believing in some form of obscure doubt that swims through the liquid mind loosely held in hand for a given moment before one is abandoned.
    out of time and place in a city that will not be remembered for anything worth mentioning sitting in a cafe scribbling words on notebook pages. every so often someone he knows well enough comes and sits at his table. a sporadic conversation of phrases. ritual formula. a cadence and rhythm with measured silences between. not too long. not too short. they come and go as do these who come to sit with him visiting awhile while he is here.
    there are things to do today. there are things to do every day. some are the same things repeated day after day. some are different one time only things. and there's always this sitting here writing and the coffee and cigarettes business.
    others have suggested that he write something to be published. clean it up and organize it. write a story. to him there is no reason to do so neither for himself nor for anyone else.
    the world continues as it has continued and will continue even if it turns into a lifeless rock. for all the changes that have occurred the world remains fundamentally unchanged. one may either opt in or opt out. the world is an ocean. we carry the ocean within ourselves. we are buckets of water carried around awhile until we are spilled and the water returns to the ocean once more.
    and to watch the armies of the various peoples of the earth and the nations of the world raise their flags and banners and march about shouting and shooting at one another makes him shake his head and laugh. and to see himself sitting in a cafe and madly scribbling in notebooks and barely moving otherwise makes him laugh all the more.
    should one write a new philosophy which is merely a reworded composite of previous philosophies which themselves are reworded composites of previous philosophies back to the campfires burning in the darkest hour before the dawn? a philosophy garnished with quotable slogans that can be written on placards or spray painted on walls and used in the hit and run attacks against the old guard which once was the vanguard. should one invent dada or situationist movements to confuse the masses? should one whore oneself to one more fly by night tent show revolution that camps itself outside the city gates where the ground is worn and dusty from so many others who have camped there before? even if one could potentially do such a thing - if one mastered the tricks of the trade to put on some believable show of inspiration, should one do it?
    a question that doesn't matter either way how it is answered.

    becoming of being through this haze of burning light. the armor melts and loosens and drops to the ground. one's nakedness is raked raw with metaphorical agony. does one feel it? where are the signs? where are the symptoms? and one has a disease that cannot be named but is universally recognized by others and one is avoided and left to one's own resources alone. one is insane.
    and it is there that one finds oneself. it is there in that isolation that the process of realization and enlightenment occurs. away from and without the others one is no more hampered and burdened by their limitations. one is no more distracted by their endless petty concerns as to who is the more beautiful, intelligent, rich, popular, compassionate, reasonable, just, etc. one is free to see oneself in one's own pure reflection without the layers of images the others manufacture and worship. and one turns to the others and looks upon them and sees them as they are as these weak and helpless things who cling to one another in the dark forbidden worlds of fear and desire. they are slaves to the group. they are copies of one another with little originality and individuality.

    and the monkeys sit on the mountain with their eyes closed and fixed upon an inner reality of nothing.
    there isn't much to write about, he thinks. there is no one to write it to. who is reading this? who wants to know? who wants to know what? everyone is as happy as pie with how everything is. or at least happy with the acceptance that there is no happiness in anything.
    and he is the same. just another human lost in the human race with the rest. he may think of himself as separate and distinct but he is not. he is subject to the same foolishness as are the others.
    yet there are those who will believe this of him but not of themselves. these do believe themselves as separate and distinct such that they are above the common crowd due to some ascribed or acquired quality or another and the believe that they are fated to serve in positions of power and authority over others to guide them and protect them for their own good. but who is it that one might need protection from but these people themselves? and who might guide one from them but oneself?
    this is the dilemma. this is the conflict and struggle. one does not wish to be as these are. one does not wish to be above anyone else by virtue of birth or fate. one does not desire a position of power and authority even if such a position was available and attainable. yet this leaves that position open to the others who do seek it for themselves who do not realize that it is not the person in that position but the very position itself that is destructive. they see that the imposition of what values and ideals they hold is not as abusive as values and ideals imposed by others who oppose them. they have the truth and they believe the truth will always set others free if only they can be made to listen to it and live by it. believing this they feel that they have the right and even the duty to seek positions of power and authority over others. and toward that end any means necessary are right and justified in gaining them and keeping them.
    so how does one prevent this from happening?
    he sits in a cafe and writes in notebooks.
    this is his political act.
    he lights another cigarette.

    green flames of doo-dah licking his nose as he leapt out the window and fell falling. and this occurred at 2:57 on a hazy summer afternoon in the city. as he was falling he had just enough time to suddenly become hyper-aware of where he was and what he had done and that there was no possibility of changing it or rectifying it and that he was going to die. death here was not an abstract topic of philosophical discussion he had participated in discussing before usually late at night. it was real and as solid as the concrete sidewalk he was about to impact with a good deal of velocity and force. and after this instant clarity of realization of every detail of his circumstances he was most struck by the fact that he had absolutely no idea why he had leaped out the window to begin with except a memory of watching himself do it. it was as if he had been picked up and tossed out by a giant invisible hand.
    but there were the green flames of doo-wah tickling his nose. he did not know what that was. it was a sensation he'd never experienced before and when he thought of it... splat!
    and he sits in the cafe and wonders why he would write something like that happening to someone. is he that cruel? does he get off on having the power over some character he made up? why not write something pleasant and nice?

    because here he is and this is what is. there is nothing he sees that is pleasant and nice. he sees people living in some delusional bubble of pleasant and nice in total denial of the world around them. and what is not pleasant and nice in the world can be directly traced back to their delusion and denial.
    life is a balance of this and that and there are those who decide that this is better than that or that is better than this and they attempt to isolate either/or which they feel is better and keep it for themselves. this leaves everyone else with what these people have determined is the worst part of the deal. but in the end neither end up with diddly squat of nothing. this and that can only be enjoyed in relationship with one another in the balance that is their nature. but this is a concept that seems to be far and away beyond their being able to comprehend it.
    and then there was this story he was writing or will be writing once. something about aliens invading earth to grab all the rutabagas under the guise of killing all the chickens or something. and buzz zip was the hero of a thousand worlds who was trying to stop them and maybe about his girlfriend and her weird parents who were either part of or dupes of the alien conspiracy - like there's a difference between the two when there's a conspiracy involved.
    but he had forgotten all about that.
    maybe buzz zip was the one who jumped out the window?

