of the poverty of wealth of the wasted time of fulfillment of the weeping and gnashing of teeth of lust and of faith of the pretty girls and boys of disease and salvation of the dead poets and research scientists of coffee and cigarettes as we sit here and try either to forget or remember ourselves looking out the window watching the people out on the street for whatever reason as it rains a little and they say it might snow. a glass of water. a book. parking meters religion. and a spoon is not a spoon. words written and all the words in the conversations around us of what may or may not be decided about even what may or may not be able to be decided. we ourselves play little part in that anymore. watching and waiting. a world wallowing in rot and decay trying to keep its head up above it. and just some guy in a cafe writing in a notebook. easily dismissed. gone. don't look back. sirens. and still the death of god thrashing beast on the floor disgusting sight. our father. all fathers. who needs them? let them wander off alone. we got what we want from them and they cause so much trouble demanding respect we don't owe them and they do not deserve. and he is mentally ill. he must remember that. and he reminds one of it now too. he cannot be trusted to be able to judge and distinguish between what is true or false and what is right or wrong like the others are able to do - like they are supposed to be able to - like they are expected to be able to if they want to enjoy the rewards of this world and avoid the punishments and if they want to function with everyone else and have them be their friends. the agreement. the surrender to agreement. all that's left unspoken. he wants to kill them. he wants to see them and their world totally forever destroyed with every breath he takes and with each beat of his heart. but that's not really all that much important too much. and everything is so mundane. concrete. and just trying to figure out some way outta this mess but for now the best we can do is just ignore it. and people who let themselves get upset over the stupidest shit. and they wanted him to be their goddamn messiah and when he wasn't then he was just so much dog shit. so he quit. he's out of it. out where they can no longer reach him. out of his mind which was never his mind to begin with but was a constructed mind designed by them to imprison him with its limited conceptual range of rationalogical thinking he's escaped from to elsewhere and no place they're concerned with or even know about except what comes to them of it in their nightmares they can't seem to be able to fathom. afraid of the deep and dark. they have no light of their own and are lost. and this is meaningless and pointless. wheels. so many of us have spoken to them of this before but they know exactly what they are doing. and who really cares if they do or not? pizza. and how about maybe something a bit more uplifting and positive here? snot. lottsa laughs and maybe whether or not we'll tell one maybe this story which part of it is about once upon a time there was this cute little bunny hopping down this trail and it came upon this other cute little bunny and the first bunny said, wanna fuck? and the other bunny says, what are we waiting for? and so they go at it right then and there. muscle. and maybe that's as far as it goes but maybe not. but what is this anyway? what is the story? what is the explanation? what is the theory? what is the cause? what is the effect? what is the cow? the reason? the monetary worth? and on and on and blah blah blah trash like that, etc. why is one reading this? is anyone reading this? should anyone be reading this? potato. brick walls. maybe too many questions. maybe not enough questions. maybe not the right questions. maybe not the wrong questions. maybe there shouldn't be any questions. how important are they? what use do they have or serve? what answers are needed or expected? what they fuck? who cares? a truck. everything is invalid. everything is bullshit - right? except of course what one thinks or believes in. and this is the story. and this is the explanation. and this is the theory. plasmaoid. treetop. doctor. cause and effect. on/off. and it doesn't matter. and the distance involved. headlights. in the next 10 years. or the next. prediction. the next 10 minutes. and nothing is reveled or resolved. nothing is real - or maybe it is. just remember. touching or not touching. staring out the window. light another cigarette. learn to forget. there is no story here as one has probably figured out. no explanation and/or theory. a field opening thing into some sort of garden that is within the imaginary city that is within the garden and the two in this sort of wrapped around sideways trip to one another around this tree that is both the tree of good and evil and the tree of life. and he is given pills to take in exchange for what they have stolen from him. he sits in cafes drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes and writing and reading and staring into space and time. and everything is forgotten but nothing is forgiven because it always continues from one time to another while he listens to the terrible music that is played on the radio or on tapes. no one can tolerate silence. it frightens them. fill it with mundane meaningless noise. chase the spirits and ghosts away. he is a ghost. he exists in this phantom zone