and a beginning that does not begin or that begins all the fucking time. and an ending of all things created in each moment.
    how can this be spoken of? yet we speak of it. it exists in our perception of it existing. non-space. non-time.
    jesus laughing.
    this is our part. we are good and we are evil. we are nothing and we are everything.

    and he looks out the window here down onto the dark street. music plays. people talking about the war. other people talking about other things.
    things. all the experts. he doesn't know anything. there is no reason for him to be writing anything to anyone. there is no reason for him to be writing anything at all. but he's been through all that. but it keeps coming back. it's no more than some sort of compulsion. a nervous habit that gets on his nerves from time to time.

    he doesn't expect anything to change. he doesn't expect anything to mean anything to anyone. it's all just words repeating and not repeating themselves forever. like waves on the shore. that's what it means. they change as everything changes. nothing is the same twice. nothing is the same twice.
    simple.
    arf! dog style. rainbow smashing. dada. egypt. event. circus mind dancing and stumbling over its own three feet flashing through sequences of non-sequence.
    beer. deadhead. space.
    and other things.
    this is something new and it's already very old. it's a theory of unproven fact. take a look down.

    and when we seem to remember. and when it seems to develop into something else. and when we want to fly away.
    jesus is crying.
    forget jesus.
    it.
    remember it.
    it begins and does not begin. it ends and does not end. it is it. it is not it.
    drum. drumming. drummed.
    open. read.

    we cannot pinpoint this. we cannot see where it is. it surrounds us. it is the shapelessness where and when we see shape. it is the formlessness where and when we see form. it is the spacelessness where and when we see space. it is the timelessness where and when we see time.
    to speak of seeing. to speak of it. to speak of anything. to speak of everything. to speak of nothing. to speak with shouting. to speak with silence.
    to speak with nothing to speak of except everything. to be unable to divide between the two. this and that.
    unload.
    free.
    safe.
    what more than that is asked? and what does anything in this world bring us that is anything close? what is the worth of this wealth that is gathered? besides a reason to go to war? fix.

    but this is what is. this must be recognized. no amount of words will change it. the armies march no matter who tries to call them back.
    we've created this and this is what we have. a shallow moon rising. now is the time for our magick to come. the promise.
    fat chance, dude.
    we are the ones. he knows who one is and one knows who he is. we can see it in each other's eyes when we are not afraid to look. we can feel it when we are close to one another. we cannot be divided no matter how much or often we are cut down. we are the ones.
    we have no name. our name is legion. we are demons from hell and angels from heaven.
    this is the place and this is the time. he speaks to us. he writes to us. he has nothing new to add to what we already should know. maybe he reminds us, if anything.
    he writes to those of us who can hear. he writes to those of us who know what he writes is true and do not stubbornly demand proof. those of us who have enough doubt. not to those of us who don't see it already. he writes to those of us who see what he does. he does not write to those of us who he needs to convince or convert.
    he calls out the names of those of us who are to come together. here and now. many and most without knowing what they are doing. a spell is cast upon us.

    and there is nothing going on at all. don't look for it past what is already around us.
    think. don't think.
    all will fall down. all is falling down. watch it happening around us. look up. look down. this is the place and this is the time.
    or not.
    nothing more is needed to be done - which is not to state that we should do nothing. do what we are doing. do what we feel we are drawn to. no part is any less than any other.
    don't let others put us down and call us fools. we can topple the structures by smoking a cigarette if such is to be.
    no one of us knows where or when it will be. that is its nature. that is its strength. no one may govern it. no armies can defeat it. no god that is master of all the world and universe can stop it. it is alive in our hearts from one beating moment to the next. it is alive in our minds from one sparking synapse to the next. it is alive in our souls as our being is the being of creation.
    know this. know what we know. know that it is true. if it is not, that changes nothing. it's only words on paper.

    his words do not describe it if it cannot be described. what is described by words is not what it is. our arguments are pointless. our words are only words. wars waged for the only purpose of waging war.
    it is what is. we either see it or we do not. we either know it or we do not. although we all see it and know it, few of us see and know ourselves seeing it and knowing it.
    it is not sight or knowledge gained. it is not increased perception and understanding into mysteries. it is seeing and knowing that there is no mystery except that which we place upon it looking and thinking it is something other than what it is.
    yet there are those of us who need mystery. it is as mysterious as one wishes to make it.
    a dream. a dream of dreams. pass oneself through the veils and realize there is nothing there but oneself passing through the veils.
    obstruction.
    walls.
    thick as a brick.
    and our world based on such things. divided it will fall. there is nothing to support it but our own ignorance and stupidity.
    ha!
    a joke that comes around in full circles.
    and what exists now? what is now seen and now known? it is illusion that will vanish. it will reach the point where and when its absurdity can no longer be denied. soon. later.
    this happens outside of itself. this happens within itself. we know this from our endless doubting beyond any shadow of doubt we have gone into and out of to arrive at where and when our fear is the only obstacle. we become that which we fear. we become ourselves.
    breakdown city.
    here and now. this is it. this is all it is as it is all this is. one and the same. nothing else.
    and what does this mean? it means nothing that one needs to think about. face to face. to look beyond that is to chase after delusions of imaginations.

    and as it comes and as it goes. we are all here now though most of us are off elsewhere in space and time of dreaming through another reality.
    as this reality is not what it is, it is far more inclusive than that. there are so many more levels and phases.
    we deny our own. it is our exclusive nature of the beast.
    a scar.
    a star.
    all hell and heaven and earth in one experience interchangeable.
    a balancing act.
    the point of no return reached with each moment.
    when all the wisdom collected throughout the ages turns into pure babbling nonsense is when we fly free back to ourselves finding ourselves home.
    home free.
    calling out the names of those who move through the forest of light and shadow on paths without beginning and without end and without remembering and without forgetting.
    insane.

    the offering of ourselves as offering beyond the meaning of what it is. transcending.
    and nothing anymore complex than it needs or appears to be as it is.
    simple.
    blood. wine. sacrifice. guns. swords.
    the meek.
    laughter.
    the right place at the right time. here and now. look at it again.
    words. words that mean nothing. spirit. material.
    and all the soldiers who kill and die for all the causes which are one cause. our survival.
    us and them. whoever we find ourselves to be involved in the complex mix and match of relationships that make up the human race.
    we are not everyone. we could be anyone. many will fall. many will not survive with us. many will not be able to let go of what is not to be but was only a means to be used toward reaching beyond ourselves to become who we are.
    reality.

    and to which is the thing of it. the shell outside and forming itself to the process of being inside. transforming.

    and it is something else besides this. it is not as easy as it is not as hard as it seems. one way or the other.
    it pierces the heart. it envelopes the mind. it gives flight to the soul. it does not exist.
    we are the ones.

    as one discovers this by declaring oneself to be the messiah by a process of elimination.
    ha!
    that's the joke.

    and an understanding of dada - that good old deliberate irrationality.
    and an understanding of nothing.
    this is not what it is, but it can help. to understand one declaring oneself to be the messiah by a process of elimination and to understand why this is a true/false statement without it needing to be either/or. where's the proof? where's the money? where's the doubt?
    that's how it works.
    get it?

    but what's that got to do with it? nothing has anything to do with it. except love maybe. on a good day anyway. not a cloud in the sky except those big puffy ones that look like one could sleep on them.
    or why not?
    too much noise all around him. people babbling on and on about whatever nonsense gets caught in their heads at any given moment for some reason or another. that really has nothing to do with it. nothing at all.
    wish it away. that's what it's for. it can be anything one wants it to be. and if not, then that is not what it is.
    simple as that. astounding. shapes and more shapes. and alive and awoken. bright as a star gone nova.
    then the darkness is as dark as dark can get. and it doesn't matter. teeth in gear.

    action as non-action. desire as non-desire. fear as non-fear. head as non-head. heart as non-heart. being as non-being.
    what is the argument here? who is who? what is up and what is down?
    the rhythm when logic fails and a new sense of direction is found. surface. no more and no less. avoiding the wreckage of everyone else's lives falling apart around one as one flies into a wall and cracks it all open and enters through to where and when one has never been before - here and now.
    a tree. rude. and happiness is a dream away. happiness is a screamed screaming scream away. silence.
    and why the fucking hell are we writing about happiness?
    spooks. lets' write about spooks. inside and outside. dark windows with flashes of light. wind in the trees.
    sneeze. nothing to sneeze at. rainbow days and silhouette nights.
    and broken hears. let's write about broken hearts. now and then. what goes around comes around. one finds oneself out in the rain a lot of the time. the weather can change real quick like. what started out a sunny day turns into a downpour.

