and the time to begin again or not as it will be.
    it is as it is now.
    what else can it be?
    can we imagine it being something else?
    what does that imaginary something else mean?
    where is it?
    is it possible it might be real if one knew how to make it real - or discovered its reality?
    what?
    let's dance.
    baby.
    let's get on it and dance.
    dance around the moon.
    dance around in the moon.
    the old folks had the right idea.
    dance our weary hearts into a euphoric realization of who we are and what we can do.
    we know what we know.
    all love and forgiveness is ours to give to one another if we so choose.
    choose.
    which side are you on?
    which element of this madness do you support?
    let's dance it out.
    yes.

    laughing all the way.
    laughing into every heart alive to laughter.
    who doesn't laugh at something?
    laugh at it.
    it is it.
    if that is what makes you laugh then laugh at it.
    let it be it to be laughed at.
    as the dada-ananda had spake thusly once: if you can't laugh at god, who can you laugh at?
    god the creator.
    god the preserver.
    god the destroyer.
    or can you laugh at yourself?

    and many dark stormy prayers later ago we stood upon the vision of holiness in heart busy with life as we know it.
    we can know it.
    it can know it.
    so if we are it then we can know it.
    and the reverse - it can know us.
    yes?

    a potato man in the true sense of potato.
    a real man of potato.
    a real potato of man.
    golf.
    meditation.
    zebra.
    good luck.
    good shoes.
    good day.
    evil snakes crawling about in dark plies of rocks.
    evil.
    evil things they are.
    they are evil things.
    oh boy! let's catch one and eat it!
    ya-hoo!
    yum!
    death.

    death.
    a homage to your sorrowful comfort.
    to be ready to take it with no questions asked.
    no truth - no lies.
    no anything remains but our good friend death waiting for however long it takes.
    always no matter what.

    a bowl of soup.
    and a display of anger.
    and a salty kiss with beer and bananas mushed into your ears and nose.
    a mouth raised in receiving position.
    digital anal excitement warm erection paused before the wet orifice breathing heavily between bent legs reclined.
    a car crashing moment of spasming sensory overload pushed up through your brain.
    the gong vibrates forever.
    but fading fast.

    inside forward.
    pause.
    the tender rain made everyone wet.
    the news on the radio wasn't very nice to listen to - so we shut the damn thing off.
    head go 'round.
    head.
    inside forward - but 'round and 'round she goes.

    the formulation of a concept of randomness growing out of a concept of rationality being absurd.
    therefore the artists are the true priests of this age.
    we will awaken the human gods.
    awaken from the spell of babylon into the garden of the imaginary city.
    or something like that.

    in the bright light where we sat eating our breakfast in some 24 hour joint where the old songs played a few more times.
    so much has to come.
    so much has to go.
    and all the blues for allah falling around us as we are waiting for things to pass.
    we'd like to be someplace else.
    drink to the memories of the future as we try to forget who we were once.
    this is it.
    this is the time and place where everything turns on this moment passing through itself again.
    so much has to come.
    so much has to go.
    opening the heart into light which revels the dark.
    the dark that hides all that we fear.
    and we see it as nothing more than ourselves twisted in and out of each other again and again.

    the morning is long though we know it as an instant.
    now.
    what does he have to say to you?
    can you hear him?
    can anyone hear anyone?
    what do we have to say to one another?
    is it real or just more illusion?
    is there a difference between the two?
    what has to come?
    what has to go?
    is anything reveled?

    and into the it of it.
    into the waking awareness of it.
    and in this world as it is, does that do anyone any good?
    this world controlled by those who believe that wisdom only lies in action.
    into the it of it - all of it.
    the rythmned balance of chaos around us.
    peace can be ours - even in this world of war.
    when we see that we are them.
    we see our enemies as ourselves as our enemies.
    when we see that we could have been anyone and anyone could have been us.
    we are them.
    we are them as we are ourselves.
    we are other to the other.
    we are what the other fears and desires as much as we fear and desire the other.
    we are them.
    the divisions are false.
    the time and the space between us is illusion - it is no more real than we make it.
    our identity is illusion - it is no more real than we make it.
    who made us who we believe ourselves to be other than ourselves?
    who is this god we speak of?

    and the heaven or hell around us is created by our being a part of it.
    it is in our hearts and minds.
    and we look away toward another place and time from the here and now.
    we set ourselves against one another.
    and there are no answers here - no more than anywhere else.
    there is nothing that will change us unless we change ourselves.
    change into butterflies.
    the scream of the butterflies.
    the waking birth of the butterflies.