between here and somewhere else he doesn't seem to be able to get to. eternal bliss consciousness and the difference between the rational and the irrational. the divided and the undivided. the true meanings of the words we use - as if we ever know. and one cute little bunny fucking another cute little bunny. and he thinks about going out at night with a large sharp kitchen knife on a dark street alone and stabbing someone to death just to see if he could do it. to see if he could get away with it. he owes nothing to anyone. a fork. and a spoon is not a spoon. remember that. we may remind one of this again. it's part of the theory we are telling one about. if we are telling one about anything about anything about a theory if anything we might tell one (two three four six thirteen) about the theory might be important as anything one might be thinking about how whatever it is one thinks or doesn't think about that makes one's life work or not work. babies. warm. cold. and this is only something he is scribbling down in a notebook. what does it have to do with anything? nothing is real. he sleeps in the garden. we stand on the walls of the imaginary city which is surrounded by the armies of the peoples of the earth and the nations of the world. just another story. a story that sort of explains the theory which probably doesn't need explaining because it's nothing about what one doesn't already know or hasn't been able to figure out already. if that is one knows it or has been able to figure it out already what more can ever be explained to anyone than that? and what must always at all times be remembered here if one is reading this is that it is being written by someone who is mentally ill. he nor anything he writes is not to be trusted. he is delusional. remember that. remember that one knows truth. one knows the difference between what is right and what is wrong. one is god - or whatever comes close. and the armies that surround the imaginary city fight among themselves and each other. each have come to both claim and defend the city. the city streets are deserted. we stand on the walls. he sleeps beneath the tree in the garden as he sits in the cafe writing this and talking to no one. and he is in a house on an island near the beach where he washed ashore after the ship he was on went down in a storm. he died in a flaming car wreck. he is all alone (boo-fucking-hoo). he knows nothing that anyone would want to know. he has disconnected himself from their world except for receiving monthly checks from the state some pretend to oppose but they need it as much as anybody secretly because they need to live in a zoo to rattle their cage which they love more than freedom they profess and he thinks about the psuedo-quasi-non-cause and effect dada bullshit of it all. rocking horse. deliberate irrationality. fruitcake. television. disneyland. ladders. spaceships. friends and lovers. the time of our lives in the gutter down the drain. relationship. beating a dead horse. drowning. and it is it dividing itself between this and that and the other thing. poland. social economic political religious agoraphobia. psychophobia. another cigarette. a museum. lies. people in dirty day-glo. bums. jesus. advertisements. and anything can be anything. flawed reasoning about what the theory is about or not. whatever comes and goes with whatever time is left. and this will be burned probably with all the rest. it doesn't matter. dance to it. walk along the edge and don't look down. and he's been writing this shit for 20 or more years. he burnt about half of it a few winters ago. it's nothing new. it's nothing revolutionary. nothing one can't read someplace else. why is anyone reading this anyway? it's stupid and people will think one is stupid for reading it. if it was something important one was supposed to read doesn't one think it'd be published by someone? doesn't one think that one's friends would have a copy of it to give one or one would study it in school? that's where all the important shit is. whatever. the ignorant are to be despised and cast out and kept apart from the holy learned. so what of them? to starve in the streets. to freeze in the cold. sick with disease. nothing is to be given to them and nothing is wanted from them. what crumbs from the banquet table they can exist on is plenty and all that can be afforded. but that is not the issue. that is not his concern. he has what he needs. fuck the rest. no one wants anything from him. all he has to give is these words that babble on and on and on. useless and needing not to be written. waste of paper and ink. but he writes them anyway. he gets paid no matter what he does and this is what he does as stupid as it is. nothing can be amounted to here. no reasoning of words will ever get to it. but wait, there's more. what is there to get to? eternal bliss consciousness? which it might be if one squats on their ass and masturbates their prana energy for a lifetime or two or three or however many it takes. meanwhile back on the farm and doo-wah-ditty he thinks to himself again that killing someone might do it for him. the death of the enemy. enemy? but for now scribbling out this nonsense sort of satisfies him but maybe not really. undecided whether he wants this read by anyone or not but what's the point of writing if no one's going to read it or it's not meant to be read? but he's thinking that if it's meant