    to the question the answer is, yes. he doesn't know why. don't know what the question is quite now but he tries to take a chance on yes being the right answer better than no being the wrong one - or even yes being wrong is better than no being right. dig?
    so he tries - though for every yes there is a no and for every no there is a yes. dig? dada, dig, dada dada-dada-doo.
    not dada at all. not deliberate. not irrationality. progress of secrets through the icons of secrets on and on through where one finds what is beyond the information.
    yes?

    cosmic cryptic. notes from the unconditional response evoking at our usual refusal to perceive through the whereabouts of the...
    here and now.
    so far behind the schedule that he might as well forget it. the forgotten schedule of events.
    don't touch. stay away. he doesn't like anyone. no one likes him. let's see what we see. beyond the information. forgetting the schedule of events.
    sweetly now as it begins and ends with a kiss - hello/good-bye.
    now one sees it, now one doesn't. forget it. it wasn't part of the information. edit. insert something else into the schedule.
    nevermind.

    a conclusion concluding the conclusion. a method to the madness.
    and we come across the voyeur. the one who gazes in or out at us who are beyond the descriptions they read about in their books they clutch tightly too.
    beyond the information.
    no one can tell anyone what it is.
    no one.
    the leap off the edge one can only make alone.
    into the sea. we can swim about and pull one out and pull one up if one goes down.
    in/out.
    the favorite meeting place. here and now. out of control. being alive in and out of the surrounding death.
    come on.
    come on in.
    come on out.
    come on and dance with us. come on it's such a joy. come on and take it easy.

    imitate. intimidate favorable entry. favorable exit. wanting. need. desire. feed the flames rising out of one's soul - or what passes as such. nevermind the definition. we use words without always the definitions. sometimes.
    nevermind.
    nevermind that there was anything stated here. nevermind we were ever here. nevermind where and when we went on/off to.
    nevermind anything that isn't or can't be defined for or by anyone. one does not need that information. that information that there is no real information about - except the impossible.
    around about.
    around about the around about information.
    break on through.
    break on through.
    break on through.
    hit it.
    kick it.
    scream it.
    smash it.
    trash it.
    let it go.
    let it go.
    let it go.

    stop any time. start any time. any time one wants to stop. any time one wants to start. we're ready. we move with one as a shadow behind one's back in the shadows behind one's mind - beyond the information.
    information.
    information age.
    in formation age.

    what stands and what falls. what moves ahead and what is left behind. all remains with us who are here now. nothing to it. all the words in the world mean nothing to him however many more he uses himself to try to describe whatever he is trying to describe about just how meaningless it is.
    beyond the information.
    beyond the theme.
    beyond the variation.
    what is sung here? there are no songs anymore. he has forgotten how far behind schedule he is. ongoing despite the information to the contrary. something gets through - doesn't it? can one get through the contradiction of it?
    nevermind.

    nevermind.
    no data.
    no dada.
    no information.
    nothing in formation.
    sometimes he is wondering. sometimes he is thinking. sometimes he writes it down. sometimes he lights up another cigarette. sometimes he drinks more coffee.
    nevermind.
    and the government is paying him to sit around and eat as much acid as he can get away with. is that the stupidest thing one has ever heard of, or what?
    and a bunch of heroes - also being paid by the government - want to get shot up in some desert. that's ok by him.
    beyond the information. still crazy after all these years. so they say. he doesn't know. he's not worried about not being worried even though most everyone says how much he should be worried about something. as it comes and goes.
    he invents everything.
    he has invented himself.
    he has invented these words that mean nothing about whatever it might be or not.
    a long time ago.
    nevermind.
    trust him - ignore it long enough and it goes away.
    or maybe not.
    nevermind.

    to bring it into this world. to understand. to be able to speak to one another. to need nothing recognized as need. to maybe know something close to what he might be writing about.
    he never believed. he never went along with his free will. what is his free will? did he even have it when he took his first breath? just something more to talk more about. just one more thing on television.
    nothing to complain about. he's tired of complaining and he's tired of other people complaining. where and when did it begin? is it our nature? is our free will?
    eating.
    mistake.
    why is he sitting here writing? death. he thinks about death. a good way to go.
    a good way to begin and a good way to end. he doesn't need any more. so many things he can't write down. stop everything. something's gone wrong. no one's happy.
    people. he doesn't know. something to think about. something to dream. he cannot convince anyone about anything. there is nothing to convince anyone about.
    now and then.
    a dream of a dream.
    headless.
    and he's fooling himself that he is of any worth to anyone. what do they see? he wants them to drop their shit. he wants to be able to get them - to allow them - to drop it all. nothing ever happens. they remain on guard. they defend themselves against the monsters they imagine all around them.
    and there's no one here. and these words will do nothing. no one will ever know. and he tries to remember. he tries to wake up. he tries to do something to get it through - so they'll smile. he cannot constantly entertain them. make them laugh. and then they go home and cry. why? what is it? what's gone wrong here?
    why does he waste his time thinking about it? fuck them. why should he care?
    object. they are objects in his dream of dreaming. they are not part of him and he is not part of them. he doesn't care.
    back and forth.
    here and there.
    now and then.

    scream screaming. smash smashing. god, he hates them all. can they hear him? he wishes them all dead. does it matter? they are dead anyway. objects. projections on his consciousness. he feels nothing for them. he cannot feel anything for them. he cannot allow himself to feel anything for them. all he feels is pain. their pain. it is not his. why do they give him their pain to feel for them? put them out of their misery.
    balance.
    and he is gone. he can leave them any time. or can he? he always comes back. junkie.

    something. he needs something. more? less? something old? something new? something that is something else.
    caught in this game we play. caught in the act. caught in a trap.
    will anyone understand this? will anyone know? repeating the same thing over and over. now it comes and now it goes.
    a memory. something like a memory. home. someone waiting. trying to get home. let it go. die. zero out. no fear. no desire. no wonder.
    an approach.
    he can no longer tolerate feeling this pain - the pain they've given him.
    hello?
    anybody home?

    and he goes back and forth. repeating. repeating back and forth. effect of causes. and nothing comes of it. nothing really repeats itself really.
    except everyone's pissed off about something or something else. all they got and all they do to get it.
    oh well. he doesn't mind. don't mind him. just waiting here without all that much to do.
    yeah - anyway...

    12/10 - maybe
    and a development of time. it. define it as undefined. or maybe a banana. although what a spoon might have to do with it is nobody's business.
    home. this is it. come again? boredom. thinking one's way out. falling back in. leaving notes about it along the way. making it up and one goes. the same old story. what translates and what doesn't.
    home.
    years and years ago.
    nothing has changed. he ponders his sanity. why? why is such a thing of any question? he comes into this world and sees what he sees. to who should he report to have them check if what he sees is correct or not? compared to what they see as they've come into this world the same as him?
    this is old news in a hat. nobody pays attention to this anymore. who cares? it's been all talked out and written about on and on. nothing. nonsense of a virus language.
    a reference point. take it easy. come on.
    as long as he still gets paid.

    and as long as he's been at this it would seem that he should have gotten somewhere. maybe he has. gotten himself in somewhere so deep he can't get out.
    and they're all doing ok. they don't seem to mind. so he guesses that it's not that important. and he guesses that he's doing ok too. as ok as they are. nobody's gonna give a inch.
    that's what television is for. that's what books are for. that's what everything we do is for. stay as far away apart from each other as we can. that's the way. self. ego. dada.
    no one understands him - boo fucking hoo. the joker laughs at you. no one knows nothing.

    as he smokes another cigarette he builds walls. he walks around the beach perimeter circumference of the island. he envisions stone work battlements and placing guards on them.
    no - that's too crude. magick. why not just put a spell on the island. 5 pyramids placed in a pentangle that ward off all the anti and evil energy and keeps it and anyone associated with it out at sea.
    good enough.
    the house is at the center of the pentangle.
    or maybe not. he just doesn't want to be bothered. nevermind. he doesn't know. it is what it is and all that trash.
    a fool that's all. it's ok with him. nothing to worry about much being a fool.
    on a hill.
    something. he doesn't know. what's left? dreams. dreams of having something left.
    a note.
    something left.
    nothing left.
    all the time in the world and this is what we've got? no time at all? time is money. if we're so rich why don't we have any time?

    this is something that is nothing at all.
    he is here and now. so what? he doesn't see nothing much about that. just pretend. he could make a lot of noise about it - make people notice. but so what? everybody's here and now. though most are so far away. whatever.
    just killing time staying as far apart from one another as we can. we come into this world alone. we leave it alone. don't forget that. everything in-between is nothing. everyone one meets is no one. just someone as alone in this world as anyone else.
    nevermind.

