from time.
    away from the sense of time.
    forgetting and forgotten.
    they may call you but you cannot hear them.
    apart.
    alone.
    waiting without time for time to start.

    something that is, but is not.
    the here and now.
    the whatever you figure out.
    the every picture tells a story and surf music like that.

    a turning wheel.
    a busy intersection.
    a busload of well-meaning old people.
    a wig store.
    a chair to sit on.
    a mistake in the calculations.
    a visitor from space.
    a message.
    a train.
    a hand.
    something in a box.
    something invented.
    something dangerous.

    portraits in a twisted gallery mixed and matched according to random dynamic specifications outlining the logic used by the priests in determining the process of stagnation.
    urp!
    what goes on here?
    what is realized in the moment?
    what is the result of our becoming?
    can any of this be known?
    what separates knowing from knowledge?
    we see all that we can see.
    we turn as far as we can turn.
    it is not enough.
    we are still left empty.
    we are the nothingness we are surrounded by.
    do we want to know?
    are we not who we are?
    we dance at midnight on the edge of time - not one, not the other.
    we lay ourselves down beneath the golden trees.
    we laugh.
    we'd give anything to be where we are now.
    we work in the factories locked in dead-end eternity of measured units we produce for the masses - ourselves.
    we lose ourselves to a dreaming of where we are now.
    we stand together in our loneliness.
    we stand apart in our unity.
    we push buttons.
    we pull levers.
    we talk among ourselves.
    we look at the paintings of one another's imaginations.
    we listen to the song of one another's voices.
    do we want to know?

    and when we see that there is nothing left to believe in - least of all ourselves.
    and when the awakening to this eternal night comes.
    and when certain of us speak of renewal of faith.
        faith in ashes.
        cold, not a spark within.
        no fire will spring from this.
        we've burned too much in our wild inferno bonfires of seeking truth.
        and the darkness waited.

    dance around.
    all emptiness.
    feet treading upon the bodies of the fallen.
    dance around.
    the stars are gone and even the sun.
    we drift out through a void that is more than mere nothingness - or, rather, less than.
    still we dance.
    dance around.
    not to celebrate anything.
    just to keep warm.
    the clouds of breath we gasp have more substance than we do.
    dance around.
    on our own graves.

    and it is hard to see anything at all.
    do we even know which way to look?
    the days seem numbered.
    the doors are locked.
    we cannot get in.
    we cannot get out.
    are we to remain here until the end to act out some ritual involving the death of an entire world?
    why this needs to be done is a question asked or not doesn't stop us from performing our given roles as victims to each other's greed and misery.
    it would almost be comical - yet when the pain sinks its teeth deep into our hearts as parents, children, lovers, as well as strangers turn against us.
    when we stand alone and apart.
    when the lies are told about us and even the truth is a lie.
    and we can only find comradeship if we stand with others against someone else.
    we are divided and conquered by ourselves - rich, poor, young, old, right, left, men. women.
    us, them.
    we act out the story of our fall from grace over and over so as to never forget it.
    we resurrect the old myths with new twists as prophecy.
    and we uncover nothing new but ourselves.
    and is there nothing more than this?
    a world of darkness chasing a mirage of light at the end of a tunnel of illusion.
    we have given our faith a new name.
    and we go on believing nothing.

    a new six.
        if it were nine.
    eight.
    a green face in dog city.
    a new duty to perform.
        the future.
    another poem.
        if that is what this is.
    as another hits the street in this cold cruel real world.
        dollar bill.
    dildo ecstasy up the ass.
    foam mouth luxury.
    a dime a dozen for $1.19 special sale price.
    teeth clenched overbite iron masked idiot leather queen running out of time (always time) across the frozen tundra of youth mass fed culture on drugs and tv.
        evangelism for everyone.
        anybody can be whipped into a frenzy if the right buttons are pushed.
    observe.
    obstruct.
    obliterate.
    oblong.
    oh boy!

    cowboy dust monkey cries out, where are today's heroes?
    and a book in the hand.
    and the book in a hand.
    where do they all go?
    a parting of ways.
    a party of waves.
    a long kiss on the cheek.
    a quick fuck in the dark.
    a match struck with startled expression and eclipsing fury.
    down under the rug rolled back by a dance craze.
    the city is bricks.
    the city is cracked.
    the city is a stagnant riot.
    the city is in deep shit.
    by far the stars with a mind of their own.
    and a reasonable request.
    and a whip in one hand and a flashlight in the other (as the english would say, carrying a torch).
    a stiff drink.
    all art that goes nowhere.

    dream naught inside the purple dome where wicked priests set up their displays of past punishments with much delight before the innocents.
    affixed to their weakness and doubt is their ability to condemn.
    they march ever forward - upright in flexing fortitude and formation.
    in somewhere else we are amazed at the history of our being and becoming
    how did this happen?

    and sometimes suddenly startled by his own existence.
    what?
    who?
    how?
    then just thinking of the amazing impossibility of it.
    and wondering how much of this is him - or if any of that is him.
    and how much he exists beyond what he experiences as himself existing.
    and all such dada.

    and the wonder of all that is narrowed down and contained within a few pleasure/pain stimulus loops that take up the majority of his time to keep balanced at a comfortable pace which enables performing any number of otherwise useless tasks set out for him by the others who control.
    and each day is the same as any other.
    he circles around at the radius of his chain.
    he can't think beyond that or stop functioning.
    to stop functioning is to unbalance the stimulus loops of pleasure/pain which then breaks the train of thought.
    hello brain. this is stomach. i need more food down here.
    hello brain. this is skin. need more heat.
    etc.
    this damned body can't take care of itself.
    it's always gotta be bothering him.
    if it needs all this shit why doesn't it just shut up and go get it for itself?
    no - it's got to get him involved.
    he has to stop what he is doing and operate the arms and legs and go do some work of some kind.
    and the things his body needs are all locked away by the others who demand him do this and that for their own pleasure/pain trip.
    and on and on.
    to see the possibilities otherwise and being unable to follow any of them without suffering through some sacrificial life of denial.
    the starving outcast.
    selected vision.
    puppet show.
    jump up.
    jump down.
    look right.
    look left.
    authority.
    command.
    power.
    control.

    the bright center of light.
    the becoming into being.
    and some such.
    and a host of other stuff as well.
    quite overwhelming.

    how can he write about anything when he knows nothing?
    he keeps pushing words around hoping someday they will fall together into some pattern that will make sense and enlighten him.
    a fool's mission.
    he never seems to get close enough.
    it's all too vague.
    what is he trying to describe?
    he is empty.
    but does he need to be emptied before he is filled?
    that is what the ones who say they know say.
    maybe.
    maybe not.
    is that going the wrong way?
    he would be willing to do almost anything if he knew what to do.
    but all he reads is mystic gibberish.
    but maybe he knows.
    and maybe he doesn't.
    circular motion.
    circling around.
    in and out.
    up and down.
    around and through.
    a dream of realities.
    a reality of dreams.
    if anyone knew.
    if he knew.
    if anyone knew him.
    if he knew anyone.

    click.
    one day one thing is going to click into place clicking everything else into place.
    the piece that completes the puzzle.
    the straw that breaks the camel's back.
    the nail that brings down the kingdom.
    that kind of clicking.
    for all he knows everything is in place.
    waiting for that one thing.
    and its not one size fits all.
    like jesus.
    like rock and roll.
    like the american dream.
    more like a well timed fart.
    one simple connection that so happens to complete the circuit and the lights go on.
    waiting...
    into zero time.
    into zero space.
    into zero mind.
    into zero self.
    into zero.
    the nothing that turns out to be everything.
    the non-existent point between here and there, this and that.
    when does in become out?
    when does up become down?
    when does around become through?
    when does not it become it?

    it is everything - repeat everything.
    there is nothing that is not it because, as being everything, it is all that is not it as well.
    yet this proved to be very boring, and lonely.
    it wanted something else besides itself.
    but since there could be nothing besides itself, it had to divide itself into the concept of there being this and that.
    what this was, that wasn't.
    what that was, this wasn't.
    mutually exclusive.
    just an idea it had.
    yet also mutually attractive as each had what the other did not and needed what the other had.
    each needed the other to be it again.
    in this way it became not it in being this and that.
    yet it still remains it even so.
    and then the exciting drama began and continues until the here and now.
    and this is where he begins even though it was just something he made up - imagined.

    experience and not-experience.
    thought.
    opening and closing.
    we are turning.
    we are speaking.
    what do we have to say?