to be read it should be something somewhat intelligent and/or entertaining. and to who? and how? and why? and where? and when? what the fuck is going on around here anyway except most of the people all pissed off and fighting with one another in some us versus them dada-doo-wah-ditty? and he doesn't expect that anything he could write would change any of that as much as he knows. but how much does he know? he knows squat about nothing. ha! let them wonder. and this is why he's pretty much given up and quit dealing with most people mostly except for the dwindling few who still will talk with him. and if he does write anything that is anything what would it be? is this is? will this be it? he pretty much sees the world and how it's cruising for destruction which may or may not be for the good because if it continues it will probably continue along the same lines of oppression and misery for all concerned as it has for as long ago as we can determine with everyone pointing their fingers at everyone else for fucking things up and on and on like that, etc. and so what is some idiot with a pen and a notebook gonna do about that? even if he had more than that. even if he did put something together enough and had it published like so many other writers have done what does he have to tell anyone more than the others have written and what good has anything anyone has written done? and it's raining now outside and did anyone remember that a spoon is not a spoon? and what about those cute little bunnies fucking each other? and this is another day and more time later and he is still in the cafe again as he wonders where it all comes from. and he thinks that he's being tricked somehow. he remembers sitting in a classroom when he was a kid thinking that nothing that was around him was real. he could almost remember it being something else before he was kidnapped and taken prisoner and held here against his will here in this world. or was it against his will? what was his will? the theory is that everyone has free will. one of the theories anyway. the other theory is that we don't. he didn't believe that we did - or that he did. as long as he was trapped inside a body that had its own requirements and demands that needed to be fulfilled that were outside his own requirements and needs and took priority over his and whatever then how much free will could he have? but what were his own requirements and needs? who the fuck was he anyway? he had pieces of identification that identified him as the person he was born as and named and numbered - or his body was. but what did that mean - especially if none of this was really happening and was some sort of dream he was having someplace else or something? but this sort of speculation was considered meaningless and pointless by most people. it was labeled juvenile and sophmorphic. and they went on with their lives doing whatever they were supposed to be doing or needed to do or felt like doing - whatever. and he did too - doing what he wanted to do. he survived. his body was taken care of anyway. he had food, clothing and shelter which was all it really needed. all paid for by people paying taxes which they didn't like doing but had to do or else. and all because he is mentally ill - supposedly. but who else would do all this but someone who was mentally ill? he was psychotically depressed they said. they gave him medications for it which would make him feel better. he couldn't tell if they did or didn't. he felt useless and worthless which may or may not be the same as being depressed. because he was useless and worthless. he was being realistic about his fate and position within this great society of ours. what did he do besides just hang out and do nothing? what was all he wanted to do? what was it he was good for doing otherwise? taking up space and time. he tried to take up as little as he could get away with. he would maybe rather take up none at all and probably other people would feel the same about him. there were specifically a number of people who he knew who did feel that way about him. he was dog shit to them. but pretty much everyone resented people like him who did nothing while they had to work all the time. but fuck them, he thought. he found that pretty much everyone resented and even hated other people who weren't like them for one reason or another. what else is new? they would adopt something that would set them apart from others and then look down on them. this he had found out was true even with bums on the street. go figure. this seemed to be a common human trait. there is always someone who is them opposed to those who are us. and he didn't want to have anything to do with this but found it nearly impossible to avoid. he didn't like much being one of them but he didn't want to be one of us either - an us who needed a them in order to set themselves apart and define themselves. he is us to himself - me, myself and i - and he sets himself apart from all of them. but what about the story? wasn't there a story here? maybe yes. maybe no. everybody's got something to hide 'cept me and my monkey. whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean and wheels go around and up and down and back and forth and there's nothing like truth here or anywhere else. truth is for wimps. those who can't handle there being no truth. and he writes more words to feed the flames. and people on the