    and in the shadow of this world lies all that we imagine.
    our names are being called.
    yet we fear.
    our fear feeds what we fear.
    and there is nothing to fear than that.
    all that is waiting for us on the other side of our lives that we've denied ourselves for so long.
    all that we imagine - including what we fear.
    the fear that creates our pain and suffering.
    the fear that creates our hell.
    yet our heaven lies in the same domain - our imagination.
    we can have it any time we want it.
    we are the ones who decide our fate - not gods.
    we are the gods.
    they are born out from our imagination.
    we imagine them and the powers they have.
    we have those powers through them - through our imagination.
    yet we deny ourselves as being the gods.
    we remain human.
    it is safe and comfortable being human - being victim to all that being human cannot understand.
    it is safe and comfortable in our pain and suffering - complaining about the weather.
    we are more.
    we are it and it is everything.
    and so they say to him, if all you say is true then perform a miracle.
    and he answers, i cannot do it without your blessing.
    even jesus could not do that.

    and all the time in the world is ours - but we rush from day to day as if all the time in the world was not enough.
    we waste our sweet short lives trying to do everything and end up doing nothing because we did not have enough time.
    a time for everything in its season.
    a time for all of us together.
    and we wait as time passes by.
    we wait for our time to come when our time is here in the time passing - in our time passing
    the moments are here happening in these moments that are here happening.
    the moments of the one moment forever.

    10/24
    and as we perceive each other.
    and as we hate each other.
    as we are dying.
    as he is dying.
    as he is hated.
    as he is perceived.
    gunshot.
    and where were they?
    they sat in their comfortable houses they sold themselves as slaves for and mindlessly watched his execution on tv.
    thanks a lot.

    and they say they have done nothing.
    how much he would have done for them but they did not want it.
    he couldn't get through their misery loves company attitude.
    he got tired of dealing with it as it seeped into his soul.
    he got sick of dealing with their pain.

    no more can his words cry of denial and betrayal of this world.
    he is finished - or he hopes that he is.
    his words cannot reach the pain that he feels from them.
    he has choked down his love for too long.
    this is what he must feel.
    but how does one express love in a world where none knows what it is?
    they think love is control.
    they think love is guilt.
    love is only the freedom to love and there can be no freedom to love in a world built of walls.
    walls are for protection but they do not discriminate what they protect one from.
    so they protect one from love.

    and wondering about the world as the world is or is not - about the walls and cages and the traps involved.
    yet few see them.
    yet few know what this world really is.
    the few against the many.
    the many are the many.
    their strength lies in their numbers.
    the few are the few.
    their strength lies in their ability to endure and remain who they are no matter what odds are set against them.
    no matter what is taken away.
    they are the ones who are the truly strong.
    they are the ones who are strong by themselves.
    the many are strong only when they are together as a mob.
    they are weak when they are alone.
    they cannot tolerate the loneliness that is existence.
    they huddle together in one group or another.
    it doesn't matter what that group is, they're all the same - as long as they do not have to face that loneliness.

    and all the pretty ponies.
    and all the basic ingredients needed for the destruction of this world.
    five bucks for a look into your soul - or lack thereof.
    he is standing alone.
    he stands alone with his enlightenment or his madness.
    he has no other place to stand.
    he stands with no one and no one stands with him.
    he has no way of knowing who is lying to him or not.
    he cannot trust anyone when they smile.
    they are skilled at deception.
    he doesn't need them.
    they do not need him.
    so fuck off.
    he's listened to too many who told him what he wanted to hear only to get into him and take all they could grab.
    fuck them all.
    and he was told he was dangerous.
    he is dangerous - you better believe it.
    he is dangerous to anyone and eveyone who is attached to babylon.
    he lives for its destruction.

    and we won't let them destroy us or make us destroy ourselves.
    we will live to dance on their graves.
    we will dance gladly upon them.
    and we will dance on them sadly.
    we do not want to.
    we will always forgive them but they will never forgive us.
    it is that which must be destroyed forever.
    we wish them well in the hell they are creating for themselves.
    this seems to be what they want.
    we refuse to take any part in that more than we are forced to by them and their fear control systems that monopolize everything one might need to survive.
    one day all of that will be gone and we will forget their names.
    if that is how they decide their fate, then that is how they decide it.
    we can do no more for them.

    the time has come now.
    this is it.
    this is the time to come.
    the world is breaking apart and open.
    it is going to get worse before it gets better.
    their grip holds tighter.
    let go of what will only drag you down.
    you don't need dead weight.
    cut it loose.
    the storm is here.
    the waves will get higher and higher.
    all will drown who cannot swim free - those who have not gone with the turning of the tide.

    and into the random rhythm of it.
    and to let go as to feel which way it is moving as to keep with its time.
    it's own time.
    not our time.
    our rigid structures of time - our new and improved clocks - are shattered by time.
    and the same holds with space.
    we can measure and enclose it but it will always escape to be what it is as it is open and free.
    to open one's eyes to it.
    to tune one's balance to it.
    to no longer divide oneself from it.
    no more guns.
    no more money.
    the streets are paved with gold if one imagines it.
    this is how it happens.
    this is what madness is all about.
    this is what enlightenment is all about.
    or not.
    does it make any difference?
    does it mean shit to a tree?

    and someone with a black eye, long jaw and a mustache who took all the money.
    and those who see things as lost and gained cried before the altar of their god who goes by the name of vengeance.
    those who live and die by the sword.
    those who come with a sword.
    and the division between heaven and hell made on earth.
    split mind.
    schizophrenic.
    through and through as it all passes from one moment to another - the two being the same moment.
    predictable words spoken at the service for the dead.

    believing the unbelievable.
    the dime a dozen miracles.
    what is and what is not.
    we cruise in and out of ourselves.
    we are not who we are.
    we are between light and shadow.
    we are fading into a brilliance of darkness which is blinding to our human minds.
    we are the gods we worship.
    we are the doors between heaven and hell and earth.
    we know nothing.
    we know everything.