    it is never finished. a dream world of hell. close one's eyes. nevermind.
    a mind going and gone mad to itself. all trust is gone. that's what madness is - a lack of trust.
    how do we trust one another?
    who goes and who stays?
    who goes first?
    it strikes deep into the pit of one's soul. the mind follows. the heart loses a beat. no one knows where or when.
    death is around one corner. life is around another.
    tomorrow.
    yesterday.
    nevermind.

    now as it is prepared. now the four-gated city - imaginary.
    the heart divided by space and time which are not themselves divided. we need some place and time to be. why not here? why not now?
    or why?
    around and around it again. first this way then that way. divided between the two. always. but not always always.
    not putting two and two together. it always remains divided. we could be inspired. we could be anything.

    and let him state here that about people he knows anyone who without who he probably may not have been gotten to here writing this and he'd either be writing something very different or maybe not be writing at all but he shouldn't write anything about this or anyone and a lot of other people he should write about as well like the people he knows or kinda knows and people he knew and he supposes that is what he should have been writing all along. nevermind. all this other trash.
    equal time.
    but he doesn't know anything about them. he only knows he sees them and even that he's not too sure about.
    so where would he begin with this? and how important is it? which isn't to state that the people he would write about aren't important. they're important to him and important to other assorted people such as themselves as is the case with everyone. but they're really not that important. they're just people like everyone else. maybe that's what makes them the most important, that they're not important. if they were important they wouldn't want to have anything to do with him nor him with them. important people seem to see knowing him as being some sort of social handicap of some kind. he holds them back from all the important things they feel they have to do. never have much time.
    and some of the people he knows are like that in some ways, but not really. the important things they're doing are really nothing at all.
    people could be anyone wonder hadn't applied left turn sneezed it were different circumstance together someone else both fate how and why not a constant a product hopes desires pick and choose expectations the latter makes the fuck alone or at least also don't that much basically make up not wait so often than so it's their work out should some of them whole book to pick any started with kinda responsible is maybe less a more serious attempt way back past suppose turned out between write influentially how things women although know who really shared art moon anima don't know found psyche aware come up with falls hero types in terms most of them haven't label with that understand a reference general describe use at least the goals realizing like flags are more they're at where these maybe over some line got here as sort of borderline one can gage stuck in the ground rather than another mentioned stopping relation markers location to do that one listening mostly bible somewhat come down a side room some friend the patience our lives hadn't done hurt anything wrong felt that into taken pushed got reading when saved couldn't do it other people position anything waked out waiting for become strange time starting with used to done eagerly before wouldn't description event stories squat constitution what did shut up about as much seeing treatments acid too church bits and pieces school shrink doing became clear possibility crazy another turned eventually lessons fall asleep generation channel brand new instant settled down thinking like that there was a good amount again meditation want to asleep a lot but with on connected question of balance something especially airplane not putting on raise some going on along with first another thing that all go away it worked more or less constantly with a connection for awhile seems to seek knows read a bit evil awfully deep intelligence sought windowpane where and when devil anything  plus still writing fairly turned on was sort of masks picked up about how a year or so after secrets it all together this mess all happened dealing with noted the past reality take it apart so basically view of things what the will be if there's anyone in the criticized on that remembered fair admission much stumbling side of things but nevermind.

    12/13
    so besides any and all that business. where and when does it all fit in? off in space cartoon in some mood think around this stuff and what do they want from him?
    does it matter?

    silence.
    death silence. waking to dawn. bathtub. main idiot. haven't learned anything. hurdy gurdy man. monkey on his back. it's all the same. someone along for a ride. just another ride. just another hit.

    take advantage of it now while it lasts forever. he wants to go home and sleep.
    sometimes he just wants to see someone smile. think about it but don't think about it too much.

    empty school bus.

    can't seem to get it started today. don't know why. don't much care about it. seems kinda pointless. yes.
    bah humbug!
    and dada.

    keep it away. keep it abstract global delusional and fantasize on it all on and on.
    don't think twice. under over sideways down and dada dada dada. don't feel the pain from not being able to be enough. not being able to take any of it away. to see them all looking so sad and thinking life's a drag.

    nothing much exciting.

    he doesn't know much about any of it at all. reggae. big beat. lottsa meat. don't know what any of them want. play it by ear. and now it comes and goes. nowhere.
    he tries to work with simple things. basic shit. but it gets all complicated up somehow. confusion. people in confusion without any of them seeming to get what they want out of it. what do we want?
    he doesn't want to be writing much at all. at all. everything and nothing at all.
    another cigarette. another cup of coffee. life goes on. don't think twice. don't look back.

    and about all these people.
    and about this island out in the eye of a storm raging on an otherwise calm sea. the thing between us. nothing at all. he doesn't know. damn all these stupid fucking words anyway. words and words.
    like he even cares...
    not too much amused.
    not too much entertained.
    not too much anything one way or the other. take advantage of it while it lasts.
    all the words. the game of words. dance fever. lightning strikes twice. laugh it off.

    he doesn't know what about any of them. he sits here every day and watches the things they do and listens to the things they say and tries to figure out what they think - if and when they think.
    he stays out of it as much as he can. he tries to put it off. he tries to put them off.
    but maybe not. london. what about london? paris? berlin? moscow? beijing? tokyo? new york?
    common everyday shit transmitted everywhere bought and paid for.
    all the killing smiling faces. all the deals. all the affairs. all the relationships of this and that.

    he tries to keep it simple. he tries to keep it down to a level he can understand. doo-wah-ditty-dada. he speaks nonsense to them and they don't get it. they're always looking for more. what's the deal? how much money's in it?
    what?
    who?
    how?
    why?
    leave him alone. go away. he's tired. he couldn't wake up today. all the day and all of the night. sleep his life away. none of it makes any sense. none of them make any sense.
    what a scene.
    or is it some more crazy shit in his head? is it more evidence against him?
    bullshit. it's all bullshit. he looks through it all. he will not turn his back and run from them unless they chase him off with whatever big stick they can manage that they're carrying.
    but they gotta stop with their bullshit.
    where and when is the line drawn?

    what do they want? he's got nothing for them.
    he's just trying to figure it out.
    what do they want?
    or what does he want?
    he doesn't know.
    it gets too thick.

    and when it gets dark. when it gets real dark. no amount of light gets through no matter what.
    and no one's there.
    and no one's there but his only friend who says, this won't hurt a bit.
    the point of no return. the point between heaven and hell where both are the same. no direction home. all that glitters and one has nothing more to sell - not even one's soul.
    this won't hurt a bit.
    sure...

    laying back gazing up at the ceiling and there's a knock on the door at the same time the phone rings.
    who could they be?
    who wants to get ahold of him? someone who wants him to buy something. ain't got nothing left to him at all and they still want him to buy something.
    he doesn't know. moose.
    another cigarette.
    another day in the dark. the darkness in the light. seeing how stupid he's been. seeing how stupid he is and will probably more than likely continue to be. now and forevermore.
    down.
    down from the sky up.

    and a name. frozen in an identity he cannot shake. even if no one else knows who he is, he still knows. no matter what. and there'll still be people knocking on his door and calling him up to want to sell him something.
    the time of day. the time of his life.
    and what else is he doing? he's gotten himself away from everyone he knows. the server fills up his cup once in awhile. hello. how ya doing? what's shaking?
    they're just as much in the dark as he is. but they don't have to think about all this other shit. maybe.  maybe not.
    that's why he writes, so he doesn't have to think. all the other shit he doesn't know what to do with.
    when it breaks down.
    when the words still don't mean anything but they're all one's got. all he's got.
    he writes. maybe somebody reads. killing time together. what difference does it make what the words mean or not? they can mean anything. we can pretend they mean anything we want them to. make up secrets about them. form this little secret club around these words that can mean anything.
    just killing time. what does one want to learn? what does he want to teach? or is it the other way around? what is he learning from what he writes? what are these words trying to teach him?
    or maybe it has nothing to do with that at all. we just amuse ourselves. time. time apart.
    he spends his time apart from the others thinking little else but the others writing constantly to the others.
    he doesn't even know who, where or when they might be. maybe they're beside him the whole time. maybe they're only him. him and his shadow. in the dark.
    lose it.
    lose it all.
    let it go.
    fly away.
    yeah, sure.
    nevermind.