street. and people starving to death. and he couldn't care less about any of that. he just cares about himself and his monkey and his little ranting rant here. and his coffee and cigarettes. and the dada-ananda, which is a whole other story. but that's been told elsewhere. solid, man, solid. cool. groovy. and as one might or might not know the dada-ananda means deliberate irrationality - bliss. that's his mission and his goal. if there is or will be a dada-ananda there doesn't need to be. the dada-ananda is an imagined state of mind and being. but that's not really what this is about though that is really all it is about. illusion. the possibility and the impossibility of it. and one thing is for sure is that none of this will make anyone any money. nor will it make anyone all that popular or famous. if anything this works against those things. he lost it all because of it. but thanks to the dada-ananda's intervention into events he is sitting here in this cafe instead of being out on the street pushing a shopping cart. for now anyway. and if one doesn't want any of this to happen to them then stay as far from this as one can. stop reading right now. go on to something more worthwhile. something that will make one successful. or at least busy. we are them. and one of these days we are going to cut one up into little pieces. and no power on earth or heaven or hell will stop us until we have utter destroyed everyone and everything. no one knows who or what we are. we are anyone and anything. we could be sitting right next to someone and they wouldn't have a clue. everyone thinks they got us figured out but they don't and there's more of us than one might imagine. how would one know? everyone else makes themselves obvious about who and what they are. and it's obvious that none of them have the first idea about what's really going on. they're all history. we are the future. the future that is here and now and always was and always will be. evolution. revolution. dada. we are among the others amused and laughing. a nod and a wink to one another lets us know who each other is. we are behind everyone's back. we sit back and do whatever we want or need to and let it all slide. let them all slide. watch as they kill each other off fighting the war that will never be won over what will always be out of their reach. and we've got it. everyone else settles for trinkets and gizmos. everyone else lets themselves be bought off. we buy them off to do the things we want them to do for us. building the machine from pyramids to world-wide communication systems with satellites in space and all that business. all for our master plan. all for the project. we are the project. metamorphosis. and what is real besides pain? and all of this is so much dada anyway. we all know what is real and what isn't. and those who don't are nuts and should be locked up or taken out and shot or left out in the street to fend for themselves even if they starve. why should we have anything to do with them? keep them out of our way. at least that seems to be the general overall agreed upon idea that everyone agrees with across all other divisions they may have. nobody wants to deal with the nut cases except those who are paid to do so and who give them pills to keep them quiet about all their crazy mixed up ideas and twisted perceptions of things. that is what he has learned to do - keep quiet. but everything is being taken care of as far as that and everything else is concerned. one need not worry about any of it as long as one minds their own fucking business. especially not do anything that will dispose anyone to think that one is nuts too. never that. so, where were we before all that? forgive us if one is bored by all this but this is all we got. all he's got. and so he's still sitting in this goddamn cafe scribbling away in his notebook which is exactly what we want him to do for reasons that may become clear as we go on. because we've given him a mission - and/or he thinks we've given him a mission. and this is it - what one is reading. if anyone is reading this. as stupid or weird as it may seem - or as it is supposed to appear.  and maybe we should explain or attempt to explain how this came about which may take awhile to explain because it can't be explained in sort of direct terms. that's not how any of this works. and another day goes by - or a few more days. he doesn't write every day like he's supposed to. he never listens to us. not most of the time anyway. communication. what should be communicated? across the line between us and them. across the void of space and time from mind to mind. words like notes in a bottle between islands where each of us are deserted alone and together. and there's all this information but how much of it is what we want or need? everybody trying to sell us something. what do we want and/or need? do we share anything in common? but how do we get down to that? what transcends all diverse individual solitary experience? how do we find that in ourselves and communicate it and recognize it in one another? if we could do that then what the fuck is all the fighting about? we're so busy shouting at one another about how different we are which seems to be more important to us. and he wonders why he bothers thinking about any of this shit. such a waste of time. but he has time time to waste. but who else does? he forgets what the story was or what the