    as the beast is worshipped and serveded by the whore and all else is abandoned. as the noise of the world increases.
    it's a joke. but there is no humor involved. it is a joke in all deadly seriousness. and it is not the dictatorial leader with ravishing army. it is the smothering arms of love and compassion. one is encouraged to be weak and to be sick. one is encouraged to die. it is in the name of love and compassion that everything one values is taken away and one is broken.
    and jesus can walk on water turned to wine and calm all the seas of the world while healing the sick and raising the dead and overturning the tables in every temple. every word of his coming could be 100% true and real and it would change nothing. it is not because of the lack of a merciful god in heaven who works its will on earth that he has no faith. it is not that which he has faith in. he does not have faith that any of that even in its fullest extent would amount to squat. it is not the artist but the material that the artist has to work with. shit is shit whether it is worked into a masterpiece of sculpture by the most talented hands ever to exist. and what does a god have to work with but its own shit? what else exists?
    he believes with all his doubt in the god gone mad playing with its own shit trying to create a paradise for itself. how can this god lift any of its creatures to a place it itself cannot attain? if any of this business is about anything it is about us saving god from the terror and anguish of hell, not it saving us. we need only beware in any attempt we might make not to allow this god from dragging us into its own hell along with it with its bright and glittering words of promises it has yet to have proven in realtime it might be able to fulfill and keep. but so many of us have fallen victim to just that - both of those who believe and who do not believe with each believing that those are the only two options.
    one starts with the idea that one is doing ok - even maybe better than ok. there can be joy. and that not wealth nor poverty nor health nor sickness nor life nor death nor salvation nor damnation alters that in any degree whichever way any of those might go. and that this state is not dependent on any action one may or may not take. it is not worsened nor bettered by correct or incorrect or moral or immoral behavior. this all unless one allows any of that to affect and change that idea that one is doing ok. if one allows that then one is lost and then one is subject to the whims of god or some other external controlling entity or force. and there are many that lie in wait, luring and tempting. they call to one saying, you are in hell and will continue to be in hell and end up in even worse hell forever unless you do these few little things we tell you. then and only then will you achieve and enter paradise.
    and those few little things one has been convinced one must do become more and more few little things. and one is no closer to paradise. and one is no longer ok but is struggling to get out of the hell one is now convinced that one is in.
    that is the first step. if one wishes to control another one must convince the other that the other is in a state of suffering and that one possesses the only way out for the other. if the other is not convinced of that they are suffering then there is no reason for them to follow any of the instructions one gives them. and that is the point in any game of heaven and hell. it is not salvation of damnation but control. one can never fully save or damn the other otherwise one loses control. control over the other is gained and maintained by playing the promise of one against the threat of the other.
    and this game is played even in situations where those specific terms are not used. many believe that because they have escaped the language of religious control that they have also escaped the operations of religious control. this is not about religion. or not just about religion. the rewards and punishments can be called anything else but they operate the same.
    or whatever.
    dada.
    dribble.
    drivel.
    bibble.
    bobble.
    pop.
    fizzzzzz...

    there is reality that is given and for the most part is beyond our control except for our ability to manipulate it along the lines of its nature for some purpose or another. this is physical reality. such would be the course and flow of a river. we are able to channel the water from the river in directions for our use. yet how we do this is determined by the unalterable qualities of the water itself. at times the river may flood and there is little we can do except get out of its way. these are acts of nature. in such situations when they go against our will we can only adopt an attitude that such is life and at times that are indiscriminate, life is not fair.
    fairness is only relevant in regard to that part of reality in which we have a certain measure of control and can determine events and actions and situations according to our will. this is human social reality. it is that which is determined and governed by ourselves and not by nature - except for our own nature. as such a court of law is not from nature. it does not exist in nature but only in our imaginations. its actions are not governed by nature or natural law or by its natural qualities since it has none. its actions are our actions. the same attitude of resignation about its lack of fairness that we need to adapt for natural occurrences beyond our control is not applicable and irrelevant. it exists entirely artificially. its limits and boundaries and qualities are of our own making. it is not given from outside our control. there is nothing that supports its existence except our belief in it. we cannot say that the law is unfair because of its nature like we can a hurricane. a hurricane is not our creation. a court of law is. if the court of law or any other human imaginary invention is unfair it is because we ourselves are unfair. and to who are we unfair to but ourselves?
    huh?

    but with that stated as written he is still not left with anything. he is unsure what he was expecting to be left with. all this writing must have some purpose yet he has yet to discover what that might be. it does serve the purpose of his being able to explore through his thoughts and feelings in a more or less tangible way. but his thoughts and feelings are that all his writing is pointless. it communicates with no one but himself and even that is marginal. but he doesn't expect it to. and he doesn't feel that it should need to. it is only ramblings. if he could put his thoughts and feelings into a coherent and accessible form there still would be no need for it. what need would there be? another book to put on a shelf?
    there is nothing here that could not be found elsewhere.
    so, he wonders, why does no one get it? why do we still feel that we are in a world that is beyond our control? why would we want to be? and this is what we have chosen for ourselves. there is no one outside ourselves who has imposed this upon us. no god. no law. there is only physical nature which sometimes can smack us upside the head that we can do nothing or little about. that is all he is willing to consider being given. but even that he holds open to question. but it not need be. what does physical nature do to us really? most of its dangers can be avoided. but it does not compare to what harm we do to ourselves by our own actions.
    oh well. ho-hum.
    nevermind.

    and as another day continues out from the last along the way we perceive it to occur.
    what can be done with any of this? it is information. but information about what and to what use and toward what possibility?
    is he frightened of the possibility of it? he has been where and when it is said god resides and he has seen nothing but for an empty void save for himself and his own reflection shining back at him from his own radiant light. unless that was another. if it was another it was another as he is wandering around in the dark with a flashlight. if the other was god then that is what god is. no burning bush. no thundering voice. no parting of the heavens. none of that special effects show biz stuff intended to wow the befuddled masses. and no one saying, where were you when i created all this and that and the other thing?
    nothing like that.
    and where was he? he imagines that he was standing over god's shoulder saying, are you sure you know what you're doing?
    and that's his story about god. it's a story that if there is no god then he's making it up out of his imagination as those who have claimed to have seen god have done so before. it's a story that if there is a god then it's as true if not truer than anyone else's account of a direct experience with god. or not. he doesn't care.