    12/16 - he thinks.
    not knowing what day it is - or caring.
    as long as he doesn't go to work on a saturday or something.
    he did that once.
    what he forgets or remembers each time doesn't seem to have anything to do with anything.
    he sleeps.
    he wakes up.
    he has a little trouble telling the difference between the two.
    his interest in the world is rapidly fading - not that it was much to begin with.
    but now it seems to include what he is doing himself.
    it's broken.
    it's in pieces and he doesn't really care.
    should he?
    he doesn't know.
    things for everyone else seem to be going along ok - or at least no worse.
    could he make it better?
    he seems to only be able to make it worse.
    he stays away.

    and thereby.
    black and white.
    it's all from the dead.
    it's all from the ground.
    what is dead?
    what is death?
    the dead keep living through the living dead.
    we are all zombies of the dead.
    all the time in the world and what do we do?
    we run ourselves into the ground toward some possible future and everybody is running faster than everybody else because they have to get there first.
    and there's the ones who get trampled under and get left behind.
    but that's ok because the future won't have anyone there who can't take it.
    but this ain't nothing new.
    but this ain't nothing old.
    but this ain't nothing at all.
    it's just all going to keep going on until it blows itself up and everything will collapse again like it always does.
    and we stagger around and start putting the pieces back just the way it always was like player piano except with a few tricks and twists we didn't think of before.
    and no one's innocent.
    and everybody's been victimized.
    and as soon as we figure that out maybe we can put it together right this time.
    when we realize that the ones with the money and the guns don't have anything more than anyone else except what everyone thinks they want.
    if anything they have less.

    into forgetting.
    into uncaring.
    into eyes closed.
    out of this world.
              this world of hatred, fear, confusion, boredom, uselessness, power, victims, torture, ignorance, starvation, abandonment, pain, ugliness, ghettos, prisons, disease, rape, pollution, money, war, poverty, insanity, humiliation, conformity, violence, monotone, black and white, tunnel vision, locked doors, boarded over windows, vaults, warehouses, fences, walls, ceilings, rules, laws, codes, police, armies, criminals, doctors, and you get it all, don't you?
    out.
    out.
    get him out.
    get us out.

    sometime dream ago - or away.
    sometime like now - only not now.
    it's never now.
    it's always yesterday or tomorrow.
    but all we got is now.
    and we keep screwing it up instead of taking what it's got and forget what it's not got.
    it's got so much.
    it's got everything that has always been here and always will be here.
    just as much as yesterday.
    no less than tomorrow.
    why can't we figure out that now is all there is?
    now or never - and we always choose never.

    outside the wheel.
    outside the turning of the tides.
    static on the radio revels what is.

    plan for radio/ tv.
    whoever wanted to could transmit a signal at whatever frequency they wanted at any time. it could be a steady transmission at one frequency or it could be one that moved through all frequencies.
    anyway the result would be that a radio or tv receiver would pick up a montage of transmissions of whatever was passing through at the time wherever it was tuned. various kinds of music mixed with various kinds of other music mixed with poetry mixed with a love scene mixed with a travelogue mixed with a talk show mixed with a football game mixed with a spy movie mixed with...

    and it could all be so wonderful.
    and it could all be so incredibly wonderful.
    and it could all be so fantastically incredibly wonderful.
    and it could all be so beautifully fantastically incredibly wonderful.
    all we have to do is want it to be.
    and not just for ourselves, but for all the others too.
    why leave anyone out?
    who is the enemy here?
    but that's too easy to say.
    it's been said for 10,000 years or more.
    and it is nothing.
    and it is everything.
    and it's an old development.
    asleep in a hat and no one complains.
    drumbeat.
    pencil.
    we were moving counter to everything else when there was something else on the screen.
    it was not a movie.
    crawling.
    gaping open mouthed.
    claws.
    and we were just talking about how at any moment anything might happen.

    12/18
    not much today.
    not much left over and not much coming in.
    the channels are open and receiving nothing.
    why won't you talk to me?
    who is there to ask?
    this is just getting darker and darker.
    why don't you shine your light down on me?
    or something like that.
    and what comes and what will never be.
    is it him?
    how can he be to blame when he doesn't know what is going on?
    is he to be condemned for his ignorance?
    what kind of deal is that?
    the game with no rules - or, worse, with secret select rules.
    and complaining about what can't be changed while others go their merry way.

    12/19
    and what here - huh?
    unwinding the mask of confusion bringing the mummy zombie thing back to life instead of easily driving a stake through its heart to kill it ever more.
    once long ago this monster was a living breathing human.
    it was a child splashing in the river and laughing in the meadow.
    once it was in a mother's golden red womb.
    once it was a father's silver seed swimming eagerly to join its other half.

    dancing away with you now.
    he dances away by himself with you.
    he dances away with a dream as all is a dream dreaming a dream turning somewhat real and facing nothing but whoever you say you are.
    does he know yet?
    will he ever touch the mystery and meaning of what surrounds him including himself?
    what a stupid question.
    what mystery?
    what meaning?
    laughing clown understanding in dada gaga bliss spinning a made up story about anything one wants it to be.
    dancing away to wherever he's going along the way to go thumb his nose at the man who would be king.
    it's something too absolutely clear to say if there is anything there at all.
    that's the trick - no trick at all.
    and speaking in many languages he doesn't understand.
    yet undivided.
    yet being altogether who he is in multiphase sequence of shape and form.
    the disguises become masks become faces become expressions become a nod and a wink to a blind horse galloping on a tomato.
    zip-zip-hooray!
    be-bop shoes on a different time.
    dancing around in naked wild flight in and out the in and out windows.
    he knows a place.
    he knows a time.
    he knows a state of mind.
    he knows a course of being.
    he knows.
    he knows.
    he knows.
    but does he believe?

    he remembers being here before.
    river.
    sky.
    mountain.
    and a general humming light through everything.
    eyes wide.
    brain open firing all at once in non-confused wonder.
    taking it in.
    letting it out.
    brain breathing experience.
    waves.
    golden waves.
    silver seas.
    jade forests.
    ruby passion.
    diamond understanding.
    honey amber peace warm embrace.
    embracing stars.
    embracing atoms.
    embracing in embrace.
    loudly shouting, i don't care.
    not negative.
    not positive.
    not even neutral.
    i just don't care.

    he never really cared.
    take that or leave it.
    whatever one wants.
    whatever one needs.
    whatever gets one through one's night.
    he's got what gets him through his and it's as non-intrusive as he can make it without disappearing all together.
    he's got to have something, doesn't he?
    we all have to have something.
    and we all can have something.
    that's what it is - something we all can have something of.
    that's really the only requirement.
    once one starts talking about exclusive this and that then one can count him out.
    he wants no part of that even if he gets his share.
    because he's already got it though he's been sent to hell in a hand basket.
    and it's simple.
    anyone can see it.
    it's simple yet becomes complex in the convoluted imaginings about it.
    don't worry about that.
    just remember that it's simple and cut through to it.
    it is it.
    that is all.
    no mystery except all mystery.
    a moment into forever now in a swirling whirlwind dance though everything.
    and in it all.
    and inside.
    and when we remember who it is who we are and dropping what we have named so far.
    and stepping out.
    and being born through the flames of experience.
    ore into metal.
    forging into a new life out of the death of the old life.
    birth and the continuation of this eternal life.
    why do the others wait for theirs to begin?
    why are they always waiting for tomorrow?
    one lets them work one down with promises when the joke is that one has more than they could ever sell in a thousand years.
    and all the power on earth and all the forces broken to one's command.
    speak.
    none of this or that will give one it.
    it takes all this time.
    it takes all this space.
    it takes all this being to be it.
    and to see how much it is.
    to really see it all.
    we are now small, these meaningless points of next to nothing compared to the vastness of everything.
    to sink into that nothingness is where everything begins.
    and to feel the joy that follows that beginning.
    to know it's all for you.
    to know it's all for him.
    to know it's all for us.
    what more can we ask?
    reach out and touch everything.