    10/25
    and he sees the world beneath and beyond this one.
    the world that will be when this one passes away.
    sweet dreams.
    he lives for that world while he lives in this one.
    aren't we all?
    so how is this world manufactured?
    he still lives among those who believe in nothing but what they see as real.
    there is reality - a rock, a bullet, a wall, the rain.
    but there are the dynamics and structures of reality within that reality that are imaginary.
    that is the reality the others are frightened to step through and beyond as if it were concrete.
    why must he suffer for their fate?
    he cannot be all he is here with them.
    no one can.
    they think they are who they are.
    they think their world was created for them.
    why must he suffer for their fear?
    he sees himself in the world beneath and beyond this one.
    he sees himself in the dawn's early light as that world rises out of the darkness of our minds.
    and the many years that have gone.
    and the many years that are to come.
    how long must he wait for his fulfillment when all he has seen in his visions becomes real?
    how long before we realize that we can change this world any time we want?

    when all that he has seen in his visions becomes real.
    what a joke.
    there is no reality in that.
    what visions?
    he hasn't had any visions - only delusions.
    no one sees what he sees except those who are as mad as he is.
    everyone else gets along just fine - except for a war or two or three...
    yeah - this is just a dead end street.
    everything is a dead end street.

    and let it fall.
    and let it come and go.
    and let it rise.
    these are nothing.

    and could he believe anything for a moment?
    and could he be anything for a moment?
    just delusions of himself.
    just endless images of himself.
    he is mad - yet his madness is perfect.
    he is perfect in his madness.
    it turns and turns back again.
    it is what it is and will be again.
    what could he believe?
    could he ever believe his is who he is?
    could he believe anything at all?

    and we are in a dream dreaming of ourselves in a dream dreaming.
    inside and out.
    we are who we are this time around.
    circles in cycles and cycles in circles.
    being.
    not being.
    forming the formless.
    he cannot describe anything of this.
    he cannot reach it in any way.
    he is following nothing.
    he is following everything.

    in and out of blood - emotional stream.
    we laugh.
    we cry.
    and many many other interesting things.
    and a thousand cows.
    does he write for anyone?
    does he write for you?
    does he write this out alone for no one?
    is it like everything else he does?
    baby - won't you dance awhile while this brain in his head is clear and moving for a moment or two?
    but, no one is here.
    is it only him?
    is it even him?
    and a thousand cows.
    and a million doves.
    and peace on earth.
    but the people of war will have their way.
    they push and shove their way to where they are going - where they think they are going.
    they make the decisions.
    they control what is done and not done.
    and the wars are everywhere.
    and the wars are one war.
    they think this is what it is like to be gods.

    10/26
    he is dangerous.
    he is negative.
    because he cannot join in this mindless happiness zone that everyone else seems to enjoy.
    he wants his happiness to be real and he is willing to be depressed as hell until it comes.
    or something.

    and in his dreams when he can face himself.
    and he does not dream because his life is a dream.
    a dream of god.
    he faces himself as god.
    he is god who has become human for reasons he has forgotten.
    he is god dreaming of himself.
    he is god in the dream.
    he is the dream.
    he is god dreaming of himself dreaming.

    we hate who we are and unable to face that we hate each other.
    and what he feels is beyond his ability to think about it.
    he is the eternal fool.
    he is god who has lost itself in its own creation.
    nothing fits.
    it's either too much this or too much that.
    it is never quite right.
    or is it him?
    he is just as puzzled and confused by this as anyone.
    they act like everything is fine.
    they march in order and in time - in their own order and time.
    it doesn't fit.

    and what more of this can we say?
    what more of this does one need us to say?
    why doesn't one join us?
    why does one remain in lockstep with the mass psychology crowd?
    what are they to one?
    what is one to them?
    each is an artist.
    each is a poet.
    each is a singer.
    each is a dancer.
    give it up.
    give it a chance.

    and when the time has come the time will be now.
    it will be as sudden as a heartbeat.
    we will know what it is.
    we will know who we are.
    our eyes will see everything.
    we have seen it before.
    and it will be as day is to night.
    we will realize.
    and it is now as it was and as it will be.
    nothing will change.
    we will change.
    we will be who we are - who we are even now.
    the images we have of ourselves and of one another will be gone.
    what more is there to say?
    what is more important than this?
    what do we possess, or think we possess, that is more important than this?
    the time is now to open the doors and let everyone in and everyone out.
    free.
    this is the time.
    this is the place.
    now here (nowhere).
    what else is more important - the war?
    look at the calendar.
    what is scheduled for today that cannot wait?
    what is more important than the moment we enter into heaven?
    how much longer are we going to keep putting this off?
    what are we afraid of?
    what else needs to change but ourselves.
    with ourselves we can build anything else we need - and tear down what we don't.
    let's go.