    he likes it here close and warm by the fire. him on his own little island where and when no one knows where and when it is. here and now.
    no place like home.
    and the thing between us. is he boring anyone? what do they want? thrills and adventure? romance? deep dark philosophical discussions? inspiring mystical experiences?
    what? what do they want from him? and don't tell him nothing. they've come this far so there must be something. no matter how much he tried to lose them.
    who are they?
    what do they want from him?
    and what do they think they're going to find here? in words?
    fuck off and die. they just want to sit somewhere comfortably and peruse through this at their leisure. they don't have to live it like he does. of course he sits somewhere comfortably and writes it at his leisure...
    go away. he wants nothing to do with them. he has nothing to do with them and they have nothing to do with him.
    he might as well be writing this to himself and maybe to them it may seem like he is, but he's not. not really. he knows about this already. writing is just how he gets to it. and maybe how someone else can get to it too. he just doesn't worry about whoever that other might be. and wonder about how they'll take it all the wrong way and be offended by it.
    why does he bother?
    what does he want from them?
    he'd like to see them smile and and hear them laugh. and if they need to cry and get pissed and throw things around and yell and scream first to get there then that's ok. he had to do the same thing. been there. done that.
    but they won't. they'll sit there and bitch and moan about how terrible everything is and how bummed they are and on and on.
    he doesn't want to hear it. he's heard it before every day and it goes nowhere.
    he's the only one who gets to do that here - if he wants to.
    this is his island. they invited themselves here. he may have seduced them somewhat but he didn't ask them to come and he didn't promise them anything.
    they are here of their own free will. they can go when they want to. he doesn't care. there's plenty more where their kind came from. and he could amaze and dazzle them if he wanted. if that's what they want. they're pushovers. but that's what they'll never get.
    go away.
    they are imaginary. just another face in the crowd. they are no one. he doesn't need any of them. 100 - 1000 - a million -  a billion - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 billion or however more of them that there are on this semi-inhabitable rock.
    and dada.
    what do they take him for?
    who do they take him for?

    12/14
    or something brought on the end came in to bed writing strange sometimes airwaves interested showed took it personally may have been in what directed arguments toward more or less psychic same with everyone think sometimes emotionally because pretty more than tied it all is involved being about that run through relationships the things ourselves hide other especially want admit do to each other and on and on right now person year ago people top of the list resident community when months shelter worked play shift graveyard and others a lot of things fell in love moved policy eventually became clicked who used stay up pretty heavily apart involved which months then split spending friends got together a night through weeks the book relationship to figure out accepted common confusion definitions gray zone again and went heck our one another which seemed odds automatically language specifically designed to be.

    and they just kicked some guy outta here because he had his hands down his pants playing with himself. should have brought a notebook and scribbled with himself.

    sex. hung up about sex. unclear about where and when it fits in. how much importance to put on it or not. language. clinical. vulgar. skirt the issue. little everyday conversation though it's on everyone's minds but we act like no one does it or if they do it's a minor concern. and tv commercial with a phallic foaming soda can being sucked off by a woman's red lipstick mouth.
    and on and on.
    and men playing with themselves in cafes.

    so it's dada. dreams of red convertibles and horses tangled in barbed wire.
    angst.
    and so forth.
    act civilized. can't sit around and wanna fuck all day. do something constructive. build a house. paint a painting. design a weapon system. rob a bank.
    write in notebooks.
    and so it goes.
    and so it went.
    and the circle remains unbroken. the record continues to skip. over and over. as the world turns over the edge trying to avoid thinking about its most basic primal desire and need.
    into one's head.
    brain fart.
    shit, piss and fuck.
    sit by the fire with something good to eat.
    dancing in one's head.
    come on, it's such a joy.
    lazy good for nothing bums. can't get an honest day's work outta anybody these days. slack offs.
    sleep.
    to rest in someone's arms as they rest in one's own. to watch them sleeping the day comfortably.
    after a good hardy fanciful fuck.
    go-go-go. places to see. people to meet. things to do.
    dadadadadadadadadadadadadada.
    home away from home. on the run. don't bring me down, chant the masses of masses.
    a world gone mad. no place to lay our head to rest. think. gotta think of something. don't know what one has to think of but if one keeps thinking one will think of it.
    get to it.
    find it.
    what is missing?
    and so instead we invent this high and holy dada unattainable except through death thing about this god or whatever dada.
    push the button.
    delete.
    end program.
    we know where it goes.
    it's all downhill from here.
    oh boy.

    and what goes on from here. and what is he doing here? who is he? who is anyone?
    dada.
    where are we now?
    and this thing between us. thin air. shapeless. formless.
    here now.
    now here (nowhere).
    games with words. the games we play. and if we just admitted that was what we are doing. and if we had fun doing it. fun with each other. not our own fun at another's expense. not like not. ripping each other to pieces like demons in hell.
    not like them.
    not like us.
    down under. charm and grace while the knife goes in. vampire.

    and so it's him again on his island hideaway blowing it all away and it's maybe someone else knocking on his door or calling him on the phone.
    should he answer?
    what do they want?
    what are they trying to sell him now?
    he may die in their world. he may fade away if he's neglected and ignored enough and maybe that's what they want. maybe that's the world they want to live in - a world without him and his kind.
    so what?
    good luck. because they may find out too late that he's what they've been looking for the whole time. or maybe not. probably not.
    if they do, then they do. if they don't, they don't.
    because he has nothing for them except himself as he is. if they're expecting someone else then they can truck right on through.
    baby.
    but it's not that easy. they can't just leave it like that. just because it ain't broke isn't any reason why they won't try to fix it. because it doesn't work the way they want it to - the way they got it in their heads it's supposed to work.
    and he don't work no more.
    but they still knock on his door and ring him on the phone.
    they want to buy his soul. and if they can't, they'll steal it.
    watch out!
    nevermind.

    12/15 - part 19
    he's trying to get his new place straightened up. he lives in somebody's attic. he unpacked his notebooks from years past. he thinks some of them are missing. who knows? it's hard to trace with being down and out and everything and being psychotic like he is. he looked through some of them. all the same shit. pretty much bitching about this and that and how fucked up everything is.
    he's tempted to burn them all. burn everything.
    become some sort of monk. a dada monk. but he already is one. a monk of dada. a monk of monkey business.
    just him and god in on the joke. how it laughs at our stupidity. our raving stupidity.
    to feel nothing at all. to withdraw into space/time apart. an invisible observer.
    to laugh at them.
    to keep them from laughing at him. if he says nothing they'll think him to be silent in wisdom. still waters and all that trash. he could walk among them as if a god.
    he is a god.
    he is one with the gods. he has seen himself there often enough to know.
    and there's nothing special about that or him. anyone can do it. we are the gods.
    and he's been through this before too. and who does he convince?
    he does not want to be above anyone. not that kind of god. the kind that they imagine and worship. that is not what being a god is about. only gods who are fools in disguise. it is better to be a god disguised as a fool.
    or some such.
    jesus was a fool. who else would allow themselves to be hung up and die? a god playing the part of a fool.
    and then all those who followed him. fools disguised as gods.
    or something.
    he should go back to bed. go back to sleep. what is he doing here? this is pointless. it could be anything. he could write anything. it doesn't matter. this world will never change. the sooner he's out of it the better. there is nothing for him here.

    quick think dog run amok jump dada.
    hedgehog.
    nothing more.
    nothing less.
    these words mean nothing to anyone. they won't change anyone or anything they might think, say or do at all dada.
    why does he feel like they should? there's nothing wrong with the way things are.
    is there?
    he doesn't think so - except he doesn't see that anyone is all to happy with much of it.
    but we've been through that before too. around in perpetual self-feeding circles. nothing new

    and so it remains with him still thinking he should go back to bed. back to sleep. back to the dreams he cannot often remember.
    nevermind.
    he's sorry he wrote anything at all. he hopes he hasn't disturbed anyone.
    actually he does hope that. he hopes he disturbs someone quite a bit. if he can't sleep why should anyone else? why should he be the only one awake at night dealing with this shit they ignore?

    fuck them.
    they can all go away and leave him alone. they can have it all. cover it up with all the things they bring home from the store. keep it clean. forget who they are. forget that they are just animals just like him. keep their head above water.
    but don't let them knock on his door or ring on his phone when it gets to be too much and they're tired and the illusion they've created begins to fade and they start going down.
    he spent his time diving as deep as he can finding out what's down there and what's not. he found out he can breathe. he can survive. he can live under the waves. it took time and practice. and he had no choice anyway because they kept pushing him down to keep themselves afloat.
    so here we are now. we look into each other's eyes. he used to be the one who turned away first but now he has nothing to be ashamed of. he sees who they are. they're just other ones of him no matter what image they try to put on. he sees through them all, especially the ones cleverly disguised as no image. he sees through their masks of psuedo-honesty. he knows what they dream. he knows because he's wide awake at night while they toss and turn and wrestle with their frustrated desires turned into fearsome nightmares of bogeythings coming up from the darkness of their minds they keep closed and locked tight.
    but who's inside and who's out? who's who in this zoo?
    as long as they think and believe the monsters belong to someone else the monsters will be able to fool them and always remain on the same side of any wall they put up against them as they are.