    12/20
    and leave the pig world behind.
    go ahead.
    push.
    the door will open if one tries.
    the door is not even locked.
    who goes this way?
    one need not look for a key.
    the door will open.
    the door is open.
    just step through.
    out.
    forward.
    invent.
    invention.
    inspiration.
    inspire.
    dance.
    dance into everything.
    dance.
    dancing fool.
    alive in mystery.
    wonder.
    amazement.
    delight.
    laughing all the way to where it is all waiting.
    the feast is prepared.
    bring one's share and bring one's appetite.
    laughing all the way.
    finding oneself.
    alive.
    being.
    joy.
    sorrow.
    feeling oneself touching the mystery.
    one is the mystery.
    touch oneself.
    find the it in oneself.
    probe into the forbidden, the areas of oneself that they have fenced off and boarded up.
    find it.
    the spring that flows from underground, the cool clear water to quench one's burning thirst.
    find it.
    taste what is.
    what one has been fed on is what is not - the dry flavorless processed food pellets of this world that were made salted and poisoned that one had to push buttons to get or get an electric shock.
    drink from the spring within - rinse the decay from one's body.
    and then it ends.
    and then it is finished.
    and then nothing more can be said.
    and then... what?
    and then it begins.

    what begins?
    what is it?
    what can we know?
    does it matter what we know or not?
    do we need to know in order to make it - to let it happen?
    what is knowing?
    what is to be known?
    and all of the questions and none of the answers.
    do we need the answers to get it?
    if we had all the answers, what is left?
    do we then die forever?

    he thinks that's what it came up against. it is everything so it knows everything. so then what? so it had to forget. so it divided itself into parts that didn't know everything or anything what the other parts knew. and maybe this was even a gamble. maybe it did this without letting itself know if it would ever get itself back together again. maybe yes, maybe no. only it knows. and maybe it doesn't know. if it does, it's not telling. but maybe it doesn't know anything. maybe this is it trying to figure itself out exploring all that it is - an exploration that can never come to a conclusion. an explosion that never stops exploding.
    all just in passing.

    and in spiral.
    and in exploration and assembly.
    and in knowing.
    and in being.
    and in experience.
    remember and forget.
    one by one.
    point by point.
    at once and all together.
    coming and going.
    dancing.
    and it takes two to tango.
    this and that.
    and it takes two to fight a war.

    juggle the numbers and the ideas and concepts and all else.
    divide it anyway one wants.
    divide 1/2, 1/2, 1/2, 1/2, 3/8...
    you can't get there from here, someone giggles nearby.
    and the he tip-toes out the back door.
    and it is amazing.
    and it unfolding.
    and he can sit here all day and spin out on threads of it and yet remains alone with his abstracts inside his head, inside this bell jar skull pounding on the walls.
    silence.
    it is alone.
    there is nothing else but it.
    it makes otherness and in so doing it is not that otherness even though it is.
    it chooses to forget.
    forget oneself and one's otherness.
    who is who anymore?
    who is anyone of us?
    who is he apart from another?
    what keeps them apart?
    what keeps them together?

    oh yeah - let's rehash all that philosophical bullshit.
    let's ponder the irresolvable contradictions.
    let's beat our heads against the wall.
    let's.
    let us.
    there is no us.
    there is only him.
    he is here.
    there is no one here with him.
    was that his choice?
    though he is surrounded by others who are alone together.
    what does he do?
    there is no club or party or any meeting where he still won't be alone.

    and having slipped through that, he's danced out again - still alone but in fantasy of being the other.
    if it can do that so can he.
    why not?
    isn't he part of it anyway?
    that's the only way.
    when caught in a dream pretend it's not a dream.
    when you're alone it's easy to do.
    one need not convince someone else.
    and who cares?
    he only cares that someone else might care but since no one else is here what's to worry about?
    and in falling.
    and in rising.
    and in becoming.
    and in all.
    and at what point is it him?
    and at what point is it another?
    but everyone knows the space they occupy.
    don't get too close.
    don't mix your shit with mine.

    and he declares that everything is his.
    it all belongs to him.
    he recognizes nothing that says contrary.
    and it is through his kindness and selfless benevolence that he allows everyone to use it for themselves.
    this is because he is entertained by their ceaseless fighting over it.
    he is amazed that they do not realize that if they split it all up evenly each would have more than what one needs.
    but they grab as much as they can get away with solely it seems to prevent anyone else from getting it not because they have any actual use for it.
    all the convoluted things they do and the wasteful garbage it produces.
    they'd rather trash the planet than to let someone else claim one more square foot than they have.
    why claim any of it?
    but he knows they have libraries full of books filled with their reasoning about why they do the things they do.
    he couldn't read it in a lifetime.
    but he suspects that their reasoning is such a long detailed process that by the time they get to the end they've disproven the beginning, maybe several times over.
    otherwise what is all the fighting about if they are all in agreement with the knowledge they've collected?
    unless they're not.
    but then why not sit down and try to figure it out?
    what a delight.
    he can hardly stop laughing.

    and everybody's getting it together.
    but everybody's dreams have to wait.
    heaven waits, standing in the wings for us to finally decide for it to come on stage.
    come on.
    what's wrong with everybody else?
    is he the only one who wants it now?
    come on.
    the day is today.
    the hour is now.
    to hell with all the signs and timetables.
    to hell with all the messiahs and anti-messiahs.
    let's do it.
    and everything remains the same as ever before and after.
    no one even blinks.
    no one can see that all this can be done away with anytime.
    but everybody's too busy arguing on about how to do it.
    and what is.
    and what isn't.
    and all the stuff in-between.
    this and that.

    and now we mention things that turn around.
    round things that turn around.
    square things that turn around.
    triangular things that turn around.
    all sorts of shapes and sizes of things that turn around.
    look!
    look!
    look!
    around they go.
    around and around and around again and again and again.
    see ya around.
    hanging around.

    awhile ago he became aware of a curtain drawn across his brain.
    was it always there?
    he doesn't know.
    maybe it was.
    but he became aware of it because of the activity that was going on behind it.
    activity that was happening beyond his having anything to do with it - or being able to have anything to do with it.
    it's like hammering and sawing almost - like something was being built.
    he was puzzled by this.
    he at first felt that his brain was divided fore and aft and it was the back part that was up to something.
    but then he felt around and realized that all of what he thought of and experienced as his brain was all present and accounted for and was on his side of the curtain.
    so where was the curtain and what was behind it?
    then he felt that what was going on behind the mysterious curtain that was nowhere wasn't something being built but was something being activated.
    and he thought about the thing about us not using the better part of our brain.
    he didn't know if this was still a valid theory, if ever.
    he just remembered reading that somewhere or seeing it on tv or something.
    so, was a part of his brain that had lain dormant up until now being activated?
    and activated by what? - or who?
    and when it's ready to go on line will the curtain be lifted away?
    about the curtain:
    as he thought about it it seemed that this curtain is where he could have sworn was a solid wall before - if his brain could be said to have walls, which sometimes it seems like it does - just like it seems that it has different rooms.
    he's not sure about this though.
    he still has what he's always considered to be his brain.
    the brain that he uses to do all the functioning stuff and thinking and everything that brains do.
    but he can feel this other part "behind" that and it's being fed into the "front" part.
    is this conscious and unconscious?
    he doesn't think so.
    he knows where his unconscious is - down in the basement.
    there's no curtain there. it's just too dark to see anything.
    that isn't where this is coming from.
    it's like he looks at the world around him and processes it and whatever is behind the curtain looks through him and takes it's own information from it.
    he gets what information he needs and no more as something else goes past through him.
    it's like a breeze or a draft.
    and all his senses are working like that.
    and his thoughts.
    he thinks what he thinks as usual but something that he is thinking goes off behind the curtain.
    it's weird.
    he doesn't think it was like that before.
    he doesn't remember it being that way before.
    and it's taking in information like crazy.
    when he reads the same thing happens.
    when he writes the same thing happens.
    it's like whatever it is is watching him.
    and is silent.
    when it starts talking to him he'll worry.

    welcome to it all.
    welcome to the death of this world as we know it.
    we're all here for the final show.
    the place is packed.
    no expense has been spared for the grand finale.
    set up the satellite tv coverage.
    place your bets as to where it will begin and how it will end.
    the promotion for this thing has been going on for all of human history.
    we've had a few opening acts to set the stage.
    nobody will go home disappointed.
    this is it.
    welcome to it all.
    everybody ready?
    good - let's go.

    and so he's just wondering.
    either he's totally paranoid - which is a possibility - or there's an awful lot that people aren't telling him that they know and he doesn't.
    how do they get along so well in this world while he has trouble getting dressed in the morning sometimes?
    but he'll never know unless someone tells him.
    and so far no one's saying a damn thing - not squat.
    it just a feeling he has that he's had all along.
    maybe it's just him, but he doesn't really think so.
    does it matter?
    he still gets by - sort of.