    and there is no one.
    and he is no one.
    it doesn't matter.
    nothing matters.
    it shouldn't bother him, but it does.
    where did the revolution go?
    or is it always the eternal struggle form one generation to the next?
    it makes good drama.
    let's make another movie.
    let's make another tv mini-series.
    the connections that were broken or were never made.
    all the broken hearts.
    what is anyone doing here?
    what were we given minds for?
    what do we do with them?
    and the human race being a bunch of people making a bunch of noise.
    yet if he makes a sound he is being disruptive - he's making everyone upset.
    so what does any of it come to?
    so does any of it mean a damn thing?
    all the clowns get their own way because they lock into this mass media drumbeat.
    and if he makes a sound he is making everyone miserable.
    so, instead, he sits here apart and writes down his complaints in notebooks.
    he cannot compete with their dead end minds.
    he cannot change one person's mind let alone all the others.
    how many have tried before and only gotten shot down?
    and so he tries to stay out of everyone's way.
    they don't want him around unless there's some work to be done they don't want to do.

    the symbols of nothing.
    nothing means anything.
    find one's safe little niche and deny anything is happening at all.
    and don't think about the hell one creates for anyone who doesn't want to live that mindless existence.
    we want more than that and they do more than deny for themselves but for everyone else around them.
    they struggle with one another until they drop and die.
    they gain control over all the land and food to make everyone struggle with them.
    who are they to have done this?
    who are we to have allowed them to have done this?

    10/27
    into the empty warrior memory of streamlined precision something or other dada dream sequence.
    and again into that darkness with its thick sweet smell one can almost taste.
    the air is in our hair.
    we are forgiven, but we need to believe we are forgiven.
    we need to doubt.
    got too much moving through the brain now and again on some down easy street blue green shadow coming on strong and what is next on the list of whatever there is to fulfill others' expectations of who we are and where we're at.
    baby.
    got it so far gone we can't see what's up or down or left or right and we don't care because we know that we're doing ok regardless of what anyone else has to say about it and they sure love to say a lot about everyone but themselves.

    10/28
    and the circus mind running wild.
    and the lights in one's eyes.
    dancing child from a forgotten long time ago.
    these are our dreams that we deny.

    10/29
    how much are we willing to believe as long as we do not need to change in order to believe it?
    everyone is looking for that perfect place and time.
    they look everywhere but where it is.
    it is here.
    they wait for its time to come.
    it is now.
    this is it.
    why do we insist that the here and now is an awful reality that we must escape from?
    it is our thinking of it that way that makes it that way.
    where does our energy go?
    we create our own suffering with our dreams.
    we are the dreamers of the dream yet we allow the dream to control us.

    as in the night.
    as without anyone or not.
    let's be who we are.
    this is it.
    this is where we are and when.
    what are we doing with it?
    always killing for the future - promises forever made toward that golden light.
    where and when does it exist but here and now?
    if we could only see it.
    if we could only realize it.
    is this how it should be?
    is this anything close?

    10/30
    and to the rhythm of the rhythms ever in rhythm.
    can you understand that?
    can you feel it?
    are you lost to it all?
    are you lost to yourself?
    and it's all locked dead.
    their cold hearts unfeeling.
    it all moves beyond them.
    and if they want to deny themselves, that's one thing - but to keep the rest of us from it is something else.
    and all because it's something that can't be measured and defined and they refuse to accept anything as real that isn't expressed in units.
    all their science and language and art and religion cannot find it.
    all they are left with are empty shells with no meaning other than their despair.
    and they think that is reality.
    control.
    death.
    void.
    stasis.

    and now this is it.
    and now here we are.
    and here we are now.
    what does this mean?
    is there a past?
    is there a future?
    this is it.
    the eternal moment of all moments being the one moment now.
    remember that.
    remember this is it.
    there was no better time.
    there will be no better time.
    there is now.
    this is it.
    and what are we doing?
    some of us are trying to hold onto the past.
    some of us are trying to grab hold of the future.
    so few of us are here and now.
    we decide the difference between heaven and hell.
    we are the ones who feel we must be punished for our sins.
    we are the ones who feel that we need to be rewarded with forgiveness.
    neither is now.
    the now is the now.
    the here is the here.
    such a simple thing we have forgotten.
    but we have become lost to our dreams waiting for them to be fulfilled missing each moment as it passes - waiting for it to fit together in some future as it did in some past.