    later on in the same dream -
    a couple of things wanna realize forgot one of which evil twin whether to the other many of fairly common dealing with widespread explanation have as with no big news bringing it up comes from right at once both sides for it possible.
    and this makes it all possible for him to say i love you one moment and fuck off and die the next.
    and he doesn't care what path he takes as long as it's all downhill from here.
    not trying to get to the top of any mountain. he's trying to get off it. fuck the gurus and the burning bushes. none have anything to say to him
    and so he's taking any route that takes him down. out for a stroll.
    telephone.
    or maybe not.
    and monsters.
    push the button.
    have at it. go for it. kill each other. opposites attract. or something.
    don't ask him to take a side. he doesn't care as long as they keep it away from him and what he's got. then he'll fight anyone who crosses his path. but if anyone asks him to choose, then they're the enemy.
    and so it goes.
    doo-dah.
    and fuck this noise.
    it's cruising up on the whole thing falling flat on it's face.
    who cares?
    not him. as long as there's no winners and losers. as long as there's no one claiming to have begun some 1000 year reich - even and especially if it's the reich of the people.
    fuck the people. fuck each and every one of them and their uncle harry. it's every dude for themselves in this brave new age. we need each other like we need a new incurable disease.
    drop the definitions. even drop the definitions of being those who have dropped the definitions. he doesn't need them. they don't need him. lets' face it. no more fantasy dreams come true. no one to count on, not even himself.
    him and his shadow.
    him and the monster in the closet.
    and we'll take them all on and they better believe that we're mean motherfucking bastards from hell itself and will drop them quicker than shit if they so much of think about cutting us out of the deal. even through we don't want in on the deal.
    we know who we are and know who they think we are. we planned it that way.
    pick up a clue.
    get with the program.
    don't talk with one's mouth full.
    the other side of this life.

    and he doesn't know. it doesn't matter. he doesn't mind much what they think of him though he'll bitch about it until the day he dies. and he thinks worse about them.
    nevermind. they go on their own way. climb that mountain to get close to whatever guru they think knows more than they do. it doesn't take much.
    he knows he's got it figured out or he can get it figured out given enough time. and his time is his time. they can't buy his time for all they say they are worth.
    they can blow it out their ass.
    ha!

    and he's faking it. he's writing all this bullshit because he's scared out of his wits of anything that comes too close. them or anyone. he doesn't know why. he spent his time trying to figure it out. it doesn't matter anymore. this is all it amounts to - words scribbled out in some notebooks and stored on a shelf.
    it's a bluff. he ain't holding nothing but he's caught in the game just like anyone else and life and death are the stakes.
    so it goes.
    naked.
    let's forget this stupid game that has climbed to stakes that none of us are ready to lose. do we really want to win at another's expense? is that our only happiness?
    let's laugh it away.
    who started us on this path anyway? and who cares? if one needs someone to blame one can blame him if one wants to. as long as that is what gets one to quit. but he ain't hanging up on some cross just so they can have things their way. those days are over. the past is the past. we're in the future now - or what is supposed to be the future but looks a lot like the past to him.
    it remains the same. everyone out hunting one another. nothing changes.
    he's been here before and it still don't make no sense to him. they're all nuts and there's no one doing it to them but themselves.
    dada.
    they act like they don't have a brain in their heads. but maybe that's the problem.
    maybe that's his problem.

    been here before.
    nothing to report.
    try again in another 1000 years.

    fly by.
    pulling hairs out of his nose. ouch!
    a tear in his eye.
    and after midnight when it all comes out and dances around.
    don't need anyone and no one needs him. who cares who's who?
    it goes around.
    and he sees their sad smiles. he sees them trying to keep on trying. there's nothing he can do to help them. there's nothing they need from him.
    he just hangs on.
    no one and nothing can be counted on.
    leave it be.
    leave it alone.
    alone.
    me, myself and i.
    him, himself and he. (hee-hee-hee...)
    it.
    the mind of minds kidding itself that something else exists beside itself and so it moves beside itself through a trick done with mirrors and it must keep itself divided from itself to keep from remembering it is only itself in a mirror and alone in a loneliness more than it can bear without going mad and imagining there's something beside itself.
    and on and on like that.

    put the gun to his head. pull the trigger. divide himself from himself and become one with it.
    or not.
    who cares?
    ka-boom!
    hello/good-bye.

    and as these things come and go he's just here babbling in some mixture of drug intake dada state of mind like krypton death machine seeing visions of death and seeing a lot of death before he goes or maybe not.
    link up or leave him alone.
    he knows what he knows.
    they only suspect what they suspect.
    the time comes and goes. we pass through it on our way back to ourselves. we are one to one with each other. we are who we are and who we need to be as one who does not need the one to be who one is but needs the other to know who one is not.
    makes sense to him. he doesn't know what their problem is all about it but it's obvious that they have one. he can tell by the way they jump every time he smiles at them.
    he smiles at them as he would have them smile at him. not their killer smile but real.
    what monster has he become to them? if he could maybe see himself through their eyes, or if they could see themselves through his.
    which of us is right or wrong? who is good and who is evil?
    he'll take the fall.
    he'll make them look good.
    he loves they way they smile at this and to hear them laugh.
    he'll take the blame.
    he'll play the fool.
    but if they're not happy he'll do them in.

    he doesn't know.
    it doesn't matter.
    nevermind.

    quicksand. the more one struggles.
    go down.

    and sometimes he just wonders. and sometimes he just shakes his weary head. and sometimes it just don't make no sense to him at all.
    and here he is writing about it. and in case one hasn't noticed by now, he has no idea what he's writing about. isn't that what he's been writing about the whole time? like anyone's reading this anyway...

    sometimes he wonders about them. sometimes he wonders about himself.
    sometimes.
    jim beam. keep it as far away as he can. nevermind. glide on by their new lifestyle they get by keeping their noses clean.
    yes, sir.
    anything you say, sir.
    or whatever it takes for them to feel protected from themselves.
    shoot it down.
    pull it up.

    and whatever it means anymore. and he ain't seen nothing yet. none of us have.
    the dark before the dawn. if there is a dawn.
    why is he stuck on a planet full of people he can't hardly stand looking at let alone having to listen to all the mindless shit that comes outta their brain.
    how come he can't change the channel?

    he flashes through it. he touches as little of it as he can get away with and let as little touch him.
    but he gets caught in it and he can't figure out why. fuck these people and their idiot consciousness.
    but someone always manages to have a hold on him.
    nevermind. let it go. dada. dance. fly. do whatever it takes.
    fuck it.

    awake.
    a cigarette.
    coffee.
    another hit of lsd or what passes as such these days. who cares? he ain't going down for anyone no matter how crazy it makes him. slide on by. thanks for all the fish.
    we could be heroes and all the other slogans of our kind among them we used to communicate with one another without knowing exactly who we are or who we are not except as they defined us as one thing or the other.
    and maybe what?
    i'm laughing in the face of danger, says the set designer at the burning theater.
    and he's laughing too because he failed big time here. he fucked up just about everything he got his hands on. couldn't get a grip. tired of climbing. ain't nobody or nothing on top of that mountain for him except the greediest most back-stabbing selfish asshole fucker this world has ever known. how else did they get up there? and all these people killing themselves and one another to get up close and personal to this one who they feel surveys it all with deep understanding.
    or something.
    dada-ha-ha.
    and the valley of death. and let them all meet jesus in the air and such and such.
    he's going straight to hell and glad of it.
    do not pass go.
    do not collect $200.
    fuck the hotels on boardwalk and elsewhere.
    he's cashing it in.
    get him outta this mess.
    ha?
    extinct.
    his people. the genetic mutant freaknoids who've been kicked out of every place in town there is to get kicked out of especially those establishments and organizations who supposedly cater to us and our kind.
    ha!
    nobody represents him but himself and if one doesn't like his language or his tone of voice or his sporatic temper tantrums or his rat's nest hair or day old coffee cigarette breath or 3-day old slept in clothes then one can go fly a kite in hell. he doesn't care. but don't come on like one knows something about him and know what he's talking or writing about and where he's coming from and one is in some position to make some decision about him either for or against him because both are the same if one isn't prepared to listen to him rag for hours on end and instead put him on one of one's statistic lists about what is surmised about him and those one lumps him in with based on some observations one has noticed that are more characteristic and telling about how fucked up one is oneself than he is and not that he's not because he is and he's got lots of problems without adding others to them on top especially when he sees that no one else is dealing with them themselves but gloss oneself over with some kind of appearance that one either doesn't have any or is taking care of them because he has an x-ray mind telepathic vision and he sees what's twisting in one's gut and knows why one gestures one's hand a certain way when one speaks uttering a certain phrase or a certain vocabulary mode with what tone of voice and it's in the eyes and all and on and on.
    he can read a book by its cover.
    and he knows others can read him too. but he knows what they read and his cover is designed to lure in some and scare the shit out of others.
    and this is what's inside on the pages. can one dig it? what's to be afraid of?
    he sleeps in one's closet and comes out and rummages around one's room while one is sleeping. he knows where one hides one's precious secrets. he's been through every drawer and under the bed. and he found no surprises. he found nothing hideous or deformed and twisted and hateful except the parts one wrote about him - the monster who lives in the closet and comes out at night and does the things he does while one tosses and turns in the rapture and passion of familiar reoccurring nightmares.
    each of us has a part to play. somebody has to play the villain in this melodrama tragedy we wrote for ourselves. he'd rather play the fool clown who makes everyone laugh but he's read their script and there doesn't seem to be a part like that. so he goes and hides in the closet.
    and then we all forget this is a play.
    or maybe he's the one who has forgotten something. maybe he really is the one who is guilty of the crimes they accuse him of. maybe he is as evil a monster as they point out that he is.
    maybe.
    he doesn't know.
    him and his shadow.
    no one but him. the wolf in sheep's clothing. the thief.
    i am that i am.
    my little dog knows me.
    he has placed himself high on a mountain and looked down upon the rest of them and thought himself a god who could do anything to them that he desired.
    what did he desire?
    what is the one thing that a god is said to desire more than any other? more than all the gifts we humbly or proudly lay at its feet. more than the images we create. more than the blood we spill in its name. more than the lists of souls we have brought to its service. more than our own lives.
    more than even this universe which to it is merely a whim.
    what?
    forgiveness?
    revenge?
    laws?
    heaven?
    and this especially and even more true if and when this rumored god is a figment of our collective imagination.
    what ideas and images do we place upon it? what role do we create for it to play? what do we want it to want for us? what do we need? what do we desire?
    and does it have anything to do with us at all?
    what?
    who?
    how is it divided apart from ourselves?
    this god who has been trusted to care for us, to watch out for us. and it failed. not only did it not protect us but it became that which we need protection from.
    monster.
    and who loves a monster?