    12/22
    and we would suppose that when she rises from her fallen grave to tell him secrets, that when he stands aside, when hearts ring, when heaven does come to earth.
    he is not afraid to say he believes in such things.
    his god is beyond all the gods and goddesses that the others follow and behold.
    he reaches higher and further back.
    his god is beyond all distinctions that they name everything with in their many languages.
    he recognizes no words that come from their mouths.
    he god is it.
    it is nameless and unnamed.
    it's just a simple pronoun that can be applied to anything and everything.
    it is this.
    it is that.
    it is naming.
    and with each that follows.
    and with each sky that is broken apart with tears.
    who are the blameless victims?
    point out exactly who they are.
    does anyone know their true names?
    and then point out to who is to blame without pointing to everyone.
    and what is he trying to say?
    and he still hears a distant laughter.
    from behind the curtain?

    the correct form.
    the language unable to describe what it is unable to describe without falling into a confusion of words.
    the possibility of what it cannot describe.
    we forget with each moment more than we will know in a lifetime.
    a lifetime.
    what is that?
    birth to death.
    the organism struggles until it can no longer struggle.
    the correct form.

    blinking.
    robot eye.
    the steel hallway.
    cry out the names one once knew.
    who will hear?
    there is nothing new yet everything is brand new.
    shining.
    distant nearness.
    doctors waiting to perform surgery.
    your grip is knuckled on the cold metal railing.
    your eyes are full open with animal terror.
    everything is too fast and you are too slow.
    the needle punctures your skin.
    the air begins to hiss as a heavy dark cloud rolls over your mind.
    and finally your mind.
    and finally it is your mind in darkness that you are left with.
    alone.
    far from anywhere they might look for you.
    you remain uncaptured.
    and tick tock.
    times begins again.
    a room in an old house.
    much earlier and later than the time was before.
    there is warmth though the air is cold.
    a fire.
    flames.
    you are alive in flames.
    you can rest now.
    everything has been taken care of.
    a true sleep comes.
    a sleep of dreams you never remembered before.
    now you remember everything you have dreamed.
    yet another time passed along the way.
    conception.
    in time.

    in whatever condition, in whatever circumstance he goes and he remains.
    piece by broken piece put together again and taken apart with the same thought and motion.
    and this could be found as confusing unless one understands the highly developed dynamics of the process involved.
    other wise - could we find out?
    otherwise - we are flying down runways and gangways and the -
        where?
        crash!

    imagining it all coming true.
    what we actually see when we stop seeing the illusion of what we see.
    when we stop hallucinating.
    imagine the real thing.
    imagine what it must look like.
    open.
    receiving and transmitting.
    and this world in the way with all that it is and is not.
    we may not be who we are.
    we may be illusions of ourselves and each other.
    we need to be washed away.
    we need to allow ourselves to be washed away.
    are we who we imagine ourselves to be or are we the ones imagining?
    one is decided for us.
    one we decide for ourselves.

    12/26
    and in certain depths, and in the darkness of unknowing, we shed our fear.
    we remove our masks - not to put on different masks, but to go out unmasked.
    can we do that?
    will we allow ourselves to do that?
    can we allow ourselves to do that?
    we are the unnamed beasts.
    we are the unwanted memories.
    we do not just go away.
    look at us as we look at you.
    look at us looking at you looking at us.

    12/29
    and into the light of heaven that casts no shadows.
    all shadows have been banished.
    too evil and creepy.
    no.
    no - never.
    light behind light behind light.
    nothing but light.
    nothing less than light.
    only light light light.
    and what do we see?
    what do we see by this light?
    in this light?
    this light?
    light?
    we see nothing but light.
    cuz, you see, there is nothing for the light to illuminate but itself - light illuminating light in masturbating frenzy of ever more brilliant ecstasy feedback into oblivion of light that casts no shadows forever - never.

    and in the time.
    this time.
    time that is no time.
    when there is no limit to how far our thoughts will go.
    but we don't know where they go.
    it's too easy to go away - to just go away.
    lost in the dreamtime where the stories begin and never end.
    and what happened to the people we used to know?
    where did they go?
    and he reaches for heavens we've been promised.
    he takes the mystics at their word.
    maybe they aren't the fools everyone says they are.
    and all the mythological stories he'd read and song lyrics he listened to.
    they had to maybe be saying something about something that was maybe real - or what can be imagined.
    he looks for any and every sign he might be able see.
    call it fantasy and delusion.
    call it pie in the sky.
    call it anything one wants to.
    but he's laughing all the way.

    a warm circle.
    stripped away by the war.
    exposed down to the flesh again.
    naked as we once were.
    so long ago we've forgotten how good it feels.
    the air on our skin.
    the sun.
    the rain.
    and the warm circle we join and become.
    and the idiot mind.
    the basic unit.
    and we all turn savant in new ways.
    like lather, to lie about nude in the sand.
    burnt to the core.
    all the conditioning turned to ash - unrecognizable.
    drooling.
    staggering.
    the idiot mind.
    a singularity ready to explode into a universe.
    zero to infinity.

    he can feel something soft-edged moving among us.
    he can almost touch it.
    he can almost touch the other.
    he can almost come out of himself and move soft-edged among us.

    it's all dreams come true.
    it's a world of delights.
    it's
        not
            here
                but somewhere near.
    in time.
    in place.
    it's now dawning.
    it's now soft-edged.
    it's now.
    and it remains a mystery up until and through the end.
    climbing out of the top of one's head.
    climbing out of the top of one's world.
    bringing it down again.
    bringing it all down on home, baby.
    dancing with someone else's lover in the dawn's early light.
    the flag was still there.
    coming on.
    going on.
    over and out.
    and so it was something.
    and so it keeps coming.
    everything has been wired up into everything else.
    and here he sits where it's raining waiting for the sun.
    how long?
    how long?
    how soon?
    wait until it is here and now.

    nothing needs to happen.
    we do not need to speak.
    our words for events are not what is moving us.
    we are moved by ourselves.
    we are moved by our silence.
    we are moved through our existence.
    and he cannot speak.
    and he is silent.
    his words are even silent to himself.
    their noise is LOUD LOUD LOUD with their mouths and their machines.

    12/31
    all the power.
    and not power.
    and the time and energy.
    we are lost.
    our gods have tricked us and run off laughing.
    now we are ourselves alone.
    we must learn to think on our own.
    this is the test.
    our technology has brought us all together to a crossroads.
    a place in time with energy.
    we discovered atomic energy but also lsd.
    which do we take?
    which do we learn from?
    and it is at this time of turning - a time of turning as of the many times of turning.
    we turn and turn yet still keep straight ahead.
    we keep to our traditions without learning from them.
    our history is darkness to us with all the shadows moving us still.
    we are afraid to be wrong so we invent the causes for the events that have shaped us.
    we march on.
    we march on.
    never turning, though we are always turning.
    even proud that we are never turning - pointing to the straight lines our progress has taken as an example of the correctness of our vision.
        our quest.
        our destiny.
    and it is at this time of turning that he wants to turn away.
    he wants to turn away and run like hell.
    not because he is afraid - if anything, fear keeps him in line - in the parade.
    he wants to be brave.
    he wants to turn away.
    but where does he turn toward?
    everywhere around him are paths that are straight and narrow.
    he needs a new direction.
    a direction he's never seen or thought of before.
    he could sit on a mountain or out on a desert.
    he could cloister himself behind walls.
    he could put a bullet through his brain.
    but those are the old directions.
    what is the new one?

    1/1/88
    and it comes and goes in waves.
    waves breaking on a beach somewhere.
    an island.
    everywhere is an island - but man is a peninsula.
    everywhere there is an island.
    an island where waves are breaking on the beach.
    and it comes and goes in waves.
    waves that follow a tide - tides that follow the moon.
    an island where ships are wrecked and a body lies in the sand, waking after the storm.
    a mind in the body opening to the wonder at arriving where it's never been before.

    and this goes on and on.
    and he is tired.
    whatever it is that is in his brain he wants it to either give him what it seems to be pushing him toward or to leave him alone.
    let him go back to the herd and quietly graze.
    it does him no good now.
    he can't seem to go forward and it won't let him go back.
    he is stuck in a no man's land of wonder and horror.
    he is sitting here some night and suddenly gets picked up by a tornado - a swirling fit of ecstasy.
    and it picks him up and flies him around awhile through this hyper-clear space and time of thought and emotion.
    and when it is done - or when he loses it - it slams him down again back on the ground to find his own way home.
    but he doesn't know.
    maybe it's him.
    what is it?
    does it do anything?
    does it go anywhere?
    what is happening and what does it mean?
    is it some sort of evolutionary enlightenment trip or is he just going mad?
    does he follow it? - try to hold on?
    in the former case, he should - in the latter case he shouldn't.
    does he really want to risk being another guy out on the street shouting to himself and his demons like a deluded madman, or like a holy prophet who babbles to anyone he thinks will listen about his higher thoughts?
    does it matter either way?
    is this where he is headed?
    is this just the calm before the real storm?

    and with this going on, the real world, as it presents itself, becomes more invisible.
    at first i was iridescent. then i became transparent. finally i was absent - (starship).
    he sees through more and more of the layers like the man with the x-ray eyes.
    this is even worse when he looks into a mirror.
    it gets rather hard to keep functioning when the sirens are singing and he is lashed to this mast of his life.
    but what lies in the direction they are calling?
    a beach?
    rocks?
    he cannot see from here.
    and he questions his motives for wanting to follow or their motives for calling him.