    11/2
    fear upon fear.
    fear feeding fear.
    fear feeding from fear.
    layer upon layer of fear and more fear.
    we need something to fear so we pretend it is each other.
    we create the others as we need to fear them.
    as soon as they are born we treat them like we are afraid of them so they learn to behave in ways to cause us to feel we were right to be afraid of them to begin with.

    and then there was the rug.
    back to the rug.
    something even about the rug.
    and.
    and an ashtray.
    something about all of this comes back to even a rug and an ashtray.
    no one knows much beyond their own madness.
    and few recognize their own madness.
    he has recognized and realized his own madness.
    and now it is easier to recognize the madness of others.
    and he has seen both the rug and the ashtray.
    he can trust no one.
    he sees no one who is to be trusted.

    and when time begins again.
    when will time begin again?
    it seems to be stuck.
    he is waiting.
    or else he is waiting for time to end.
    does he know which?
    he is waiting for the dream to begin or to end.
    he doesn't know.
    he has lost about everything but since he was born naked he supposes he has lost nothing.
    but what accounts for this terrible sense of loss he cannot shake?
    when he around people, he wants to be alone.
    when he is alone, he wants to be around people.
    when he has things, he wants to be rid of them.
    when he doesn't have them, he wants them back again.
    so what is this?
    what is he feeling?

    a mixture of dreams.
    a mixture of realities.
    no one talks to him.
    he talks to no one.
    and sometimes the emptiness is fulfilled by emptiness.
    this is toward his realization.

    and rise up singing.
    yeah - right.
    tell him more lies.
    and the new golden age and all that jazz and hoopla.
    what a bunch of shit.
    all these people waiting for jesus or buddha of ufos or elvis or who or whatever.
    and he thought once that he had some part in all of that.
    he once believed that he was part of some evolutionary enlightenment dada.
    there ain't nothing here at all, baby.
    just square everything off and forget it.

    and when time begins again.
    and when the ice thaws.
    and when the sun comes up.
    and when we all look at one another and smile because it is here and now.
    you can dance because it is here and now.
    it's all the same, but it's all different - different heads on.

    11/3
    and nothing.
    and nothing at all.
    here it is - a nice autumn day.
    and there is nothing at all.
    he cannot reach it.
    he cannot touch it.
    and he has to turn it off because some fat ass wants to make a bunch of money.
    and the fat ass can't reach it or touch it either.
    what a shame.
    what a sham.
    what the fuck?

    and we could be here if we wanted to.
    it could be now if we wanted it to be.
    but it's always some place else.
    it's always some other time.
    and there are things that should be hoped for - but not if they deny what is here and now.
    is he anywhere close at any time?

    across endless waves with sunlight and rain - with darkness and light.
    it is more beautiful than we might imagine.
    what do we imagine?
    he sees shapes of things.
    he sees them here.
    he sees them not here.
    he sees them as parts of shapes they are not themselves and he sees shapes within them that are not themselves.
    is a fish a fish?
    is a door a door?
    what are these things?
    how are they divided?
    what is a fish?
    what is a door?
    is a fish a door?
    is a door a fish?
    and which is he?
    either?
    neither?
    both?
    something else?
    is he even himself?

    all the words we choose and don't choose to describe the directions we are moving.
    imagination.
    refrigerator.
    sing-a-long breakfast.
    nowhere fast.
    or maybe...
    or else...
    this is it.
    these are all the things we are afraid of beneath our feet.
    we were dreaming once about this - leaving it behind.
    diamond.

    11/4
    they are divided from themselves and the world they create out of that which divides him from himself.
    yet they think they are together.
    they have replaced their souls with gears of production that turn and give the impression of life.

    there is no one to write to.
    there is no one who has any understanding of this.
    yet he keeps writing.
    he will always write.
    everyone knows what this is about.
    everyone experiences it.
    he is not alone.
    one can only deny it and deny the experience of it.

    11/5
    and with a permission of a sky.
    man as kite.
    lonely arching above any wonder about who anyone might be this time.
    and confusion.
    and rapture.
    and the despair of having too much hope.
    we remember.
    a memory that does not speak.
    the rain brings damp cold which is easy to wear around you to keep warm.
    and night is something of itself.
    and silence says many things, none of which are real except to the heart of the soul.
    what soul?
    and he writes in images in a given cultural assembly he tries to put together without instructions.
    he is alone.
    he is someone alone.
    what does that mean?
    he is his own cultural assembly.
    and so many words that are easy to write down without meaning or not without meaning.
    and to finally dream about something real.
    understanding.
    a kiss.
    nothing at all and more than just a kiss.
    a kiss in the dark rain.
    to find oneself to be quite in love with everyone even with all their hatred.
    the masks they keep on.
    the deadpan lies they believe and speak because that is what they ought to say.
    it is their position to say it.
    our hearts are too big for us.
    they consume us.
    we are puppets.
    we dance and sing and cry.

    and who is he to say let go when he holds on as tight as anyone else?
    who is he?
    he is no one but himself as all the others are too.
    he pretends to give up everything but he wants it all.
    he wants everything.
    he wants everything for everyone.
    even the liars, the thieves, the rapists, the killers - especially them.
    he wants them to have what they really want.
    he wants it all for you but he sees no reason why he needs to give up anything to give it to you.