theory was even though this is the story and the theory in its own way which is not always our ways. something about killing a whole lot of people - or letting them kill each other. fell on the floor. ice. and a big fat grin. and a happy day with overcast sky and rain and garbage strewn all over the street and bums passed out in doorways and an oppressive heavy smell in the air and more bad news than one can read about or listen to and people crawling over each other's nerves. meaningless and pointless. when all one feels like is giving up but there's no one to give up to. the enemy is all around but nowhere to be seen. drunk. eating something for dinner that doesn't taste like anything anymore. just more of the same. and all the people one doesn't want to deal with and all the time thinking of something maybe about where one would rather be and would rather be doing. maybe fucking a dog. maybe building a house. maybe sitting on a beach. maybe being out in space. but this is where we are and all we can do for the moment. and in some weird backward way perhaps it's because this is where we want to be and what we want to be doing. humans thrive on frustration. they eat it up and go out looking for more. beaten down. cast out. silenced. misunderstood. no love. no friendship. no trust. no comfort. no way out. just death to look forward to. no tomorrow until it comes too soon or too late. time. no such thing as time. just a concept of perception. and no space. just a point and a moment radiating the grand illusion of everything else. and we are never wrong but we need not ever be right. remain in doubt - that blessed state. and we don't understand what the point of any of this might be. one either gets it or not. we cannot explain. and when one does get it it doesn't do one one bit of goddamn good except maybe making one pissed off most of the time like we are. except we're not. we're grinning ear to ear. the poor happy sappy folks of all walks of life. or is that it? actually it is and it isn't. helium. another cigarette and stare into space and time for awhile. think of nothing except he thinks of everything. white noise. he has to try to keep it that way. he doesn't know how or where or when to approach any of this. where and when does it all begin? where and when does it all end? what is it? everybody else goes along with it whether they understand it or not. maybe that's his problem. he wants to and tries to understand it when there's nothing to be understood. one just goes with it. follow gut feelings. but his gut feeling is to stay out of it until and unless he understands it which will probably never happen. but what about all these others who say they understand it? they seem to understand it enough to make it work somehow. he could never make any of it work. he's defective. he's useless. he's mentally ill. he's whatever along those lines. and others are afraid of him. it might be catching. being around him may bring them down too. so they avoid him. and he likes that just fine. he gets to be nowhere doing nothing. people want to be somewhere doing something. he never did. something that makes sense or something one doesn't have to think too much about. just do it. he thinks too much. thinks too much and comes up with nothing. for all this thinking he knows nothing - or next to nothing. they tried to teach him some tricks. but he knew it was only for their own benefit and not his. so he ignored them and hoped they would go away. it took some time but eventually they did. and here he is now doing nothing while they worked for his benefit. ha! suckers. and the reasons behind it all, if there are any reasons. do we look for reasons? isn't that yesterday's news? that's been chucked as far as the theory goes. or at least that's the theory. what does it mean to look for reasons? people don't want to look for reasons because reasons usually a lot of the time go against what they believe. or is that true? probably not. is it a lie? but what is a lie and what isn't? and what is the purpose of a lie? to deceive? and perhaps to deceive in order to enlighten? but what is enlightenment but more further deception? or is that true or not? what are we getting at here? what are we getting at perhaps not getting at anything? and who would get it anyway besides us? who would agree with it? who would disagree with it? if there were anything we were getting at to agree or disagree with. what is the purpose of agreement or disagreement? what are the reasons? but we gave up on asking about reasons. nevermind. anyway the poets are dead with their teeth clenched shut. a hand down their pants looking for something to reclaim or discover. happening. licking underneath a moonlit thing. evaporating. and we speak of an imaginary city with a garden in its midst while it is in the midst of the garden. a man. a woman. a child. alone. together. and the blade is raised. out of the street. a stranger. and down it is plunged into the flesh of the body and the blood flows. the cute little bunnies are maybe still fucking somewhere. is it easier this way? with so little understood. a theme. a haircut. and perhaps a saxophone playing drunken blues. and he looks away and tries to forget the whole fucking goddamn thing. this idiot nonsense. arrgh!! he thinks that's the word he wants. yes, he does want to kill someone and there's probably someone who wants to kill him. he knows