    and so it goes. la-dee-da. we are dancing through it into it and out of it. we leave traces of images crisscrossing the mind and the idea of the mind. it is simple and it is complex. we survive in this world by various unknown means. mostly by pure luck. it comes together. it comes apart. it is what it is and is what it ain't.
    he returns to this. he returns to it. he returns to the mind that surveys the whole as much as might be seen in a given place at a given time through mortal eyes and to be contemplated by a mortal mind. he sees and thinks of his mortal life as a piece of the puzzle. the puzzle extends infinitely in all directions in space and time inwardly and outwardly. there is no place or time where or when it begins or ends. all beginnings and endings in space and time are marked by mortal perception.

    and with the egg mind that he had once believed was developing and growing that now he has lost faith in that happening. he saw the human race in a process of evolutionary birth but now no longer sees any indication of that. it is the continual process of self-interested greed and domination over others.

    he had thought that there was a universal fundamental evolutionary process of development working toward a world-wide uplifting of human consciousness. he saw humanity as being in an embryonic state and at some point would be born and transcend to another plane of being. this had seemed very clear to him. but of late that idea has seemed to be entirely delusional. if any part of it remained he saw that the human race would be stillborn. that there was nothing that had developed in the process that would be able to transcend the destruction of the embryonic support structure.
    this what is is all that is. what progress is made is lost to entropy and decay. it has grown into a towering tree but it is hollow inside. all that is left is the external veneer of appearance that is on the verge of collapse at the first strong wind.
    he has thought this through all he could think through searching for indications that there was some element that would pull through and survive. but he has seen nothing that is not the same as what has been.
    now he regrets having been involved in it and participating in its continuing. he did not believe in the ultimate darkness of the future. what darkness he saw was the darkness that always exists before the dawn or an approaching and passing storm. it might bring destruction but not total destruction. something always survives and maybe stronger and better for it. and toward that end he had thought to contribute.
    what he did not see was the overwhelming forces of mediocrity that devour and consume that which tries to rise above. these forces he now sees everywhere not only within the so-called mainstream but on the outskirts as well. it is human nature. it always works toward the lowest common denominator. all expression of transcendent ascending progression is subverted and suppressed. for every step forward there are 18 steps backward. these who express such progressive inclinations are singled out and isolated as abnormal deviations that are perceived and assumed to be destructive to the main body of the masses. and they are. destroy it all.
    the human race would rather crawl and only dream of flight. it is the human condition to suffer and to glorify that suffering into world-wide religions and philosophies. it has become a fixation with them.

    in the confusion of lost dreams falling untethered from the sky the flames rise in the cities as the long pent up frustration of repression explodes from the chained hearts.

    containing this solemn vowed lie the seed of discontent caught in one's throat he pauses in a moment gained from the many passing in the sleeping tide. he thinks about what he still can remember of the story. and he doubts its importance - either his remembering or the story. he may turn a few words into pretty designs some might fathom and appreciate while the hordes of others are herded this way and that way. and he tries holding this ground wherever it might be for whatever reason for no one.

    attempting to overcome that which has been set against one from the onset of one's life here on earth. there are those who speak of it as a test of one's spirit and nature. one is to look beyond the immediate experience toward that which is continuing and constant unshaken by the rising and falling of things in the world - the maya karmic dharma thing of it. if one does not then one becomes lost.
    so here we are - the lost. those who have failed the test. those who found nothing to be constant. all that is continuing continues without us. one could ask whether we have been here at all.
    yet we are alive and our eyes are open and we feel the warmth of the sun and the coldness of the rain. we have thoughts that might be confused but are as vivid as any other.
    so who is it who forgets who and who becomes lost from what? we do not forget ourselves in our own time. we are not lost from ourselves even in the deepest wilderness. how can either be so? we forget many others who pass through our lives. and many have become lost from us and do not know where or how to find us. and we can do nothing about that. we cannot save a world that does not wish to be saved and is unable or unwilling to save itself. instead it awaits a messiah whether a god from heaven or aliens from space and time or whatever else it might be. we do not know of these things and whether they exist or not is of little concern to us except as they influence those around us whose actions impact us. as one would concern oneself about the mood of the weather we concern ourselves with the mood of the population. how much has brewed into crashing storms destroying all in their path about matters of salvation?
    but we walk through it all or sometimes find shelter when we need to from the raging violent storms erupting from those around us which are as easy to see as a darkening sky.
    and he stops writing.

    a few days later he starts again.
    he pauses not knowing what to write.
    then -

    upon a discovery of angels floating between space and time in that region sometimes spoken of as the void which is just the unmanifest and imaginary where there is no limit to possibility. it is the fires of hell and the primordial chaos that gives birth to manifest forms that exist in space and time for awhile before they lose their temporal coherency and the material of their composition returns to the flames to be born again elsewhere at another time as new and different manifest forms in particular patterns of one evolving from the other.

    a brief episode and undertaking that is designed by the machine takes a walk around the block.