    all singing.
    all the people.
    all the people singing.
    alive and living.
    even the dead.
    he can hear them all through our existence.
    and what may or may not happen.
    and what comes next - just another tomorrow which becomes another today and yesterday and sometime last week.
    should he worry about that?
    he's been ripped off.
    he's ripped others off.
    we keep each other back from where we ought to be by now and where we really are if we look around.
    we keep ourselves back from each other.
    and no one is to blame.
    there is no cause, only effect.
    this is how it is.
    but it could be different - that's all.

    alone.
    writing words to himself in a feedback vacuum.
    but if he tries to open it up to someone else what will happen but them being sucked into it too?
    he becomes another vampire bleeding them dry.
    so he stays alone.
    he has nothing to give anyone.
    what does he have to even give to himself?
    this is as yet unformed.
    it has yet to be born.
    and when it is?
    will it be nothing at all?
    is he sitting here thinking and writing about nothing?
    just the here and now?

    a dream of revolution.
    we are amused by those who say the revolution is over - it is lost. we gave it our best shot, but we failed. the revolution is far from being over or lost. these people, many of whom in their day were in the forefront against the barricades, say that because they gave up on the revolution, some for very good personal reasons, that the revolution dropped dead. how ego-centric and what nonsense. the revolution is stronger, if not stronger, as it ever was. we do admit that it took a beating - the soldiers were brought out to shoot people down, the economy was tightened up so people had less leisure time and the university hotbeds were turned over to business and quaaludes were distributed to dose out the speed and acid fed energy. but the revolution is like a tree. when it is pruned it grows back even more. and this revolution is a very old tree. it goes back farther than our lifetimes or even this century. along time ago this living tree was cut to the ground and the pieces of it hauled off and burned. the stump was ripped up and and filled with poison. then where the tree once stood were built structures of power - the church, the factory, the corporate tower. but little did anyone who did this realize that a small root of this tree was still living. it took in water and nutrients far underground growing again, gathering new strength and sending out new shoots upward until the time came when it pushed through to the surface again. the walls of the church factory tower began to crack and up through the floor the tree pushed again. and the gardeners were called in to cut it down again wherever it came up. but the roots cannot be gotten to without digging up the very foundation of the church factory tower itself. so this struggle goes on with the tree growing and the walls of the church factory tower being constantly repaired and reenforced. but the tree, because it is living, can adapt and regenerate. cut it back here and that only stimulates growth elsewhere. the structure of the church factory tower, because it is dead, cannot adapt or regenerate. it can only decay however much it is repaired.
    and the people hearing this were filled with new hope and danced around like crazy and made a loud noise into the night. and the gardeners were called in to cut down this new outgrowth - upgrowth.
    stop, look and listen.

    and time passes as it has always passed before.
    and still we say we hate time.
    but it is us who wind the clocks or set them to measuring the hum of electrons.
    we keep putting in another battery.
    we miss our chance to escape.
    we cannot lay in the sun today - our schedule doesn't allow it.
    we cannot dance beneath the full moon tonight - we must early to bed, early to rise, to get another worm before the others.
    and we do this all for tomorrow.
    tomorrow when the job is done and our task complete and the last piece is put into place and when our ship comes in.
    when jesus and the angels come.
    when the aliens land in the un plaza.
    when...
    when...
    when...
                ...tomorrow.

    and something else about this.
    he is as guilty as the rest.
    he's not going to be the first one out the door.
    he's been sitting here all his life waiting for someone to tell him the water's fine - jump in.
    we need to all take our clothes off at once.
    we need to all hold hands and jump in at once.
    we need to all take the chance together.

    and he is calling out for someone whoever they may be.
    does one have dreams that weave one's thoughts into strange and wonderful new designs?
    does one have pieces of a puzzle that don't fit together?
    well maybe they fit together with some that he has.
    who knows?
    but how does any of this happen?
    does one put an ad in the paper.
    looking for someone who is going insane with all the noise.

    the marching sound.
    the chewing sound.
    the movement of the machine against reason.
    the guns popping throughout the city and an explosion or few.
    the rape of life by death.
    the construction that destroys.
    the propaganda as entertainment.
    the applause of the many that drowns the criticism of the few.
    the language that can only speak to those who already agree with what is spoken.

    get up and move around.
    dance into it.
    become alive with each new breath.
    or something like that.
    and it's something quite apart.
    and it's something very old.
    and it's something where nothing else is.
    and he is unable to explain it but he feels that others should know - if they let themselves know.
    he can't be the only one who feels it, can he?
    it's not on tv.
    it's not in the bars.
    it's not in the books.
    it's not in the paintings or photos.
    it's not in the music.
    it's in us.
    it can only be dimly mirrored in what we think, say and do.
    and he can't reach through the walls that surround us.
    and neither can anyone else it seems.
    we need some other place to meet where we can gather.
    to imagine.

    1/2
    and what can be said now?
    we are surrounded by ourselves.
    (has he written that before?)
    we can barely look into one another's eyes honestly.
    we cannot mix.
    we are divided in strange groups apart.
    pieces.
    pieces of pieces.
    pieces of pieces of pieces.
    a multitude of pieces.

    he dreamed.
    he dreamed again.
    is he always dreaming?
    and the next day came.
    and the next day went.
    and the people came and said he was being foolish and he should stop.
    and the people went.
    he didn't go with them.
    he remained a fool.
    he remains a fool.
    he dreams.
    he dreams again.
    he'll get to it.
    all the days that come and go are just days that come and go.
    all the people who come and go who call him a fool are just people who come and go and call him a fool.
    none of that matters as long as he can dream.
    and the dreams are just dreams.
    the dreams come and go too.
    he'll get to it.
    into the harmony.
    into the imagination of harmony.
    turning.
    turning toward.
    turning away.
    only moments.
    what is left of this world?
    what is to be sung?
    the words are broken.
    all language is drained of blood - the blood is dust scattered away.
    of the fallen.
    of the time gone by.
    holding onto what little is left.
    a ticket for a train that doesn't run any more.
    and we stand apart.
    and we stand alone.
    and we stand here together.
    all our mixed baggage on the platform.
    a thousand dreams.
    a thousand dances.
    a thousand windows.
    a thousand doors.
    and the human condition.
    faces split in two.
    eyes afire.
    and there must be something more than words in all this mess and the actions guided by words and the thoughts formed by words.
    something open.

    maggie's farm.
    doo-dah doo-dah doo.
    what to do about maggie's farm.
    the cold wind is blowing and there's ice on the ground.
    sure is nice to be inside and warm here on maggie's farm.
    maybe he's just eating bread, cheese and rice but he's eating something on maggie's farm.
    but a lot of stuff is falling apart and not working and there's no money to fix it here on maggie's farm.
    the car is barely running.
    his credit line is almost maxed out.
    he's borrowed money from his old man.
    this is it.
    there's nothing more left on maggie's farm.

    and to have faith in something else when there could be nothing there at all.
    but then that's what faith is, trusting that there's something there even if one cannot see it when by all reasonable assessment there isn't anything.
    that's not so much his problem.
    he does have faith that there is something somewhere.
    he just doesn't know or can't conceive of what it may be or in what direction it is in or what he needs to do to get to it.
    does he keep on with what he's doing?
    does he make some radical change and take a leap?
    what?
    let go.
    let go.
    let it go.
    let it all go.
    but what does he let go?
    and how?
    what does he follow when nothing can be trusted just not to lead back to maggie's farm again?
    instinct?
    inspiration?
    what instinct or inspiration?