    and some more about the nothing of it.
    dogs and cats.
    rug and ashtray.
    everything about it all.
    bringing it all back.

    and does he write about hope?
    is he quite mad?
    and to believe in something to believe in more than just something to believe in.
    to fly out of a dream and into the real type world smash on his face.
    flashing mind.
    to be all and anything.
    and to deal with those who believe in nothing more than just something to believe in.
    and not to be able to believe in what they believe in no matter how psychologically reassuring it is supposed to be.
    he'd rather believe in nothing if that is all that is real.
    he cannot divide his belief from what is - so he believes in everything.
    in doubt.
    and what is it to believe?
    what is believing?
    what is doubt?
    these abstract concepts with words attached.
    wars through the ages.
    yeah yeah yeah - go chasing around words and their meanings.
    spinning and spinning.
    he wouldn't mind that but one is supposed to settle upon something - something to believe.
    find a direction.
    accomplish something one believes in.
    but it has to be more than believing just to believe.
    but this is what he has accomplished - all these words upon words.
    does he believe in that - in them?
    this is just what he does.
    his madness explains it all.
    there - that is something to believe in.

    and in the memory of jesus h. fucking christ.
    and the straight line across what is real or not.
    sell the horse.
    the promise of disease.
    and could we think of anything else?
    and could we...?
    a broken heart.
    a revolution of broken hearts.
    spit on your lips speaking somewhere else about the remaining elements dividing the world - there are so many.
    or maybe not.
    what divides us?
    what could it be?
    not our bodies.
    our bodies are ever-touching in the particle randomness of spacetime.
    where do they begin and end?
    are we black outline cartoons?
    where do they begin and end?
    could it be our minds?
    could be.
    we close our eyes and dream.
    and memory.

    he is in a constant state of waking up - or so it seems.
    something he wants to describe as diamond but he does not know why.
    and he is running out of money.
    let the world come to a stop and rot because he ran out of money.
    should he care?
    he understands what is going on.
    how many people can say that?
    he knows it.
    how many rich motherfuckers can say they understand what is going on?
    because they are all wrong.

    and about the pinwheels from space.
    and about coffee cups.
    and about nothing at all.
    and about everything.
    and just what the fuck is wrong with all these people who will hate and kill for what they believe in?
    he doesn't care if it's jesus or allah or bubblegum cigars - if what one believes in doesn't produce love or at least tolerance for others then what the fuck good is it?
    what should anyone believe in it except to satisfy some primal animal urge we should have outgrown ages ago?
    huh?
    what the fuck?
    how simple does it need to be?
    who's kidding who here?
    forget the cars.
    forget the swimming pools.
    forget sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll.
    and why do they believe this is bullshit?
    love.
    shlove.

    and be true - be as true as you can be.
    or something about fucking out in the parking lots and all stuff along those lines.
    and the smell of public men's rooms.
    somewhere down the road where we call out our names and the police come along and make us keep in line.
    and the fun of late night coffee joints.
    and about what we were trying to think of at another moment from now.
    and stoned out whores fighting in the wasteland.
    and now and again we try to remember something we dreamed.
    we dreamed.

    and what makes it all tick?
    bringing on these blues and greens and reds, oranges, purple brain.
    brain bop.
    brain dada drop it now.
    onto to floor after floor.
    how far does it go?

    and what does he need?
    and what does he want?
    are they the same?
    are they different?
    are they confused?
    be-bop.
    hop.
    hop to it.
    and whatever mystical arrangement is made about here or there.
    zero hour - every hour is zero hour.
    every day is zero day in the year zero.
    every moment is the zero moment.
    we are zero.
    we are in the crosshairs of spacetime co-ordinates.
    zap!
    here we are.
    now.
    what next?
    who do we become?
    where do we go?
    what do we eat?
    where do we shit?
    where do we sleep?
    and the list goes on.

    and here he is, the idle mind in the devil's playground.
    wheee!
    swing high.
    swing low.
    around in circles, look at him go.
    life is hard and then you die.
    we make life hard until all there is left is to die.
    waking up each and every moment.
    or something.
    or nothing.
    or everything.
    or, like it or not, here it is.
    put a gun to your head.
    pull the trigger.
    explore other possibilities.
    he is not here to do your dirty work.
    he won't turn himself into you.
    bring it up.
    bring it down.
    knock him any which way around you want to.
    he can't stop you.
    well, maybe he could - but he won't.
    then he'd be just like you.
    so there.

    and this is the following day following the day that followed the day that followed the days back to before we can remember.
    and we look at the bones of bodies we used to wear long ago.
    we try to recall a few images from those brains that held so little.
    and we are now not much more.
    who will dig us up in time and try to remember?
    another dream happening around us as we are happening in the dream.
    as we look at the images in the dream as the images in the dream look at us.