    he sits in the cafe. he is drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. the coffee and cigarettes are killing him. he is writing in a notebook. big surprise. the notebook is driving him crazy. he fills its blank blue-lined pages with words overflowing and spilling out from his brain. he attempts to place them in lines of phrases and sentences with some hope that he may be able to lead them to describe what is in his brain that generates and gives him the words to write down to describe it. it. that is the only word known to him in the language he is using that comes close to describing it. what is it? it is it. it is somewhat how one would say such and such is it. that car is it. that band is it. that candy bar is it. that club is it. that mountain is it. this is it. that is it. etc. it in this sense meaning the ultimate experience of something. the best. the perfect. the epitome. the exact. the most. the quintessential. etc. that which has the quality one most desires that it could attain.
    he stops and lights another cigarette.
    what has he written? he will write about something for awhile and then stop. he will then think about what he has written and why he might have written it. he will wonder about what it means or wonder about whether he was able to write down anything describing or having anything to do with meaning. probably not, he usually concludes. sometimes what he has written has some vague meaning to him. sometimes not. sometimes it is nonsense even to him, nevermind anyone else. nevermind. nevermind. nevermind. it comes and goes from and to the nevermind. what is this in his brain that generates words he feels compelled to write down? often what he writes is primarily concerned with this question. it is in a constant state of analyzing itself.
    his writing has a tendency to spiral in on itself. it is obsessed with the internal. he feels that nothing can be understood without understanding that which understands. the self or some such.
    but it goes nowhere.
    the self gazing at the self eventually disappears. is that the object? is that the point? some who are metaphysically bent would say, yes. the disappearance of the self is the goal.
    he has been at that point of disappearing many times and he has not. or has he? has he failed? is this a test? a test of what? has he turned away from it because he is afraid? there is fear. the natural fear of disappearing - or death - felt by any organism. the fear of annihilation and oblivion. the fear of ceasing to exist. and all that.
    yet there is the lure of that. there is the contemplation of what that experience is. there is as much temptation as fear. even the fear is not exactly fear but the dilemma involved. how does one experience not experiencing? who is to say that the experience of not experiencing is not experienced? is it the point of god? what of god when there is nothing to experience? what of that point when there is no creation?
    oh well. he'll find out eventually, he supposes. or not. meanwhile he hangs out experiencing experiencing while he can - while it is happening. he finds that when he begins to feel that it has just about run its course it takes a new twist and turn reveling some aspect he has not experienced before. the fact that it can run out and end only heightens it. it is here and now and he is here and now with it. the other will be here and now when it comes and when it is it will be what it is and he will be what he is with it.
    this is all something that amazes him. thinking of it and all the possibilities of it - and the impossibilities of it - extends his mind out as far as it can reach. nothing else does that. and nothing else is as satisfying - though ultimately it is frustrating. but it is to be up against that frustration that is what is satisfying.  paradoxes and contradictions exist everywhere. what is not a paradox at some point? what does not contradict itself eventually? that is the substance of existence. that there is something when there should be nothing is the prime and all-encompassing paradox and contradiction. he feels sorry for those who need simple answers that mask that which they are unable to tolerate contemplating. those who place god before it. there may or may not be god. he is not concerned with that. if there is a god though, he wonders what the fuck is up with it. what was it doing before creation? what was it doing before space and time? if there is a god is it really as stupid as people who believe in it make it out to be?
    but whatever.
    he enjoys simplicity in his life to a certain extent. he tries to maintain himself with those things that he needs to survive and be reasonable comfortable. this is so he'll be free to explore these other areas that he does. it is in the realm of these other areas that he does not wish to be restricted either by others or himself nor by any boundaries. but these always exist. this is the frustration.
    bound by body and idiot mind ensnared in a web of the physical material world. a prisoner of forces that use him to empower themselves. without him, what are they? without him do they even exist? and if they do exist, of what matter is their existence?
    to what use and purpose is all their schemes and plotting and wars with one another? what is gained or lost? everything still exists the same with or without them.
    he lights another cigarette.
    there is so much to forget...

    so where does one such as himself come from? from what does he arise into form and consciousness?
    is it some random freak occurrence out of the general mix that usually produces the obedient masses in their marching and chanting hordes?
    this singular error that must be rejected if the system is the perpetuate itself along its lowest common denominator monotone path being no more than a giant reptile crawling through the swamps of mediocrity. this sluggish beast capable of no higher thought than reaction to stimulus. these frightened apes wandering lost in the darkness of their own minds clinging desperately to one another.
    why does he hate them so? why do they hate him? he at least is aware of his hatred. they are not. it is distributed among them. each one has a small part in its total whole that they are unaware of it. it fits neatly into their everyday routine. yet the combined impact is the same as if any one of them acted alone and beat him to the ground with a club. but instead they smile and go about their stupid happy lives in ignorant innocence. none of them can be placed at the scene of the crime. the scene of the crime is everywhere. but there is no crime. the group automatically and without thought acts against the individual. it is not something that the group is formed to set out to do. it is something done by the group in the act of its formation itself whatever other reason for its formation might be given. the group can only exist if and when the individual is eliminated or at least subordinated.
    he lights another cigarette.

    he is dreaming, or so they say. they've been saying this about him the whole while.
    a dream is a dream. they do not dream? they do not make up an illusion of reality as they go along?
    and he writes about what he writes about without any idea of change or even the need for change. what would it be changed to? but if the others could admit to themselves the actuality of what they do instead of hiding it to themselves pretending it's something else. but that is a dream he dreams. without the support of their illusions they could not function. their minds would disintegrate into a blizzard of chaos.

    1/23
    the fragments of existence - or actually the fragments of our perception of existence. but can he say "our"? who is we? he is i am i. he is in fragments of the perception of his existence.
    dada.
    nevermind.
    which comes first, perception or experience?
    are there aliens from another spacetime? are they watching us?
    when he sleeps he does not think. when he thinks he does not sleep.

    it rains on the island. he stands out on the porch of the house looking out toward the beach. thing comes and stands next to him.
    thing: it's been a long time.
    him: a long time since when?
    thing: since this began.
    him: when did it begin?
    thing: when we met.
    him: was that the beginning?
    thing: it was a beginning.
    him: i suppose. it doesn't matter. nothing comes of it.
    thing: was something supposed to come of it?
    him: no. it was a fantasy. it still is a fantasy.
    thing: is that bad?
    him: it is meaningless. it accomplishes nothing.
    thing: but it exists.
    him: it exists nowhere.
    thing: but you're in it, as am i. we are aware of it and ourselves in it.
    he puts out his cigarette and walks away.

    one functions as one functions.
    one develops a certain philosophy.
    one enters one's own madness.
    one finds oneself shattered.
    a hand reaches out and one wonders if it one's own as it clasps itself around one's throat and its grip tightens.