    and god is an idol of itself.
    a graven image.
    god who?
    god what?
    there is nobody here but him and his shadow.
    is he it?
    his shadow?
    he stays as far away from that one as he can get.
    yet it calls his name.
    his name.
    what is his name?
    i am that i am.
    can he say that?
    it's easy and it makes sense.
    but does that mean anything?
    and he trembles afraid looking into that image in the mirror.
    and that's what it is, isn't it?
    another image in the mirror?
    what is the source of all these goddamn images?
    he is in a maze of mirrors.
    he wants to smash them all but they're the only friends he has at this point.
    reflections of himself - whoever he is really.
    pretzel logic.
    i am i because my little dog knows me - in his case, his cat.
    he can say that too.
    he can say anything he wants to.
    he can say everything he wants to.
    is this some sort of lathe of heaven nightmare?
    will he go insane if he looks to close behind the curtain?
    it's not him.
    he was not here when the stars were born or was he?
    he cannot now remember.
    and if it wasn't him, then who?
    who stood there as it was happening or was made to happen?
    and the mystics command, look within.
    within himself are only more mirrors.
    is he not himself?
    who is he?
    who is observer?
    who is observed?
    just what the fuck is going on here anyway?
    and it is what it is.
    it circles back on itself trying to sneak up on itself.
    and.
    and it.
    and it is.
    and it is what.
    and it is what it.
    and it is what it is,
    that's a big help.
    thanks.
    looking at each other eye to eye.
    it is what it is.
    a kiss in the dark.
    a kiss like a spark.
    a spark tracing a line of light in space and time - in here and now.
    motion.
    two moving as one.
    and baby makes three.
    and baby is one again.
    binary reproduction.
    bit by bit.
    kissing in the dark.
    kissing like sparks.
    sparks in the brain lighting up the mind.
    thinking.
    thought plus thought making an idea.
    a kiss in the dark.
    a kiss like a spark.
    and still the world remains.
    he can sit in his house away from it and write whatever he wants to but the world remains.
    it is what it is.
    solid as the rock kicked by whoever that was who kicked it to refute thus the notion of it all being in one's head no matter how much the mind may take it apart piece by piece to see what makes it tick.
    tick tick tick.
    time and the world remain.
    but what about the mind taking itself apart?
    what does one kick to refute what there?

    sailing away.
    nowhere to go but here, there and everywhere.
    it was just a dream - as clear as light itself, but still just a dream.
    he wonders about it all.
    he is amazed by it all.
    time to go.
    to go in time.
    out of time.
    time to go.
    the door with a silhouette shadow figure of the mind standing haloed by the light coming in.
    ice light.
    a time frozen.
    frozen time.
    a moment suspended by itself wherever/whenever it might find itself to be.
    not here.
    not there.
    existing in non-existence.
    silence.
    where the mind plays.
    where the songs come from before the words - before the music.
    where round can be square and square can be round because it's before either are conceived and named.
    and each moment is like this.
    each moment is all possible moments and things of moments however improbable whatever might be.
    and each moment is as it happens becomes only one possibility.
    the trick is to get to the moment before it happens.
    and what a trick that would be.
    ah, yes...

    and what is here?
    and what is here that is not here but was one of the many possibilities that didn't happen?
    an infinity of possibilities.
    one of the improbabilities - infinite probabilities.
    going over it again and again.
    something is missed each time.
    think.
    think again.
    into the tick tock.
    into the tick stop.
    and what another dream this is sitting by the fire with music playing and nothing happening at all but his hand scribbling out ink marks on page after page.
    and he feels like something may be happening.
    something could happen.
    something else.
    if he could get to it.
    he feels it right next to him in some alternate space.
    a vanishing point perspective.
    almost.
    any way it is.
    any way it comes and goes.
    any way it takes.

    1/4
    o' may can you sneeze.
    by the pawn's squirrelly flight.
    what so loudly we fail.
    in the bar fights past screaming.
    ok man to be.
    fly the pawn's surly fright.
    mutt go loudly free sail.
    win the dark nights past dreaming.

    flip flop.
    watch it drop.
    the underground surfaces for a moment.
    shout out one's name.
        - another of a thousand ideas stolen.
    we wait.
    we look out the windows.
    we climb the mountains.
    we swim the oceans.
    there is no tomorrow for us.
    we are living today.
    something of distance nearby.
    something in the air.
    something beneath the surface.
    and all that he has killed.
    and all that he has frozen in place.
    and all that he's pushed aside on his way nowhere.
    we are strange to their faces.
    we are faced with their strangeness.
    to fly.
    to fly.
    bye-bye.

    1/5
    it's in the dark.
    he's in the dark.
    and later...

    1/7
    into whatever else.
    when the mind doesn't fit into what it is doing.
    real time and mind time.
    upward into an envelope of shouting.
    listen.
    noise.
    bring it back to the point between us now as it was in the future we used to believe in.
    so here he is.
    this is him.
    and another.
    or not.
    is this us?
    is this him?
    is this another?
    he slips into it.
    he slips out of it.
    he wants to speak it to you.
    he wants to slip it to you.
    slip his tongue into your left ear and lick a part inside your brain that will trigger an endless cascade of thoughts and dreams that will amaze you.
    he wants to slip his tongue into your right ear and speak to you.
    what will he speak to you about?
    secrets.
    he will speak to you nothing but secrets.
    secrets that only he and you will know.
    secrets he wises he had.
    what?
    what? you will say.
    what is this?
    you say.
    you say.
    and he, by himself, sitting his arse upon an ancient relic of mysterious origin will reply, heck, i dunno.
    you tell me.
    what is this?
    and he wonders about you.
    he wonders and wonders and wonders.
    will he wonder forever about you?
    he wonders if he will.
    he thinks he will.
    he likes wondering about you.
    this is because you are so wonderful.
    let me tell you a story, he says. no, i think i'll wait. but i will tell you that it was a story about you and me. what kind of story would you like me to tell you about you and me? i could tell you a story about you and me that has a happy ending. do you think it is possible for me to tell you a story about you and me that has a happy ending?
    [ ] yes.
    [ ] no.
    [ ] sorry but in the interest of my sanity and self preservation i cannot realistically believe in happy endings of any sort whatsoever.
    [ ] tell me more.
    or i could tell you a story that has a very sad and tragic ending. how sad and tragic it would be can only be imagined - as well, how happy the happy ending would be can also only be imagined.
    only be imagined.
    i can only imagine.
    you can only imagine.
    but we do imagine.
    and everything comes out of our imagining. the machines the doctors use come out of our imagining. the chair you're sitting on, or bed or floor or whatever - because it's true i can't really see you - all come from our imagining.
    this may not be important.
    i'll let you decide.
    we are both living in worlds of our imagining - or someone's imagining.
    welcome to the imaginary city.
    you've been here all the while.
    i've been here too, though we've never met.
    how about i tell you a story with no ending at all?
    it just keeps happening.

    and so it breaks.
    it breaks apart and it doesn't fall.
    it just sort of stays there.
        hanging.
        not moving.
        or moving slowly.
        as if waiting for something else to happen.
    human warrior.
    pride into oneself.
    back to the mother herself.
    shouting with silence.
    as understood as changing with the names and naming - with the spoken and speaking - with the light and lighting.
    one with one.
    returning with the other.
    returning into the other.
    water.
    rain.
    sky.
    mountain.
    river.
    snow.
    ice.
    melting into mist.
    becoming ghost.
    whose mouth speaks now?
    speak and control the gods, he whispers now.
    make them move you to new heights.
    the gods are our servants - not we theirs.
    we are the mind which shapes meaning into truth.
    even the truth of gods.
    we are the eye.
        the ear.
        the tongue.
        the nose.
        the hand.
    we are the body.
    we are the christ.
    we are the one who is here.
    we are the god in human flesh.
    we are all the flesh is.
    we are all the flesh becomes.
    we are all the flesh remembers.
    we feel the pain.
    we feel the pleasure.
    the flesh is willing, but the spirit is weak.
    body and mind.
    into the spoken light.
    once in a lifetime.

    speaking of itself absorbed into wonder.
    and he points and identifies something in a dream.
    a monster - a monster, his dream voice cries out.
    coming closer from out of the childhood closet.
    and waking from a dark world into a dark world.
    the timeless time between midnight and dawn.
    frightened.
    it didn't come up from the basement but from behind the curtain.

    boots on fire.
    boots aflame.
        dancing fire boots.
        a-hoot!
        a-hoot!
        a-hoot to boot!

    breaking the ice.
    melting breaking ice dripping water on the fire which cannot be put out.
    the fire vaporizes the water as it drips.
    puffs of steam.
    the fire burns on.
    melting the breaking ice.
    feed the fire.
    feed the flames.
    hell of living fire.
    go to hell.
    feed the fire.
    feed the flames.
    feed yourself to the fire.
    feed yourself to the flames.
    become the fire.
    twist it.
    turn it.
    speak many voices.
    shout.
    sing.
    whisper.
    talk.
    walk among the voices.
    walk around the voices.
    walk listening to the voices.
    bless.
    bless.
    bless the voices speaking all the time at once with you and without you.
    they don't make any sense.
    they come and go in and out of understanding.
    or - understanding comes in and out of them.
    bringing it back.
    bringing it down.
        when the gods walk the earth again awakened from the old looking with eyes reborn anew.
        hearing.
        tasting.
        smelling.
        touching everything again.
        they will not need to speak.
        they will walk the earth with silent knowing and wonder.
    bringing it forward.
    bringing it up.
    near the ground.
    everything is around you.
    everything is with you.
    you walk as a god walks.
        the god in your head reborn anew.
    you are a new god.
        an immortal karmic creature of your own imagining.
        what you decide -  is decided.
        what you do - is done.
        all, of course, within the cooperation of the other gods who walk with you.
        who are they?
        who are you?
        give yourself a name.
        make one up.
        remember this name through everything living and dead.
        speak it to yourself always until you need another one - or until you need no name at all.

    a driven noise of itself in a chaotic rainbow of heat listening to the other. filling in between the cracks where we watch the development of decay. we watch while we chew on door knob shaped candy striped fancy ribboned dead meat. we looked about and saw another land behind us. we turned and went. now we are there. it is here now - the here and now. we shipped packages of our understanding back home again and again. we received no reply. and we were speaking about what we were speaking about out of our mouths - out of our heads.
    look at it.
    he cannot free himself from their devout misery. he cannot break the chains that bind him to their suffering. he is pulled under by the weight of billions of people who are drowning.
    he wants to touch them but that touching causes pain.
    he wants to know them but the knowing makes him scream.
    he must remain cold, for any warmth of emotion quickly burns him.