    and the cycles returning to the cycles they began within - if they can be said to begin.
    one cycle.
    two cycles.
    a gold bracelet she wore as she slept in bed dreaming - as she was and she wasn't.
    as she woke and the dream continued.
    were we the dream?
    and dreams.
    and dreams within dreams.
    the eternal cycle of the mystery of dreams in each moment as each moment is one moment.
    the flow of cycles.
    wheels turning the machine - the machine of dreams.
    and what does any of this have to do with a rug or an ashtray?
    this is all in his head.
    in and out of cycles as one cycle.

    and the dada of it all.
    and though he understands, he doesn't understand.
    and everyone says they don't understand.
    but look at the clothes they wear, their hair styles, the cars they drive straight from the tv screen, the houses they live in in a magazine.
    they understand that much.
    he does not understand that at all.
    he understands what lies beneath all that in their world.
    he understands their motivation.
    and what they find important.
    and what he finds important.
    and when he was younger his father wanted him to mow the lawn.
    and when he refused, his father called him lazy.
    but he couldn't see the point in mowing the lawn.
    he would much rather have a field growing around the house, and maybe a forest.
    and in part he was lazy - but that was just in terms of doing work that he felt didn't need to be done.
    the lawn didn't need for us to mow it.
    the lawn knew what it was doing and what it was supposed to do.
    but this explanation fell on deaf ears as all his explanations did ever after.
    as well as being lazy he was crazy too.
    besides, what would the neighbors say?
    but these very same neighbors took their vacations and drove out to where there were still fields and forests to spend their time and relax.
    and he wondered, why not relax at home?
    and this is just a very small part of the world as it could be that dies everyday - that is murdered everyday.
    this is what he doesn't understand.
    and he's not too sure they do either.

    and again as nothing much occurs to him.
    as it all happens without meaning anything except the meaning we give it.
    it just happens.
    like a haircut.
    and as he is now living in a van that smokes and coughs.
    as he has nowhere else to go.
    as he is almost as down as it gets.
    and is there love?
    what else is there that means shit?
    all the missiles, all the cars, all the bowties, all the electric guitars, all the paintbrushes, all the other trinkets and gizmos.
    no matter how many books one reads.
    what is it to love?
    yeah - like he doesn't hate and want to kill them all.

    but in the absence of love there is all the money making the world go 'round.
    that is what everyone operates on.
    there is nothing that cannot be bought.
    there is the universal language of money.
    he has to remember that.
    whenever he tries to speak of anything else they get this dumb blank look on their faces.
    what does it cost?
    what is the bottom line?
    is it on sale?
    and how many more thousands of years will it be like this?

    bring it down.
    the walls of babylon will fall.
    its grip will loosen from our hearts.
    why does he see this and others do not?
    or few do.
    and those few are just as out of it as he is barely able to function in this high-powered world with dreams in their heads that everyone laughs at and cannot be realized in this blank mind state world.
    no one else has the imagination.
    their imagination is filled with demons who whip them into a frenzy.
    or something like that.
    or something.

    it comes so close.
    sometimes it seems that all that is needed is just another inch - another step - another breath.
    then it's gone.
    and when it's gone the emptiness and loneliness that it leaves behind is almost too much to bear.
    and the most frustrating thing is to deal with the people who do see it but won't go with it.
    there are those who have no clue, who are so walled off there is absolutely nothing to connect to.
    but the ones who are there and can follow it to a certain point but then stop...
    they're afraid to trust it.
    or something like that.
    or something.

    11/8
    the calling of sheep.
    the deeper wisdom of without knowledge.
    turning again.
    listening.
    this is not what anyone knows what it is.
    too much of one thing is not enough of another.
    words.
    parroting words.
    anti-parroting other words.
    none of these are his own.
    what does he know?
    this is what it is and he has no comprehension of it whatsoever.
    or maybe not.

    11/9
    and when the windows open and our... our what?
    what windows?
    old hat.
    new hat.
    what hat?

    and this is the death.
    and this is the eternal life.
    what words are spoken?
    what symbols are used?
    to lose oneself in the wind.
    to bring about the new world without knowing how.
    just keeping the vision of it always in mind through this world of confusion.

    and he is being pushed.
    all this stuff is coming down around him.
    it must be for a reason - yes?
    what is he supposed to be learning?
    he tries new directions yet the same things happen.
    so what is it he is supposed to do?
    he has visions in his head before his mind's eye about what he feels he is supposed to get to.
    but he is given with no clue how to do it.
    so what does he do?
    he keeps writing.
    what else is there to do?

    trick images.
    to see with both eyes closed and outstretched hands touching nothing.
    is this the great emptiness?
    is this what has called his name?
    all that surrounds him moment by moment as it always was/is/will be even if it all ceases to exist.
    and all this was/is/willbe is together with the being of it as it is all there is even if nothing is.
    it was/is/will be nothing.

    he doesn't know what it is.
    he hasn't a clue - except it is in the mind.
    as to whether it is the mind in a greater sense of the mind being more than what the mind is he does not know.
    walk into anywhere you walk into.
    be amazed by where you are and what you see - what you are doing.
    what is he doing?
    he is writing about a microspot of experience.
    he is using words to put across an image of what may not be.