    and he sits in the cafe still drinking coffee still and smoking cigarettes still and still scribbling out words in a notebook from his mind gone mad. his god is mad. the universe is a creation of madness that continues forever. and the others are in love with it. they cannot get enough. they are on their knees begging for more. and it delivers.
    or should he be writing a romance? beautiful people having wonderful sex with one another after triumphing over any and all obstacles set before them. and they are bound by undying devotion and dedication to one another. and anyone who does not fit this description is cast out and down into the depths of oblivion.
    the dreams we dream and have dreamed forever. and the stories about these dreams we tell one another forever. waves across the surface of the sea. we are born into this. we swim for awhile and then we drown.
    and we dig through the rubble of the past cities. and we read the ancient texts. are there secrets that once were known? secrets that will give us power? the power that we are slaves to. and those who have the most power are the most enslaved.
    and whatever. la-dee-dada-doo. billions of monkeys in a great big zoo.
    arf arf.

    the anti-self sits at the table quite smugly smiling at him writing his usual nonsense that he has been rather lax about lately while some guy plays bad jazz on the radio all here in the lowest common denominator world.
    rules are rules and nothing can be proven without a big stick.

    he thinks of having fallen from a thousand skies of heaven to this world that has forgotten its name. he thinks about what is forbidden.
    he thinks about the concept of the misuse of power. is there a use of power that is not misuse? if the definition of power is the ability to get another to do what one wants by any means, how is that ability to be anything other than misused? is there any goal that justifies assuming control over another's actions and behavior? he thinks not. but this is not against the use of power exactly - or the misuse even. it is against the belief on the part of those who use power that their use of the ability to get others to do what they want by any means is not misuse of power. it against them not acknowledging that they are misusing power. it is against them disguising that misuse behind words such as the common good. it is against every lie they breathe.

    and it clears itself out from some time to some other time because it is possible to describe it doing so. but the description means nothing. it's just a waste of time.
    but neverminding that what is important is it itself. it sits in a cafe writing. it is the experience of this. it is here thinking of itself while it writes. some busy-minded children sit at the next table jabbering. a man jabbers on the radio. time goes by and it continues writing.

    to state or not state what is this or what is that. sometimes - often - it is the anarchists who are the worst of the fascists.
    punctuation lies to itself in pain. there is a play probably being performed somewhere at the moment. and also there are people who are fucking. we are the gods of this shit hole. we sit and pinch loaves for the masses. to think of these things is nothing. we are not much of anything. we are in disguise as ourselves. who gave us our names? who called us into this world? we observe the master magicians and we laugh. is that all they can do? this is their paradise of desire? is this all they want from us - to perform circus tricks?
    he sits in the labyrinth. he sits on the island. he waits. no one recognizes him. they all walk by. even the ones who sit awhile at his table and talk with him do not recognize him. who is he? he is no one. just another schmuck. not even someone who is just another schmuck.
    he lights another cigarette.

    but what is this doo-wah-dada-ditty-doo-doo-doobie-doo-la-la-la? it is a waste of time and paper. all those trees dying for nothing.
    jesus is boring. what does he do but promise salvation? we can do that ourselves. hell is a state of mind. does he play guitar in a band? does he sing? does he dance?
    it begins and ends at the same moment, in the same word that exhales and inhales again. he sits here in this cafe at that same moment. he is living. he lights another cigarette. the cigarettes are killing him. no. that's not right. he is killing himself with cigarettes. soon sometime he will no longer be here having to listen to bad jazz on the radio and these children who jabber on about school and their parents and being raped and suicide attempts.
    and so he is sitting here as he has been sitting here as he will be sitting here until he is no longer sitting here as once before he wasn't sitting here. it is a moment. it might as well be eternity. eternity is experienced in the moment.
    whatever happens is whatever happens. does jesus tap dance? does jesus pick his nose? does jesus hula hoop?

    serial. the poet blows his nose. the poet eats a bagel. juxtaposition. the poet flirts with a young street kid.
    spoon. the poet makes a telephone call to a random number picked from the phone book and asks if jack is there. most of the time there is no jack and he is told he has the wrong number. yeah, well, fuck jack, he says and hangs up. if there is a jack and jack is put on the phone or if it's jack who answers the phone the poet tells jack, fuck you. the poet hates anyone who goes by the name jack. who do they think they are?
    he is tired and bored. it all seems entirely pointless and stupid. he writes on and on about whatever and nothing. is it art? what a sorry state we have fallen into if it is.

    divided from what is and what is not into this realm of possibility. one cannot decide what one wants and doesn't want. except one wants sleep. being awake is a struggle of thought and action from bright flames into cold ashes. expanding into nothingness.

11/30/88
    yeah - and all the things that once were and still are in their own way.
    the time becoming as one moment now in an eternal flash bang thing into two and more - and more.
    one.
    two.
    three.
    hold on, there's still more - a lot more...

    something more than what is offered. a mix of what is offered into a whole which is more than the sum of its parts.

    he spent most of his life trapped into the daydream of self-perpetuating fantasy.
    or whatever.
    he was lost in endless reflections of himself. himself. himself.

    the it of it.
    the dancing waves of it moving and grooving over and under and through the world.
    not a word is spoken without it being expressed.

    sitting in a distant light in the vibratory cold. how much must pass through his mind before he realizes who he is?
    licking the hand that feeds the drug.

    and he was dreaming.
    he was told not to dream, but he did anyway.
    as he dreams, he remembers.
    and what does one want? what possible use is he to anyone? or should he leave?
    should he leave this mad world where everything is geared to some sort of idea of normal perfection - the middle ground of not one thing nor the other?
    and he was dreaming.
    this world is a dream we dream.

    in and out of the structure beginning and ending once again.
    and somewhere he saw himself in a mirror staring at the image of his existence. the image generated from within and seen from without.
    humble mindlessness exploding with a divine spark of inspiration. a useless point to be taken. one eye closed. rhythm without harmony.
    look at it again.

    turning with the inside going out to the inside again. laughing all the way. no one quite gets the joke or whatever it was once now and again.
    now and again.
    here he is - now and again.

    and it is impossible to explain anything in a way in which it needs to be explained.
    we are moving into a new world which is nothing but the same old world transformed by our awaken perception as to what it really is.
    what it really is is what we want it to be. this is not a new power but a power we have always had - not latent but active.
    we make the world what it is. is it what we want it to be?