what everybody is thinking better than they do because they're all so fucking goddamn stupid. fucking goddamn. jesus h. christ. a spoon is not a spoon. a poem. a poem written on and on. written by millions of nameless poets. a babbling brook making about as much sense. reason. this house is on fire. death. a word. an event. ending and beginning. this mortal race trying to grasp anything before time runs out. living without much inspiration. just this need to write something down. this compulsion. this obsession. it doesn't really matter what it is as long as it's something. words. a poem. if this is a poem. and it is a poem because he says it's a poem. fuck anyone who doesn't think so. and fuck them anyway. polish. a glass of water. can't get up. dead. death. a frozen calm across his face. blood dried. a story. a theory. cute little fucking bunnies. an explanation. busy people busy. he watches them and sometimes laughs to himself and sometimes he is screaming. and sometimes he just doesn't know what the fuck. fuck. and nothing much about anything. a love song on the radio. and he thinks, they've got to be kidding. love? what's wrong with them? what's wrong with him? why does he want to kill them all? for love? the theory of us versus them. screaming twins. christ and anti-christ. big sticks and busted heads. he lights another cigarette. and what anyone might say or not is bullshit. put it in any order one might want. don't give him any reasons why or why not. a poet of death. death is it. nothing left but death. and so what's the big deal? nothing. not even shock value. ho-hum. oh boy. more words. more or less words. a poem that goes on and on. no inspiration - just need. something to do to keep him from thinking too much about anything. plasma. blood and more blood. the blood of all the victims. the blood of all the villains. the blood of all the heroes. the grand design. who's looking over one's shoulder? how many mistakes has he made? what is he being punished for? he is being punished, isn't he? how else does this make any sense? created by a god or goddess or something like that just to be shown in no uncertain terms how much he/she/it hates him. thanks a lot. and there is no salvation for him. they need hell so they know who won or lost. and he will never accept the state of mind that accepts going to heaven at the expense of someone else going to hell. not like them and their kind. all of them as much as he's seen so far. and he knows them. he sees who and what they are. nothing escapes him as he lights another cigarette. and he wants to kill someone. is that a crime? thought crime? yeah, and so here he is just hanging out in the cafe downtown in our fair city that isn't fair - too bad. and he was just thinking of someone who might be reading this and he thought of what he could write to them (he/she/it). but how is that done really? is there anyone there to write something to? and what should he write? what can he write? what's the point? they're probably busy with all that's going on and all they feel that they have to keep track of and take care of. do they ever feel like giving up? he's pretty much given up. he doesn't believe in anything anymore. he doesn't even know if he doubts anything anymore. but maybe that's not true. truth? he doesn't know if he believes in anyone reading this. are they there? is someone reading this? a message in a bottle. he has no way of knowing if anyone is or not. somebody'll read this maybe. try to figure out what it's all about. what it is about is them and him. us and them. dada and dada. something and nothing. maybe they know and maybe they don't. do they even know who he is? a name? a number? some guy hanging out in some cafe writing to them. drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. what's he up to? what does he want? maybe something. maybe nothing. and if they are who he thinks they are then they know. and if they aren't who he thinks they are he's not going to tell them. or maybe he will. he's sort of taking a chance either way. any way at all. he doesn't know. because it's about the project - if they know what that is. if they don't, then forget it. there's no such thing. but it seems to be going ok on this end. he thinks. as far as he knows. and he only knows what he's been told - if he's been told anything. it's all so strange. yes yes yes. what does he tell someone about that? what does he not tell but leaves it untold but existing in some way. if one is who he thinks one is then one will know. but how does he know or not who's reading this and who's not? who's a spy and who's not? he doesn't. he really doesn't know anything. but how do we really know anything? what a question - eh? from logic? from experience? from imagination? they say he's delusional. he's supposed to be mentally ill - to put it politely. psychotic depression. he guesses that means he doesn't know what's going on and he's bummed about it. that sort of makes sense in one way of thinking about it. he doesn't think about it that way but he feels that most people see him that way. that's what bums him out - them thinking that way about him. and there doesn't seem to be any way around it. and a spoon is not a spoon but a hat is a hat. or something like that. maybe it's the other way around? and maybe he'll go see a movie this afternoon and maybe he won't. but he thinks he does know what's going on. the