    1/12
    and the confessions.
    and the true broken heart that can never be mended or healed.
    and the eyes that wait to see someone who is never to come.
    and the door that is unlocked but will never be opened.
    and the time that goes on forever.
    welcome back from nowhere - the nothing that we all are.
    the shouts from below.
    look over your shoulder.
        blade.
        blood dripping from a window closed against the night with your silver reflection ghost of who you never thought you would be.
    do you remember who you thought you'd be?
        - by now?
        - by the time you'd be old enough to know better?
        but then it's too late.
        you know better because you've made so many mistakes.
        so many damn mistakes.
        it takes a lifetime to make as many as that.
        a lifetime.
    and nobody has to go.
    and nobody has gone.
    where are we going?
    he remembers crying so long ago.
    he remembers not thinking if he was happy or not.
    he remembers being lost a lot of time - his hand gripped nothing.
    everybody went on the other side against him.
    no one to talk to anymore.
    he is the only one left alive, surrounded by phantoms.
    he is alive.
    and words escaping his brain.
    and words he does not speak nor write down.
    and words without comfort.
    and words without pain.
    and words into the gray cloud abyss beyond.

    negativeness.
    anti-spark crackling on one's upper lip as one speaks.
        as one drives one's car.
        as one sits alone with one's back to the wall.
    broken under pain river ice.
    hovering overhead without a smile - without a frown.
    staring straight ahead.

    his existence is fading.
    the reflection in the mirror doesn't respond - it just stands there with a stupid grin on its face.
    he has no idea about where anything comes from anymore.
    he has no idea about where anything goes to anymore.
    not only can't he find the answers, but the questions have been eluding him as well.

    god is love, chant the inquisitors as they tighten the screws.
        as they crack the whips.
        as they light the branding fires.
    god is dead.
    love is dead.
    or is it we who are dead?
        numb.
        blind.
        stupid.
        deaf.
    he knows there is god.
    he knows there is love.
    regardless of all the thoughts, words and deeds of the whole human population.
    let humanity shout with one unified voice, there is no god. there is no love.
    it will not change his mind.
    if he can imagine god, there is god.
    if he can imagine love, there is love.
    but what is god?
    but what is love?
    he has no fucking idea.

    spinning.
    gotta do this.
    gotta do that.
    can't do a damn thing he wants to do.
    doesn't even know what he wants to do.
    and to know even what to ask.
    and to know even who to ask.
    and to know even anything at all.
    it could have been somewhere.
        to begin.
    here he is alone without a thought in his head that he can call his own.
    and so what does it matter?
    everybody seems to be getting along ok.
    if not, it's not because of him.
    he stays away from all that.
    and he's not struggling with anything he might be able to sell and others to buy.
    so he's not struggling with anything at all as far as they're concerned.
    even if he gets it he will still have nothing to market.
    and through the windows breaking.
    the long time ago.
    blinking.

    1/13
    and what is dead is dead.
    beyond living.
    escaping the boundaries.
    flying past our imagination - though we too are dead.
    we fear what we are.
    we fear the nothing that we are.
    we only return.
    we only take another breath.
    we only come back.
    and here beneath the surface of the real, down in the twisted world of our own invention - return and return.

    and he speaks to you again, take me out of this a moment. let me speak to you about nothing for as long as you will let me. i know time for you is precious. time for me is nothing. time for me is everything. time filled with thoughts that lead nowhere, but return to themselves again. i know i don't provide very good company. i bring you down from the heights you are trying to climb. but i ask you to remember me awhile - as long as you give me.
    and it was a smile that i imagined that led me to you - though we've never met. i don't know why i imagined that about you. maybe it's that there's not too many other people who look at me and actually seem to see me. i usually see the fear in their eyes, or the anger. your eyes look almost forgiving though i've done nothing i need to be forgiven for. you look as if you would - without question. i would forgive you too. and so i have come to you. and so i have spoken with you. and so i have asked you for some time away from the others.

    1/14
    and by this strange device.
    and by this mind.
    and by this open tomb where we slept for the centuries - long and long.
    we dreamt until this day.
    as the rain continued falling.
    as the sun was hidden - and the moon.
        and the moon was our distant sister.
        and the sun burned in cold cold space.
    space connected around us.
        as we slept.
        as we dreamt.
        this day.
        and by this day.
        by this sign of this day we will awaken.
    this mind.
    this strange device.
    ourselves.
    and in our dreamtime.
    and in our silent memory are voices.
    we never hear them - but we listen always.
    we are the gods we once told stories about.
    we are all the things of earth and sea and sky.
    we are all living things and all things living.
        and all things that continue.
    we cry ourselves to sleep.
    we cover our tracks.
    we get up and face another day of our own making.
    we blame ourselves for trying too little.
    we blame ourselves for trying too much.

    on the point of breaking.
    on the point of forgetting not to remember.
    wide.
    open.
    into the heaven we told ourselves was hell.

    how can he speak here?
    he is not given a language that does not turn truth into lies.
    how can he then sing?
        and dance?
        and fly?
    and he knows these are not fantasies.
    but they are if that is all one sees - all one will recognize.
    he knows the dreams we share.
    and he knows a place and time where those dreams are not dreams.
    would you believe him if he told you that the place is anywhere and the time is any time?
    would you believe him if he told you that the place is here and the time is now?
    of course not.
    and we fantasize.
    and he knows these are not fantasies.
    he is a beggar at the door who wants nothing from you but who would give you more wealth than you could imagine.
    or maybe you can.
    just imagine.

    1/15
    to go mad.
    to go what is thought to be mad.
    to step through that open door in the back of one's mind.
        into everywhere.
        into anywhere.
    a time and place.
    laing says it's a journey.
    let's hope so...

    a monster is an imaginary animal.
    he wonders if it sounds like anyone you know.
    huh?
    no?
    alright?
    it's an imaginary animal.
    we've patched it together from parts.
    we've made him live for someone to talk to.
    he's monstrous and kind.
    he's playful and charming.
    but there's one small flaw.
    it seems we've left one thing out.
    just a small fly in the ointment.
    he's got no heart.
    he's got no part of a future.
    he's got no part of a past.
    he's got nothing to share.
    he's got nothing to confide.
    he's got no heart.
    what kind of price to pay for no comfort.
    the monster stands at the edge of the winter lake.
    he looks out to the land of the silence stretching out between us.
    he is the king of the land.
    ghost like forever.
    the winter lake - it's ghost-like forever.
    the silence between us.
    the king of the land of the silence between us.
    the winter there.
    great white dangerous.
    it signifies - time.
        overfed.
        deathly slow.
    the monster stands.
    the king of the land.
    he looks out.
    mmmmmm...
    great white bear.
    moby bear.
    but for the monster it is always summertime.
    don't you see?
    he doesn't.
    he doesn't see.
    through the leaves.
    through the trees.
    like there was a sun glowing.
    there were pots and pots and pots of flowers growing.
    the day the monster takes a walk and talk with you.
    it's not so bad.
    oh, the wind is blowing.
    through the bare branches it is snowing.
    the day the monster takes a walk and talk with you.
    down to the lake he goes watching the water rolling smoothly.
    and he's at the water.
    and the water's big.
    and it's green gray and big.
    he says, big.
        don't you see how big it is?
    watching the water moving.
    the molecules of it are so big.
    they're bouncing off the rocks like popcorn.
    you have to brush them from you hair.
    so reach your hand out and take a handful.
    molecules of your own choosing.
    a souvenir of the day the monster walks and talks with you.
    hair slips between your fingers.
    and the monster says, when i'm gone just don't say i never gave you anything.
    and it's not so bad - is it?
    everybody's got something to hide 'cept me and my monkey, the monster sings.