    12/2
    the supposed rhythm of time.
    8 million years.
    and the noise of lawn mowers eating away at the brain.
    time out of rhythm into its own everflowing being that we divide into bits and pieces we think we can understand. yet so much is missing.
    so much is missing from our big picture. our big picture isn't big enough - or small enough.

    and the little tick-tock room. with diamond eyes watching every move. we see nothing but what we find to be unusual. this is our perception of things we see, and the events of things.
    cracking our heads wide open. our hands can't feel to grip. we slip away into a different understanding.
    there is nothing here more than what it is. yet we do not see what it is.
    what is it?

    calling upon the names of reason, rationality and logic. preset understanding and resulting knowledge.
    lose control. not in fear but in joy.
    lose control.
    forget our sense of what should be and what should not.
    in losing control we gain control from the individual to the whole. the more each of us tries to hold on the more the others of us have to let go. we cannot have it all each and of ourselves but we can have it all as all of ourselves.
    if everyone takes, no one can give. if everyone gives, everyone can take.
    we can have more than we could hope for or even imagine if we gave it to each other.
    if we allowed ourselves to give it to each other.

    dreaming of tomorrow.
    dreaming of today.
    dreaming of now.
    dream.
    dream.
    dream.
    dream images of god as of ourselves dreaming.
    this is what we want.
    this is how we want it.

    the clear image.
    remembering god.
    remembering ourselves.
    we are someone we used to know quite well.
    someone to be someone else turning away and back again.
    remembering.
    a voice calling a name we had forgotten.
    our name.
    our voice.

    into the forest of the city alive with something within us wanting to scream out to the ghosts in the shadows.
    waiting.
    haunting.
    the moment comes and goes as it is. changing without ever changing.

    if he could only move himself to another place so he could step into where he is now as he is not here now really.
    he has been moving toward himself all his life and never quite reaching the point where he is - the point of no return.

    leaving what is to be left behind. taking what is to be gained.
    there is a straight and narrow path. but not straight in the sense that it is always the same. it is not narrow in the sense that it denies possibility.
    it is a path of forks.

    12/3
    where nothing much is explored.
    where we do not go - we cannot think - we cannot speak.
    cold winds blow.
    and bullshit like that.

    and what?
    is this the confused mind - or is the surrounding environment confused?

    bring out the light. letting it shine in this dark world. darkened by ignorance.
    that's what everybody says to justify their own ignorance.

    12/4
    playing the part of the grand fool who plays the part of the grand fool.
    and yes, isn't everybody else so goddamn perfect. their ideal lives are so together.
    yet if one talks to them quite honestly they'll tell one that they are confused too.
    and so they cover up their confusion with this social dada - don't do this and don't do that. and it all works perfectly fine until someone gets out of line and begins acting in a manner they are afraid of because it reminds them that they are all mixed up and then they gotta go do something about this person before maybe this catches on like a fire burning down a house. the houses in all the pretty rows of streets with their mowed lawns. control. control. control. little umbrellas as it pours down rain over their heads. they maintain their perfect psychotic calm through all kinds of weather that comes and goes keeping their rationality hats firm on their tight little heads in shoe boxes in a closet. nothing random here. keep it vacuumed up every day - dusted and waxed.

    at some point of no return. at some point when we were talking about the weather or some other odd topic firmly within the bounds of polite conversation. cars. football games. tv shows. clothes. somebody's drunken husband.
    that's when it will happen. some moment when everything seems perfectly normal.
    or maybe not. or maybe it's only the noise his mind makes as it splinters to pieces.

    being of true mind and true heart. ha! as if there were such a thing.
    who is he trying to kid? he's just some fucked up insane idiot chasing himself around in circles. why should anyone believe him? he doesn't even believe himself.
    coming from nothing - going nowhere. ain't making it in this world or any other.

    all the people who have given up and settled for these safe confined little lives of theirs that they are now trapped into.
    and don't let anyone tell them nothing else about anything and then some. just the same smile every day everywhere they go.
    happy acting robots. happy. happy. happy.

    a simple thing.
    a place.
    a time.
    a word.
    our words are misspoken - out of place - out of time.
    our faces twisted against one another.

    he is not a prophet.
    he is not a philosopher.
    he is not a psychologist or a sociologist.
    he is not a poet.
    he is not anything or anyone.
    but he does feel the pain and suffering of our actions toward one another.
    how does it stop?

    this is not the truth. this is not lies. this is not anything but what one wants it to be.
    what does one want it to be? what does one want anything to be?
    yeah - we've all seen where this is at and where it goes. nowhere. nowhere at all.
    we maintain this certain reality out of our fear of anything different.

    and later upon that night -
    that monopoly who always know who's who and what's what and which is the coolest.
    and his love is denied no matter what happens. no matter what anyone thinks that is the one constant in all this confusion.
    everyone is cold no matter what their religion, politics, lifestyle, social status, sexual preference, shoe size...
    everyone is cold.

    he is himself. he goes out from here though it doesn't go very far.
    it doesn't take much before he hits a wall. then he has to retreat back into himself. then they point their fingers at him and say how self-centered he's being.
    he wants to be able to give himself out to whoever but he won't do the things they want him to do. he won't participate in their hate and fear and death rituals.
    he won't do it.
    he is trying to find ways to unlock doors - to take down the walls.
    that is the purpose of every breath he takes. all that is denied as his breath is smothered.
    to them love is a piece of paper contract - a bird in the hand - money in the bank.
    they feel nothing. they express nothing.
    it's all cash on delivery.
    it's the sales pitch.

    and what turns it around? and what becomes real in all this madness? and who is who and what is what?
    how the spoils of war are divided. all the broken hearts.
    and how one exists in the world. how one survives in a world where survival is the only thing that matters.
    how everything dies. how it is murdered in its sleep.