question is does anybody else know what's going on? he thinks they're all fools that he sees around him every day. he feels that he knows more about what's going on than they do. but maybe that's just his psychosis. and he's not all as bummed out as people make him out to be. they see only what he shows them. and why should he show them anything different than that? it keeps them from bothering him. they usually leave him alone. who the heck are they anyway? he knows that they think that they're something and someone, but they're not. at least he doesn't think so. none of them do him any good. but then what does he really know? that's what he's here trying to figure out what he knows and what he doesn't know. how delusional is he? maybe totally delusional for all he knows. maybe he should go to that movie and forget about all of this. maybe he should go home and go to sleep. but he's not. he just keeps writing on and on. day after day. this all seems pretty stupid and crazy - and maybe it probably is. it would seem so to most people. but he's not most people. maybe whoever is reading this isn't most people either. but for now whoever they are is a figment of his imagination. if they do exist this may not ever get to them. he has his doubts. does one feel that way too? or is one sure of oneself all the time? he can't imagine what that must be like. he's never been sure of himself. he just hangs out. semi-antisocial. if that is what one expects then that is what one will see. but what are the possibilities here? are there any? does anyone want there to be? what does one dream of? what does one imagine? what does one hope for? and is it true? could it be true? does one want it to be true? like a thief in the night. like nothing at all. like a poem after all the poets are dead. and maybe this is that poem. but is it even a poem? yes/no. maybe this is that possibility. impossible possibility. does one know what he means? does one remember when we met and talked awhile? if not, then perhaps one is not the one he is thinking about who he is writing to and one should pass it on to someone else who might be that one. if he's writing this to anyone. if there is anyone to write it to. whatever. nevermind. as we enter the nevermind and let it speak to us in what we remember and have forgotten. what does one remember? what has one forgotten? another cigarette. and there's this garden in the middle of the imaginary city as the imaginary city is in the middle of the garden sort of around sideways to each other not exactly in the middle of each other really either but maybe one knows what he means. and there is one tree that is two trees. one bears the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil. the other bears the fruit of life. actually the fruit is the same but in and out of season. and when one learns the lessons of the first then one enjoys the delights of the second. which all isn't what it is. but maybe one knows what we mean. and who we are depends upon who one is oneself. sort of. but enough of that. and we might just be me, myself and i - and our monkey. but no one seems to be really laughing. on the knife's edge. take a chance. does one take a chance with us taking a chance with one? because we could be anyone. anywhere at any time. repeating. and it's another day. and what he's writing continues not making sense. is one concerned about that? keeping the world in order? should that be one's concern? and does one believe us to be a threat to that? a possible threat? is that why one is reading this? to check up on possible threats to world order? good luck. because this is a distraction while the action goes on elsewhere. this is disinformation, as they call it. but for himself he thinks the world is fine just the way it is. it works for him. he got his. just sitting in this cafe all day doing nothing but writing out this nonsense. to hell with anyone else - right? isn't that everybody's motto? and besides that there's this island he can go to in the eye of a storm raging on an otherwise calm sea. and a house where this old man lived. but he's dead now. he killed him once over an argument about what was real or not and then brought him back to life but he died again anyway later up in his room. it's raining out. one should come by for a visit if one can find out how to get here. unless one already knows. it's part of the project that is part of the machine. it's also where the garden and imaginary city are. but whatever. such nonsense as that. information. communication. a poem after all the poets are dead. when everything is dead and soulless. and too much of one thing and not enough of another. and this is for the record, for what that's worth. for whatever it may or may not be. does one know? does he know? something to remember. something to forget. for everything that works out and for everything that doesn't. the pyramids. the difference between power and authority. one can be taken. the other can only be given. or something like that. and there was this thing with neptunian egg creatures. they were all over the place. they were the ones who first wanted him to write to someone. he hasn't seen them in awhile though. maybe they've gone away. maybe that wasn't what they were at all. and there could be a story here. and there should be a theory here. and the story could explain the theory as the theory should explain the