    12/17
    dog.
    star.
    wake up.
    pigs and ponies.
    bits and pieces.
    where and when does it go?
    pointlessness. no point to nothing. no point to everything. nothing and everything being pointless and why is that seen as a negative? they are all points - all possibilities. that is the point. the point to be reached is pointless.
    get it?
    he's got his point and everybody has theirs. which is which and who is who?
    and what's the point?
    what's not the point?
    what else?
    dada.
    an explanation without an explanation. pointless.
    ha-ha.
    that's the joke. a joke without a punch line. there's no end to it and there is no beginning.
    always developing into nothing because there is nothing for it to develop into because it's everything.
    it.
    back to it again.
    oh boy.
    ha!
    just a flash in our eyes from a passing car reflecting the sun from its windshield. that's the point - isn't it?
    an ash tray.
    a rug.
    a cute little puppy being crushed by a mean nasty kid dropping a bowling ball on it while it's sleeping.
    how terrible. what's the point to that except as possibility?
    it happens.
    we try to control things so that things like that won't happen.
    but how do we know they will or might happen if they don't happen?
    some twist of fate.
    the danger and risk of it all being possible. take a chance. let it go.
    the rush of power in a powerless existence.
    shit rolls downhill, as they say.
    it's gotta go somewhere.
    cause and effect.
    keep it locked up tight. ignore it and it will go away.
    the unspeakable frustrated rage one feels.
    the pointlessness.
    the hopelessness.
    just the pain and the sense of power.
    the point.
    a point.
    no return.
    memory.
    forget it.
    remember it.
    soft focus with warm afternoon light coming in through lace curtains. a pose. a dreamy seductive smile biting on a fingernail.
    a shrug.
    ok.
    let's go.
    get to the point.
    all fall down.
    and by the grace of our savior's blood that was spilled for us in the forgiveness of our sins.
    our trespasses.
    what's wrong with this picture?
    who?
    which?
    the sacrifice.
    what's the point?
    it could have happened whether it did or not.
    all possibility.
    maybe.
    always maybe.
    who calls the shots?
    what's the point? and once that's figured out, what's the point of that being the point?
    it's a set up any which way it goes. it doesn't alter the pain of some idiot hanging on a cross or a cute puppy being crushed by a bowling ball.
    does it?
    keep it to oneself. he doesn't care. he isn't looking for rime or reason. he just wants to see what happens. any explanation is good enough for him since he wasn't looking for one to begin with.
    what's the point?
    act.
    take control.
    a whole wide world opens up until somebody comes along and smashes it like they are wont to do.

    he doesn't know. don't pay him too much nevermind. leave him alone, but don't just cut him out. he doesn't ask for much. they can have the rest. all they can grab ass.
    he takes the easy way out. possibility. he sits here now and watches the rain. windshield wipers.
    and enough for awhile about whatever. he goes in and out of it.
    it's not much. it's not really anything at all. there's no real point to it if one is looking for a point.
    dada, o' blessed dada. loon.
    yelp.
    meow.

    and he seems to piss people off. but that's not the point. he just wants to let it go. he wants everyone to let it go. let it go and take it all. grab on to everything.
    another cigarette.

    and he don't know nothing about it at all.
    pointless.
    pointless.
    pointless.
    is that the point?
    forget about what one thinks pointlessness means.
    that's not the point.
    see it.
    realize it.
    pointless.
    no point.
    every point.
    no point above another.
    everything.
    nevermind.
    it's not important.

    in all seriousness. back to earth.
    divide and conquer. fly into it. fly away from it. do nothing. stay as they are. no matter how much they change, they stay as they are.
    always. now and forevermore.
    birth - life - sex - death.
    nothing - anything - something - everything.
    pry it loose.
    call it by name.
    we are nothing to them. there is no reason for us to be anything. he gets tired sometimes of writing this and everything else over and over. he should sleep. sleep is good. he should go away and sleep. now and forevermore. let them take care of it. let them have it all.
    we are useless to them. that is our use. that is our purpose. that is the point to our existence.
    think about it.
    think about it again.
    bring oneself around to it. bring oneself around to oneself where and when it begins and ends here and now.
    brain.
    come closer. the further one moves away the closer one is. i am. the i am that is oneself. and he should sleep. sleep without dreaming. dreaming without sleep.
    come on, it's such a joy.

    following a path of thought. following a series of choices.
    a train.
    the station. master of reality. ticket. pay up. die. die from oneself. awake. spoon in hand. two in the bush. hello. good-bye. maybe. dog. cat. push. shove. crock o' shit.
    and he sat there with his hands in his pants behind the scenes. someone else unbolted the thunder machine. the gods were angry.
    he played with himself. did he know why? did we? he was asked to leave.
    monkeys in the zoo.
    monkeys in the trees.
    but we're people. we're different. we write and read books.
    and he can see why. he can see why not. he can't divide between the two.
    point out the point to him.
    and what if jesus came back and sat in a cafe and whipped it out?
    and what if jesus came back and sat in a cafe and whipped out a notebook and sat drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes and wrote down his observations?
    which isn't stating anything but that if and when jesus comes back he might disguise himself as someone one might throw a stone at - just for his idle amusement.
    something to while away the time while all the preparations are made and there's nothing much else to do until we all finish up our proudful pratfall.
    to watch all the mighty cities crumble. to listen while all the ideals turn into driveling nonsense, when push comes to shove, when all the armies march and the children are starving.
    to take a good long hard look at the world and shake one's head and turn away.

    he's been here before. he's seen this all happen in coming attraction visions.
    and now he's here. we're here. now it's real. it ain't no rehearsal, baby. duck and cover.
    or something. he doesn't know. and all the caring in the world won't help. all bets are in and the wheel is spinning. revolution. a big fat mega-revolution. fire all the guns at once. visualize world-wide riot.
    zap!
    and it ain't to him one way or the other. true or not. believable or not. whatever or not.
    ho-fucking-hum.
    he can wait. he knows what he's here to see. he knows what he's here to take part in. all the world-coming-to-an-end scenarios at once. don't mean ratshit to him.
    let them come.
    bring them on.
    do our worst.
    conjure up the most deepest darkest nihilistic horrible holocaust nightmare imaginable and he'll laugh in one's face because one only brings that shit up oneself. he's been through it. he took the dive and came up on the other side. he knows the way out, which is straight ahead through it all. he knows how to meet jesus [sic] in the air.
    so wallow in it. do what one needs to do. bash each other's heads in. have fun while it lasts.
    because there's two worlds here. the real world. the one with no future. it's dead and gone. extinct. these are the death throes. automatic spasmodic knee jerk reflex twitching reaction. and another world. the world that's not real. that maybe only exists in his head but it's in a lot of other people's heads too.
    destruction.
    the demolition crew is on the scene. bring it down and clear it out. burn it to ashes.
    and then we move in. room to move once the old walls are gone. walls on every level.
    nevermind. no one gets it.
    too bad.
    it's been nice knowing everybody but it's coming on time to go.