    1/19
    and a cat doesn't know shit.

    to zero.
    to zero.
    all to zero.
    zero to all.
    all is zero.
    zero is all.
    relevant nothingness explodes.
    he came.
    he saw.
    he was conquered.
    the face of god.
    he looks and glances away - eyes burning.
    he rests.
    he looks again.
    FLASH!
    did he look longer this time?
    did he see any more this time?
    and is that it?
    is that the face god wishes us to see?
    what good it that?
    he doesn't know.
    all he knows is that he can't stand looking at this world any longer either.
    the rotting flesh of faces screaming alive in pain.
    is that the face of god as well?
    he wants to see the face of god and face down his horrible fear.
    he will see the face of god.
    he may die first - but if he lives again, he will look again.
    he will strengthen his vision.
    FLASH!
    he looked a little longer this time - he knows he did.
    sometime he will not have to look away.
    and what will he see?
    a benevolent smiling face?
    a twisted mask?
    a void?
    a reflection of his own awed wonder struck face?
    the girl next-door?
    he doesn't care what it looks like.
    he will see it.
    he doesn't even know why he wants to.
    he doesn't think much of god.
    god the cosmic bully always pushing people around because it can.
    it's for your own good, it says.
    eat this and like it.
    but he will see it.
    and then he will speak though he has nothing to say.
    hey god, how's it hanging?
    pretty lonely out here in the void, ain't it?

    trying to untrap the moment.
    trying to realize the time.
    trying to release time itself.
    trying to put everything into place.
    trying to set everything free.
    trying to know what needs to be put into place.
    trying to know what needs to be set free.
    trying to find his balance.
    is he unbalanced?
    is this the state of being unbalanced?
    or is it only that he feels that way?
    can one be in balance while being unbalanced?
    balance in motion.
    the balance of the unbalanced.
    the yin of the yang.
    nothing appears to be what it is yet nothing can be but what it is.
    how is this done?

    how does he take a voyage and go to work at the same time?
    how does he take a voyage and go to the grocery store?
    how does he take a voyage and drive his car?
    or does he have to choose?
    he doesn't want to choose.
    he's afraid that if he chooses the voyage they'll come after him like they had done before.
    they'll shoot him down with their tranquilizers.
    they'll put him on the table again.
    the rubber mouth piece.
    and shock his brain out again - and again.
    until he agrees to sign the paper saying he agrees to see the world they same way they do.
    and if he chooses their way he'll have to close the door forever.
        lock it up.
        board it up.
        brick it over.
        never look into the face of god again.
        never to be able to look into his own face again.
        never to be able to look into anyone's face again.
    unless he turns and runs.
    run as fast and as far as he can.
    run right through that fucking door and just keep on running.
    run and hide.
    and never come back to this damned world again.
    never.
    ever.
    ever.
    never.

    1/20
    so what are his words today?
    so what were any of them any other day?
    has he come up with anything tangible to show anyone yet?
    what more but words?
    what can he say?
    he feels that you must feel that he is throwing his words at you like stones.
    he is not.
    he is tossing his words toward you like flowers.
        like peanuts.
        like popcorn.
        like cracker jack.
        like autumn leaves.
        like confetti.
        like ribbons and bows.
        like wild mushrooms.
        like his clothes.
    he is doing a strip tease for you with his words.
    how far does he go?
        his hat and coat?
        his clown mask?
        his shirt?
        his kid gloves?
        his pants?
        his shoes (for you to walk a mile in)?
        his socks?
        his dirty underwear?
    and maybe you think it's because he wants you to do his laundry.
    no.
    he wants you to see who he is.
    you can laugh.
    you can criticize.
    he doesn't care.
        his face?
        his eyes?
        his tongue?
        his skin?
        his muscles?
        his liver?
        his spleen?
        his kidneys?
        his lungs?
        his intestines?
        his heart?
        his brain?
        his skeleton?
        his mind?
        his soul?
        his being?
        his god?
        how much more?
    he wants you to see who he is because he cannot.
    he wants your opinion.
    what do you like?
    what don't you like?
    he is a ghost standing before you - a wafting hallucinatory spirit of your imagination.
    is this who he is?
    he pulls a bed sheet over his head.
    oooooo..... boo!
    is this a disappearing act?
    if he takes off all the disguises is there anything left of him?
    or is he still here?
    what is still here?
    who?
    and can you trust him even then?
    or are there just echoes of his words words words words...?

    sitting around thinking
    thinking and a-thinking
    and it ain't doing me no good
    well i thunk and thunk
    couldn't think of anything better
    i tried and tried, trying ain't doing me no good
    i write you every day what could be my very last letter
    come what may, i say
    thinking ain't do me no good, ahh
    thinking ain't do me no good, people
    thinking ain't do me no good
    no good
        - thunk - airplane

    1/21
    to break it down and build it up again.
    he wants to speak secrets to you that no one else has heard before.
        no one else even dreams.
        no one else even imagines.
    they're too busy imagining this dead world.
    we belong to the world of the living.
    when he sees how they've shot you down and trapped you inside their little mind games he wants to scream a scream that will shatter their prison walls - their halls of distorted mirrors.
    the secrets he wants to tell you cannot be spoken in this newspeak language we are given to keep our minds closed tight.
    how can he say anything?
    he cannot even say, i love you, without you thinking... well, what do you think?
    can you even tell him what you think?
    he knows you're thinking something - many things.
    but it seems that you cannot speak to him any more than he can speak to you.
    and so we learn how to listen.
    we listen between the words.
    he wants to hear the secrets you have to tell.

    and love love love.
    what is love but another word - another stone we throw?
    if he wants to fuck you he'll say so.

    we are alone laughing.
    we are together crying.
    we are broken glass.
    and too much.
    and too little.
    and too far away.
    and too close.

    he has words asleep come inside over him.
    yes.
    why didn't he think that before?
    touching.

    and what of no meaning now we saw with great unlocked beasts bringing open the circus with somewhere between 12 and 18 clowns.
    he hopes - he just hopes he can land this thing.
    on some kind of surface of something - on the surface of time as event - with things as they were.
        as they are.
        as they might be.
    oh.
    oh he kisses.
    oh he kisses your noisy mouth and fills himself with words of your making.
        of your description.
        of your being.
    he tastes.
    he marvels.
    he digests into himself.
    he eats you as you eat him.
    experience.
    give and take.
    can't you hear him laughing in pain?
    can't you?
    be his taste sensation becoming him as we eat each other eating each other alive.
    where are you is he?
    whose little dog knows who?
    barking at the moon on the bay.
    and to think that things are set - conceived in full ideas as the things they are.
    he wants.
    he does not know if:
        a) he is trying too hard.
        b) he isn't trying hard enough.
    he is just another wave.
        a wave hello.
        a wave good-bye.
    who is he but a ship passing in the night?
    there is an island called home.
        lost away.
        not on the charts
    that is not how one finds it.
    that is not how one gets there.
    one has to swim.
    one swims through flying through dreams - as he remembers it.
    he remembers it.
    as he remembers.
    as he does not remember anything as well as he remembers that.
    he is he remembering.
    he is he laughing in pain.
    he is he crying with you.
    he gives his pain to you.
    you give your pain to him.
    eating pain.
    there is no pain.
    he comes into out of understanding with you coming into out of understanding with him.
    as we are as we are.
        broken and unbroken as intertwined puzzles of ourselves and each other.
    to understand the one one needs to understand the other.
    he is one.
    you are one.
    he is the other.
    you are the other.
    and what you want is what he wants because what he really wants is nothing but you.
    he wants.
    he wants everything.
    every possibility that is open to more possibility.
    but there is much danger in this.
    but there is much joy in this.
    but there is much hope in this.
    there is much hope in the joy in the danger in this.
    do we open ourselves to this?
    at what cost?
    do we open ourselves to ourselves?
    can we open ourselves to ourselves?
    and he supposes that the best way to offer himself to you is to not offer himself to you.
    leave well enough alone.
    he touches.
    he causes pain with his touching.
    even with pleasure.
    he can cause pain by even thinking of touching.
    and it is with nothing.
    and it is by nothing.

    1/22
    it's funny.
    and perhaps that is why it is that much more tragic.
    and perhaps the more tragic it is the more funny it becomes.
    no face in the mirror.
    where did he go?
    and has anyone seen his little dog?
    an offering to anyone.
    we were laughing again.
    deep breath in pain.
    listening.
    deep breath in pleasure.
    it's funny.
    and perhaps it could be funnier still?

    dancing outside inside or here.
    whichever comes first.