    and how dare they say to us not to be who we are. their twisted paranoid fantasies about who we are.
    fuck them.
    kill them dead and bury them in one unmarked mass grave and piss on it and dance away.
    dance away back to the life we would have lived if not for their dead end minds and their lock box hearts and their freeze-dried souls. and the rigid structures that they created - if create is actually the word to be used here.
    this is not a world they have created but a world they are in the process of destroying. they control everything out of their fear of everything. they control us out of their fear of us.
    their fear of us? how could they fear us? why do they fear us? why do they fear anyone? anything?
    all their religion, politics, culture is based on fear. fear runs through everything they think, say and do.
    and how did we become part of what they fear?
    they are the ones to be feared if anyone is to be feared.
    we exist in the shadows of their heads. the shadows they create with their walls. walls of fear.
    we had their walls in our heads too. until we saw that we were able to pass through them because they weren't based on anything real but fear. we were not afraid.
    so why do they act like those walls are real?

    and he was going to write something about deadpan megalomania or something about how he feels like he's dylan's mr. jones - there something going on here but he doesn't know what it is.
    he senses it. sometimes he can detect it. but what size, shape, direction, location it is completely eludes him.
    the bizarre truth amid the reasonable logical lies. something cracks down. something lies wounded on the floor of the temple. on main street. no one knows what it is.

    12/5
    trying to think it out.
    trying to feel it out.
    trying to put together what is wrong.

    the television picture is flipping. the holograms are out of synch.
    one's face as a child in wonder. one's parents scolding. what do we do now?
    the band is out of tune. the pa is whistling a different key.

    down in front.
    down in the ice.
    down on one's face.
    perfectly legal.
    what does it mean?
    hereafter.

    in the hereafter. but what is not the hereafter but now?
    now.
    as it is and will be.

    strange tune.
    bizarre obedience.
    not to be.
    not true.
    one's face in a thousand dreams all at once upon a time.
    we were becoming one. we were flowing into the same stream. we were flying.
    remember that.

    and now we are where we imagined ourselves we would be - limitless and free - desperately in need in need of some stranger's hand - in a desperate land.
    and the stranger is our own face. and someone is calling our name. and somebody wants our money. we write them a check and hope it will clear. we'll figure out something between now and then.

    dada dada.
    our sweet and sour dada, blow your gentle loud horn. bang your drum without a beat.
    the streets are paved with gold and covered with shit.
    dada dada.
    the most high and the most low dada, scream your name in a whisper everywhere at one time exploding into itself again and again. revel unto the bewildered masses your insights into nothingness.
    dada dada.
    our loving and dangerous dada. familiar with the strange and strange with the familiar.
    come to us.
    go without us.
    let us see your face in our own. we are crazy with your sanity.
    dada dada.
    dada dada.
    dada-doo-dippity-doo-wah-ditty-la-la-la.
    oink.

    12/6
    down from the enlightening skies. zeroed into the frame of mind needed to live in a box.
    drive the rhythm up from tapping feet. a few free thoughts blow by like newspapers on a deserted city street. glance at the headlines and write a new story.
    where does this wind come from?

    just a duck.
    another duck.
    the business people sneer at the complicated mess. won't accept any excuses.
    a violin plays on a dark and stormy night. the masses pray to their chosen idol.

    the larger than life happening of what is happening. what is happening?
    the sacrifice of the mind to the madness of understanding.
    cages of realization unlocked. yet no one ventures outside.
    outside into the open space imagination of creation.
    creation one to one in being many.

    the gates of the imaginary city open to all and only to all. no one is or can be excluded except everyone.
    the imaginary city is not some exclusive resort get-away thing. it is not heaven or hell.
    if one is seeking a place to escape anyone then one is not looking for the imaginary city.
    any other place other than the imaginary city is just another babylon. cities of walls instead of open spaces.
    the only requirement of entry is for one to give up one's fear of others. this fear alone keeps one from the imaginary city.

    12/7
    the function of being human in the created world as we know it.
    the idea of being or having been created.
    the sound of the creative word around us. the emptiness of that sound. the emptiness we fill with the noise of our existence.
    which comes first?
    which does not occur at all?

    and in these moments he has to think and write anything down to anyone. what is there he could or should write that would bridge that gap we feel between us? is there even a gap or is the gap only the space between us and an image reflected and we are the same?
    what?
    what is he writing about?

    yeah - well he's just sitting here drinking coffee - spending money he doesn't have.
    the same idiot songs on the radio.

    and all the time that is not time.
    and the struggle of birth. the birth of one world into another. is this happening or is this only a fantasy in his head?
    time will tell...

    12/8
    laughing dance rainbow god of fools eating the soles of its shoes when we were remembering nothing about what or where we were as it seemed to be passing by at that moment.
    and it means nothing.
    and nothing means nothing.
    how to communicate across this void between us. why does he have this need to do so. and to who? and he is left with the abstract image. he is empty and feels needing to be filled - or something. but doing that it seems he drains the other's energy. how can it be where we feed one another?

    scattered.
    the beast lies waiting in the broad daylight streets with banks on the corners that are pulling people in and pushing them out.
    what does it matter what his observations are or what he may or may not think they mean?
    just live.
    just go on as usual.
    just survive.

    trying to fit the pieces together. no one knows nothing but they control it through denial.
    they touch nothing.
    he touches nothing.
    he is one with them in being apart from them. he cannot let go. he is part of this world as much as he hates it.
    the waste. all the people doing nothing but keeping busy. the people who could be laughing.

    he keeps coming back to despair. he can't rid himself of it. he expects the worst. he expects nothing but pain. what else is there in the world?
    he'd like to think that he has something for someone but no one wants what he has to give - which is himself. himself beyond just another body to work in a factory. but that's all they want.

    yeah, well, sometimes it's happening and sometimes it's not. or whatever.
    and what is happening and what is not?
    the big picture and the single frame consciousness. rainbow blues smooth in one's bones making one feel like nothing matters.
    sometimes it's happening and sometimes nothing is happening at all.
    blow one's nose.
    blow one's mind.
    blow it all.
    who cares?
    what the fuck.
    join the club.
    beat somebody up who the club doesn't like and trash like that.

    crack it up and crack it down. zip feed. bring it to oneself. bring oneself to it.
    think of some more meaningless things. something about the emptiness one feels.
    is he empty or full?
    is being empty somehow being full?