    11/10
    and sometime which is now with 18,000 brain damaged people who he has to deal with every day or so.
    and where it was and where it will be.
    and those who collect.
    and those who remember.
    and those who are just here.
    and the memory of someone else which isn't there any more.
    and no one is much interested in much more than their hand in front of their face.
    and he is what?
    can anyone tell him?
    and they look at him and say they don't understand him - but he is supposed to understand them?
    why is that? - because they run the world?
    and he could do without hearing another love song.
    just a bunch of spellbound monkeys.
    we tear each other apart.
    we sink our teeth.
    no one can explain anything.
    and the words go on and on.
    and he is still here writing them and it doesn't make much sense to him.
    he is isolated apart.
    this is his only communication to the world.
    and now it's cigarettes and coffee keeping him alive today.
    his heart is empty.
    his dreams are gone.
    they made sure of that.
    they couldn't make any money off of them so...

    and what is he supposed to do with all these people?
    no one wants to know anyone.
    they all want to keep to the surface - nothing of any depth.
    they'd rather suffer through it than come to any understanding that what they want could come true.
    no one wants to know nothing.
    click on the simulation machine.
    and all the words we use.
    and all the lies we speak.
    and the list goes on.
    what is he even writing about?
    what is going on here?

    he just doesn't care.
    he doesn't care about all they are trying to cram into his head.
    he doesn't know what anyone wants out it all that they do.
    what is he supposed to do?
    all they seem to want is for him to work for them in their pursuit of fame and fortune.
    they can easily get someone else to play that fool.
    is that all their world has to offer for either him or them?
    where does that go?
    they're stuck in all they have set on themselves as he tries to figure out how to set them free.
    all they do is drag him down with them.
    they try to burden him with the weight of their guilt and their negative mind.
    and he can barely think of anything else.
    and he can talk with none of them.
    the main thing he must remember is that they are right and he is wrong.
    this is because they are many and he is only one alone.
    they control - he is controlled unless he decided to turn the tables and control them.
    that is all they understand.
    they only know obedience.
    that is as far as they can think of anything.
    what is wrong with them?
    it is not because they are stupid - most are smarter than he is.
    so what is it?
    what is it they fear in him and themselves?

    and the death.
    and the trigger pulled.
    and the cheering crowd of those who are glad he's gone.
    another poet who wrote things that made them a bit too uncomfortable.
    what does it take to get through to them?
    what will break down the walls they build that they do not even see?
    they think they are so free because they have money to spend.
    but they just fit themselves in with all the others.
    they obey the television commands.
    he cannot believe that they do not look for anything more than that.
    is he so strange?
    why are they content with their suffering? - they even pride themselves with it.
    what made them hate everything so much?
    and he hates them.
    he doesn't want to but they leave him little choice.
    do they do anything to avoid having someone like him hate them?
    are they even aware of it?
    his heart is breaking to see everyday the world they've made and continue as if there is nothing else.
    the suffering they struggle through - they make us all suffer through - that they generate themselves.
    and there is nothing he can say.
    and there is nothing he can do.
    he can only repeat the words that are useless against their media campaigns.
    he cannot convince one that there is no reason for the things they do to one another.
    he does nothing all day - every day.
    there is nothing anyone wants from him other than to join them in their robot existence marching together.
    his hatred overcomes his love.
    he feels sick with it.
    but how can he not hate them?
    they seem to want him to hate them as they hate themselves.
    is it that simple?

    11/ something - sunday
    in an amazing silence.
    in a never repeating itself storm.
    a thought is less than a wink.
    zeroing in around the mix-mash flip-flop circus.
    and space.
    and time.
    and all in-between the two forming a world as we know it simulation.
    and perception of simulation.
    and to feel the love buried in his heart.
    to embrace the vapor of it all.
    to place a flower on the grave of oneself - or someone by that name.
    to achieve laughter in each moment of circumstance.
    dangerous to the eye but alive to the true heart.
    words that cannot speak but to those who hear.

    he is walking the thin line between fantasy and reality and he can no longer tell the difference between the two.
    are the corporations fantasy or reality?
    are the governments?
    is all the money?
    whatever.
    just surfing the mix.
    just trying to keep it balanced in an unbalanced sort of way.
    and the gypsy mode exploring the heights and depths of the free zone.
    being free implies a lot of infringement of freedom.
    where is the line between us both being free?
    and what will happen next?
    and what will be done?
    as we fly through everything at once.
    as we begin to understand.
    as we rise and fall.
    as we are who we are.

    to the long and winding road into the needle in your arm with a drug as confession placed on the table with a deck of cards.
    this is where and when your life is centered against.
    pulling away toward it doesn't matter who you are or what you do.
    this is the consequence of your life lived in darkness and light without knowing.
    in to random action motion with a thousand million causes and reasons with each passing moment.
    moments as one.
    moments as all moments.
    what are the secrets of the wise who are fools?
    playing a part in the facade - a mask in the theater of masquerade leaping from one to another taking care not to fall too far.