    and it flashes by just like that. just like nothing at all. whoosh!
    too soon.
    too late.
    here and now.
    zap!
    now one sees it. now one doesn't.
    a spark struck by like a match. that's all it will take. the right place. the right time.
    and it's nothing about nothing much too much about nothing. no big deal. forget it.
    just a bunch of noise.

    which comes first?
    dancing revolution happenstance.
    everybody wants one.
    everybody wants their own in their own way.
    exploding.

    and something else.
    normal. death. afterward with nothing ever being the same.
    no excuses.
    just another day.
    sun up. sun down.
    earth turn around.
    don't cry.
    don't feel any pain.

    to dream about it. to be left with it. to see what is unseen by others such that one can never explain. they don't give us words to use.
    large.
    napkin.
    music.
    cigarette.
    now and then.
    and space and time away. and a circle unbroken. and to remember.
    this is the place. this is the time. he is here now. and he will leave it behind as it has been left behind by others.
    unspoken.

    bus.
    calling one's name. where? we know nothing of death except to see it come and go leaving bodies in its wake.
    now one is here.
    now one is gone.
    he doesn't understand what difference death could make. it's just another day. he doesn't know. he follows whatever path he's following. the world was on this path. then the world went away. he can no longer see it. he doesn't know.
    is this sad? it's not. it is what is. it's not even a true story. even if it is, it doesn't matter.
    but it's not exactly happy. he's just imagining, that's all.
    maybe it never happened that way at all.

    and he doesn't know how much longer. he's been seeing a lot of death imagery shit of late. it could be just a frame of mind. a box. a circle. and planetary sphere.
    words. play with words. trains of thought crashing into one another. it's all a continuing dream around him. he can't get in and he can't get out. between the earth and sky. flames growing higher consuming everything. consuming themselves.
    it comes close but never quite gets there. there's always more. and that's good. he likes that. not like any sort of promised land. never. more and more and more. consuming.
    but that's not the way it works. there's only just so much. there isn't more of anything except how much of it there is. duh...
    so it's not so much of wanting and having more as it's wanting and having it all. all of it. more of it than what one has already.
    but one can only use so much of it all. the rest must be locked away, not to use but to make sure no one else gets it.
    wait a minute. that's too simple. it's too easy. that can't be it. anyone could figure that out. it's gotta be something else.
    it's got to be more than that because everyone says how the problems of the world are so very complex that they need complex organizations of schools, businesses, governments, religions, etc. to solve it.
    it can only be trusted in the hands of people in the know.
    like us. we're the people in the know. we're in contact with microwave beings from planet x or something. or maybe just the trees. or maybe just ourselves and our wild imaginations. or more and more and more.
    yes!
    yes!
    yes!
    leave it to us, folks.
    first: wholesale demolition.
    second: pick up the pieces.
    third: what  the fuck?

    and dreaming on through a dream of dreams. sitting here being of little use to anyone - most of all himself. always himself. not much else but himself. too bad. it's nothing.
    what the fuck?
    fuck the what?
    and fuck. what a word.
    fuck.

    and mixie the poet took the stage of the burning theater.
    hello?
    hello?
    could i have your undivided attention?
    shut the fuck up.
    i'm a poet it, goddamn it, and i've got something to say.
    i am here.
    you are here.
    we are here to agree.
    i want you to agree with me.
    shut the fuck up.
    i hope you all did what i asked when i spoke the last time.
    we can't do anything unless we agree.
    shut up - shut the fuck up.
    i'm a poet, goddamn it.
    i'm serious.
    i will not be ridiculed.
    i did not come here to be made fun of and be laughed at.
    we all need to agree.
    i brought a list of things we all need to agree on.
    so shut the fuck up.
    i'm not here for myself.
    i'm here for all of you and i need your support.
    i need your agreement that what i see is important for you to see as important is important.
    we want to do away with laws and control and all the rest of thousands of years of reich after reich.
    we want to do away with everything that has held us down and back.
    right?
    right?
    do you agree with me?
    shut the fuck up then and let me finish.
    agree with me by your silence.
    i have the mike and i'm a goddamn poet.
    i'm up here not for myself but for you.
    i speak for the people who have been silenced.
    so shut the fuck up and listen to me.
    i did not come here to be ridiculed and laughed at.
    i came here to tell you what you need to hear.
    it's important.
    so shut up and listen.
    it's not an easy job but someone has to do it.
    i have sacrificed everything to be here telling you what you need to hear.
    so shut up and listen.
    do you agree?
    do we all agree?
    i mean we're all here because we agree, right?
    shut up, i'm trying to tell you something.
    thank you and good night.

    12/20
    and nevermind. open eyes. and he's thinking about whatever he's thinking about.
    seeing an old man with just a shirt and a suit jacket and it's below zero wind chill shit outside. outside his world sitting here drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. don't look outside where the people are hungry and freezing. human waste. human shit. what more can be done? no matter where the line is drawn someone will be outside who can't hold on or won't buckle under.
    and he takes the easy way out. just keep him safe and warm. he won't say anything. he doesn't support the system but he does nothing to oppose it either.
    what changes?

    it was late. it didn't matter. there were a lot of crazy ideas going around as the ways of the old were shattering to pieces and the institutions they supported became more and more extreme in their behavior trying to hold on to what they were obviously losing.
    the best thing was to try not to get too close to it. don't go looking for a fight.
    nevermind. it's nothing to lose one's head about. what comes and goes. know when to duck for cover. know when to bend over and take it. do we really want to survive in their world?
    outside. sometimes one has to stand outside and freeze one's ass off and go hungry awhile to get what one wants or to keep what one has.
    and in the long run who wins and who loses?
    it was nothing at all. take another hit and move past it. big grin on one's idiot face.
    no pain.
    ain't feeling no pain at all. what more is there than that?

    and so it happens. it happens how it's supposed to happen. and it happens like it's not supposed to happen. caught between again. everywhere it goes and doesn't go.
    oh well.
    give it time.
    something known and not known. something mysterious and ordinary. this and that. it.
    nothing more or less than it. everything more or less than it.

    he was into it.
    he was out of it.
    it.
    such a joy.
    such a desperate joy.
    grab it while one can and give it time.

    and something.
    and to continue along on what is continuing. just doing nothing for no one. nothing to write but here again with it. circle on back around on himself.
    bring it up and bring it on down. just like in the cartoons. people animated around him. something else moves inside them. what? and why won't it deal with him directly? oh well. no big deal, he supposes. there have been others tearing themselves apart trying to reach it. and he's put in his time with that. god or truth or reality. whatever. he doesn't know. maybe it's there and maybe it's not.

    plasma.
    gut.
    the ebb and flow of space/time.
    he's reached it with it. maybe not. it's probably as close as he's gonna get anyway. when all else fails - give up. abstract. nothing. and if anything is anymore than that he sure as heck and high water doesn't know what it is.
    maybe there's nothing to it. what one sees is what one gets. and the surface of this reality is exactly what this reality is. there ain't nothing more to it than that.
    but that is what it is. nothing more to it than that.
    the roads to heaven and hell go in the same direction. just thought he'd throw that in. don't worry about it, ok? ok.
    as he was writing about what he was trying to write about what he's already written much too much about way long ago but he won't let that stop him from writing more and more and more because he's just sitting here with nothing much else to do that he really wants to do though there's a lot he should be doing beside running on this sentence for as long as he can get it to go except he thinks that this is as far as it goes.
    whew.
    begin it again.
    sidetracked. but he's got lottsa time. he hopes however someone is reading this does too. but they probably don't. short attention span.
    because it's nothing more than what it is. and it's all right here. what one sees is what one gets. the thing is do we really see all that we get? not that there is more to it than what it is but that's there's more to it than what we see.
    or something.
    he thinks he lost it here again. he always does. that's why he repeats himself. he picks up a thread and follows it until he drops it or loses it in the tangled mess it leads to. then he has to go back to where he started and try again.
    or something.
    it's not all too much important. it's his job. it's what he's being paid to do.
    just a fool.
    just someone who's lost their mind. in and out of it again and again.
    nevermind.