    12/10
    the time of living. living in the time. the division between darkness and light. this world.
    and the question is asked, how can anyone know god in this world? yet how can anyone know anything but god in this world? what else is there?
    we created god. we created that which opposes god. god is in our mind and that which opposes god is in our mind.
    which is which?
    which do we believe?

    god - god -god.
    what is this god?
    why is it set above all else as something we cannot reach - cannot know?
    we have these momentary flashes of what passes as understanding. is it understanding? why are they momentary? why not all the time?

    just more thoughts about nothing at all. vague images turning through the mind. words cannot explain.

    this is it.
    this is the time that is always as it is now as it is always our continuing being and existence of being we go on through time.
    the everyday. the now of time experienced waiting for a future time or remembering past time.

    he wishes he could write words that would set everyone free.
    even their happiness is pain.
    a dreamtime - another time remembered or expected.
    he wishes he could write words to set himself free to set them all free.
    he wishes he could tell them how much he loves them. they can let it go. they can. he can. we can.

    and he plays the fool for them. he falls flat on his face so they will experience the delightful joy of their own laughter.
    instead they hate him and hunt him down and box him in. they must  control.

    arrgh!
    zero -
    arrgh!!
    everything -
    arrgh!!!

    dreaming of everything as god dreams of everything.
    as dreams go.
    as dreams will go.
    and then a gun. an image of a gun.
    a gun held to the head of the dreamer and in a dream the dreamer pulls the dream trigger with the dream finger and the dream bullet explodes into the dream brain.
    as the dream continues.
    as the dream will continue.
    dream.
    row row row your boat...

    the escape of flesh and the biting teeth. zero mind holding back an infinite number of possibilities always spinning.

    and how can it be true? how can anyone believe?
    and how can he be here? how can he write these words? so many doubts. listening.
    we listen.
    we stand our ground.
    we argue with ourselves. this is this and that is that.
    another place and another time it will all be different.
    just another dream.

    nothing comes but himself to himself. he is that which exists alone surrounded by meaninglessness.
    ha-ha.
    pull up a chair.
    grab a beer.
    watch the clowns.
    yes, there is not a god. and he is that god which is not. he will take the blame. he will endure the senseless suffering they inflict upon one another. he will wait for them to grow tired.
    he can wait. he has to wait. he needs to wait. his existence is love. he will wait until it is no longer denied.

    12/11
    the way people are cruel to one another playing the victim against the victim over and over. what seems right and what seems wrong. in a fantasy play act of love twisted into hate.
    over and over.
    images and reflections chasing one another up and down through the maze of mirrors and into the hall of horrors.
    over and over.

    12/15
    the points between points.
    rhythm.
    or -
    circles of thought each time not quite matching the points it hit before but following close to a pattern of sorts underneath the moon sideways.

    12/20
    into potato head with high squeaky voice look square in the eye and smell the urine in the cold room where the vacant children are electrocuted who know the night as their only friend.
    and merry christmas, mr. hoodwink and mrs. pie.
    merry christmas to you and all your kind.

    12/21
    and as to the report from the anti-central committee when it gets around to holding its first and perhaps only meeting might be something along the lines drawn on the back of an armadillo or -

    12/30
    in the sense of forgetting. in the denial of our love turning it into frustrated anger.
    the fear of the dark when -

    1/4
    and sometimes now it feels like everyone is laughing only they don't know it.
    in an instant. in less than a breath. we are gone out of ourselves and free and knowing of our real existence.
    a rock. knowledge of a rock knowing a rock. each age is a memory falling away like ice.

    all knowledge of words singing at once in our mouths. if we ever were to know how we always speak the truth.
    everyone is laughing and the memory of needing salvation is fading.
    to how many is this the cry?
    come out!
    come out!!
    come out!!!

    a rapid heartbeat harmony. a true song. a fly. a sky. bye-bye.
    so long to those we knew or thought we did or maybe we did after all.
    to those who do not call us any name. we have only a hollow shell to remind us of how their voices sounded. the waves turning the tide.
    and what was one to expect? what form was this to take? following the river. the soul is known by being who one is. one stands until one falls.
    we don't care what fate comes by us for we know the fate that befalls all fates - what a wonderful time that will be.
    yet what of now? what of this moment that is not the time that is to come? how are we to get there? from here to there which is only here again.
    it is now.
    or not.

    everything is empty as it is full - empty of all that it is not full of.
    now one.
    now the other.

    he is crying. and he is laughing at himself crying. and he is crying at himself laughing.
    around and around he goes. every day. every moment.
    people call him unstable. but his instability is balance. balance in motion. do not measure him in the moment. he will be something else in the next. yet the whole contains his being.
    and to be anything at all by being what one is.
    and whenever he thinks...

    1/5
    playing word game poetry with thoughts and ideas all at once.
    watch that flow, baby, flow.
    yet as fun as it all seems one cannot apply that logic to real life otherwise it's gutter city, baby.
    no way.
    no how.
    gotta keep the hard edge. gotta maintain distinction between this and that and the other thing.
    don't fall.
    don't even falter.
    and to be what is. and to be anywhere. and to overcome nothing as there is nothing to overcome.

    1/7 (or so)
    and when the time turns away from this into that. when everyone wears a different hat. ha-ha...
    we could be anyone we choose to be. we are anyone we choose to be.
    and when one comes to him and he forgot who he is. he remembers different worlds. he remembers the ones with the eyes staring alive and wide. he remembers his real name.

    when it comes down. like the sun coming down outta the blue sea sky. like blinding light in our minds opening doors into spaces we seem to have been before - but maybe not.
    this can be anything at all. this is anything at all.
    18 variations of the blues. up and down. in and out.

    2/9
    flashes of total ignorance. being. here. now.

    and the connection between what is. and something else.
    out of the darkness and into the light. out of the light and into the darkness. how are the two connected? are they even unconnected?
    and to see the universe divided. to set up two kingdoms against one another.
    the vanishing point where even the most extreme opposites merge into one.
    the harmony of contrast. even the harmony of disharmony.