    so maybe he should be writing stories here. that's what he's been told by others what will sell and people will be able to follow.
    follow.
    only trouble is that he has trouble following stories even ones he's reading let alone ones he's writing and is responsible for developing and maintaining some sort of plot. hi-ho.
    he gets bored and before he knows it he's off on some space track again.
    some space track. and maybe that's not it. maybe he's just off. another world. get back.
    nevermind. it's not that important. nothing's important. nothing so important enough for him to be spending all this time writing about it. or the time anyone spending reading it. nothing more and nothing less. over and over.
    except that that is true with everything if it's true with this. ain't nothing more important than what it is. no reason to put value on one thing we don't put value on another. each have their place and time. but in their place and time they are equal.
    not transferably equal.
    it's all in our heads. it's all a matter of where and when our heads are at.
    and one tangent or another. scream and shout. dance all about. let it all out.
    and as he just sits here with the only part of him that is moving is his hand across the universe in a paper cup dog breath cheese noodle eyebrow.
    now and then.
    brown and serve. don't forget the party mix. elbow. guts. nothing much at all. he denies it. he forgets it. leave him alone and come closer to him. move/don't move. think/don't think. if it ain't one thing it's another.
    this and that.
    it.

    and maybe back to some sort of seriousness about whatever. good luck. away we go. another cigarette. fish.
    rainbow.
    another couple of hits.
    nevermind.

    and something unspoken still as yet here we are among the others. no place to go. no place like home - and maybe one is finally home where and when there's no place to go.
    and he got rid of it - all of them. got them to go away from his island all by himself - except for the thing between us which forms itself into whatever he wants it to be - sort of. once they're not around to interfere.
    alone.
    he is really always here everywhere he is. what he chooses to revel to anyone may be different from what it is.
    invent it oneself.
    are all the islands we live on the same island? the core of reality?
    on his island there isn't much to talk about unless someone else has something to say. there's not much to do or to think about either.
    on his island everything pretty much just is. is as it is. is as it was. is as it will be. is as one wants it to be.
    there's lots to scream and shout about on his island. if there isn't, one can feel free to scream and shout anyway.
    there's plenty to throw around and kick and smash too. if there isn't he'll find something down in the basement or up in the attic. if that is what one wants to do.
    as long as that is what one wants to do.
    but he only asks on thing in return and that is that one smiles and laughs when one is done. and why shouldn't one if one is doing what makes one happy? and if it's not what makes one happy, then why do it?
    the real thing. no imitation shit on his island, baby. and if he can find it then so can anybody.
    howling wild outside.

    what comes and goes around around. this is it. he divides himself from them so he can write this to them in his own space - from his own time.
    he devotes himself to himself just like everyone else to themselves.

    time and time again. this is what he does for them - what he gets paid by them to do.
    he tries to cut through all the shit - but what is shit and what is not shit?
    maybe not.
    he doesn't know.
    this is what he does and it would seem to be useless to them in the great schemes of conquest they plan among themselves. they have no use for some guy who hangs around in cafes all day and scribbles in notebooks. and he has no use for them.
    what are we fighting about again? he forgets. he's forgotten. he has failed.
    buy a loaf of bread.

    dribble out his leaky mind like some container of toxic waste somewhere. that's about what it is.
    brain dead.
    dead brain.
    dada.
    hi-ho.

    this.
    that.
    and just wondering maybe. haven't got a clue. continue the investigation without him. just sitting here picking his nose trying to decide whether he's hungry enough to order something to eat.

    some time to come.
    some time ago.
    rest.
    falling away.

    and he imagines.
    magick. out of the forest. juggling elements. fire. twisted knots. alive.
    and he becomes what he has become and what he became. no more yesterdays. no more tomorrows. fuel for the fire. ashes. all fall down.
    he wants to cast a spell.
    no.
    he wants to break a spell. a kiss. a magick kiss. awaken. love. mystery. wonder.
    and when he's dead and gone. and when he's alive and well. and when he's neither this nor that.
    come on.
    such a joy.
    hello?
    anybody home?

    again. calling out the names. calling in the names. calling up the names. calling down the names.
    again.
    chanting in silence.
    screaming without sound. not even the slightest whisper. barely a breath.
    again.
    and the storm rages on around him. within him. he is mad with delight of it. to be what we are becoming.
    he is not alone. he is with the others even if they are not with him. he has found his way to them though they may never see him. there are others of him too. we have them surrounded. he can see the others of his kind as they see him. there are quite many of us and he sees more every day. new ones.
    we smile to one another. does anyone see us? do they notice us among them? how can they not? but maybe they don't. we are not like anyone though we can be anyone. there isn't any one thing that sets us apart. no particular distinguishing characteristic except we are who we are. we know this. we can be anyone. we could be one of them. it might even be that he is not one of us. he doesn't know. does anyone?

    and dada. dog. cat. mouse. house. shoe.
    become.

    there is no sense. especially this thing known as supposed common sense.
    and he's been here.
    and he's written this before.
    and he's written all he can write. he has nothing to new add. even stating that he has nothing new to add is not new. and he adds that more driveling inane nonsense about nothing new to write.
    a fool. not even a fool. non-entity. non-being. except empty shells of words. his existence left imprinted with these marks of ink from his living hand. more more - no less.
    and what he can make these marks describe to someone else.
    why?
    why is so bothered by it? why is he so concerned with leaving this for anyone?
    this time that passes and is gone and takes him with it. away from the others.
    does anyone hold this book? do they touch it and turn the pages reading? perhaps only glancing at what's written.
    another notebook among the others he's left behind - among all those left by others. millions.
    can one read them all, each clamoring to be read? each in their own silent way.
    and his. why pick up his? who is he? think. who is anyone? think again.

    a death.
    another death. all his life is is another death. another life ended. how much more? how much should it have been less? should it have been at all? should any life have been at all?
    we worship life because we are alive. we live. we exist - are aware of our existence. or are we?
    death.
    what we leave behind. how those who are alive are aware of our having existed. again - why?
    this is nothing.
    awareness. awareness of what? what are we aware of? ourselves? each other?
    dada.

    a word that spills into another until the last word he ever writes.
    what?
    fuck.
    nevermind.

    12/24
    38/2 and 38/3 are missing. can anyone put those pieces together? all places at once. it seems like nothing.
    and he cannot speak. and he cannot move. does anyone know what that means? are they only words he's written down? can anyone speak? can anyone move? many times when one thinks one can and one may even be doing so but one can't and/or is not.
    voices. actions.
    he can smoke another cigarette. he can drink more coffee.
    how to put it down. how to comprehend it in a totally incomprehensible fashion.

    there's this other story. in this story there this dude named, telephone. there is also this dude named, automobile.
    and now he's forgotten why he was writing this story.
    dada.
    not dada. this is not dada. he has no understanding of what dada may or may not be. it's some sort of art or anti-art developed after the first world war. it means little or nothing to anyone now. except people like the punks or somebody.

    oklahoma.

    uptime and downtime.
    to describe what is and what is not described. to describe through description. the description itself being that which is described. and the description is applied to anything - or the action of the description.
    a spaceship. a surfboard. a teacup. a spoon. a rug. an ashtray.
    it is not always what is described that tells the tale but how it is described. but not always that either.
    what is reveled? what is kept hidden?
    it is not always what is reveled that leads to understanding but realizing what is kept hidden.
    out of his hat.

    a dark and stormy night. another cigarette.
    where did he leave it? where did he leave it hanging somewhere back when? what flow of thought or non-thought did he leave unfinished? what is anyone waiting for him to write out here? drop the other shoe.
    will he finish?
    will he make an end?
    when will this come together into a complete clear concise big picture of whatever the fuck he's going on and on about? what if it doesn't? will it just be something else forgotten?
    must do have nothing if go what even though then do it this for not need maybe it's only delusional perhaps in some at all to write some meaning may have some imagining delirium maybe a description not answers for someone state of a bunch of dada not even questions need to think which shouldn't just trying the core sympathy of things to the gist either to to both anyone else it's not described how do inclination have the time just happen can think of endless process whatever any which way else is up or not.
    get it?
    cut down the poor defenseless trees and grind them up to provide him with paper to scribble on with ink made of who knows what sort of toxic substance in a pen made from some petrol stuff that they're fighting their idiot war over.
    desert.
    wilderness.
    and so leave it. go. there's more of them who will come by this way. there's always more. or maybe not.
    it just crumbles into so much dust.
    countdown. is this a test?
    let's just forget it. begin it one more time again now and forevermore.
    do we remember who we are? and what good is remembering if what is remembered awakens fear and hatred of each other?
    so how do we forget?
    do we want to? we constantly spend time and energy reminding ourselves of who we are - who we are as someone the same as some and different from others. bonded to one and opposed to the other.
    which is which?
    and what measurement scale are we using that makes it such that those things are so important?
    and a time that comes and goes. those he loves and those he hates. how much he is reminded to love those he loves and hate those he hates.

    it's all zero.
    thermodynamic entrophic bullshit dada on the head of an imaginary pin spinning in space/time.
    and what exists.
    and what of it?
    it?
    it.
    nothing but it as far as he can perceive.
give up.
    it's got us surrounded and infiltrated before we know it.
    what?
    ha!
    yeah - dig it...