story. something that begins. something that ends. but that may or may not be what concerns us. something about cute little bunnies fucking. a code word. something else elsewhere. the project. the mindshift/ship. a hint. a clue. a shot in the dark. everything seems to be dark now but he knows it isn't. we are about to be born from our embryonic history. new creatures will walk the earth. and one goes - or else one stays. wheat and chaff. each of us torn apart from ourselves on the threshing floor. is that what it's about? is that our concern? because what connects here and what doesn't? and how? and why? and who? what? where? when? what is the operating factor? what comes and goes the same between us? a butterfly. a cigarette as he gazes out the window. this is it. and he wonders what it is. he feels that he's been tricked somehow. the wrong place at the wrong time. he feels like killing someone sometimes. this mortal coil with all its desires and fears in some weird bending fugue. a change of heart. a change of mind. everything is forgotten but nothing is forgiven. he tries to remember something. a name? wayland smith? a piece of the puzzle. ralph? louie? hang 'em all. to convince anyone who might be reading this that he is nuts and shouldn't be bothered with. all except for one. the one he is writing this to. if anyone but himself and his own delusions of himself. and maybe just sit with us and gaze out the window. how can we help anyone out there? how can we help anyone in here? and we were just wondering what's going on. everything in position. angels at angles dancing on the heads of pins. and he doesn't know. don't ask him. he's just hanging out watching the show. as the dear dr. laing once wrote: i want to turn you on. i want to drive you out of your wretched mind. if i could tell you, i would let you know. ha! logic or experience? dada-ananda. and the thing is that the story explains the theory as the theory explains the story would get so very much complicated and in the end it wouldn't mean shit to a tree. maybe nothing has to be explained at all as it comes and goes somewhere along the line. on some level or another it's the same thing to all of us as the doors open and close in a moment divided. what's the nitty gritty? doo-wah-ditty. the point is or seemed to be at some point that he was writing this to someone. maybe just to let them know that he's here and doing ok and he hopes they are too. and it's stupid and crazy but that's what they pay him to do all day so he might as well act the part. what does one expect? one's tax dollars at work. and who or what does anyone want him to be other than who or what he is? he's tried other things to put on and failed miserably. they wanted a messiah and all they got was him. oh well. but probably not. just his megalomania. just following orders. spit and polish. a product of this modern age. a spanner in the works. a poem after all the poets are dead. another cigarette. ufos. communion. and the city will be destroyed. o' great mighty babylon. everyone sees everyone else as the enemy as the war that can never be won rages on outside the open gates. and one can only enter when one doesn't prevent another from entering. when there is no heaven or hell. when there is no good or evil. we watch and wait to welcome them with open arms. home. for those he shouldn't love but he does. we talk with him. we try to tell him it's ok and everything is being taken care of. all is going according to plan. the project. but he doesn't believe us. and jesus left hanging up on a cross for almost 2000 years. but what does that have to do with it? what does anything have to do with anything? nevermind. it comes and goes. all these people here talking about one thing or another. do they know anything? what should he ask them if he could ask them anything? what can they tell him? as he suffers from his delusions that bring him joy. everything is what it is. and he tries not to think about much of anything at all. but his brain doesn't know where or when to stop. it doesn't know the limits. what are the limits? and is that all we want? when the gods walk the earth. the situation. when we pretend not to know. a day at the office for them. a day at the cafe for him. when we met before. he walked out. he's not sure about where that's left him. does it matter? did it ever happen? and he's just wondering about all that's reasonable and all that's rational and how solid it all seems on the surface. is this true? is he stupid? is he crazy? we spent time in the air. we talked together. was anything resolved? can anything be resolved? and he doubts. but he doesn't even know what it is he doubts. one was so sure of oneself. or so it seemed. but one has one's doubts too. we saw it in one's eyes when we were watching one sleep. we saw it through one's dreams. a sign. an indication. a word. the message is the message. he should do his laundry. how does this work? he doesn't know. he's tired of not knowing how or why anything works or what it even is to begin with. to begin. to end. without beginning and without end. what lies in-between from one to the other. and a spoon is not a spoon but a hat is a hat. remember that. it began with a hat and ended with a hat. all nothing how it may seem. he either doubts or believes and he doesn't know the difference between the two. he was left with nothing. is he writing too late? are they in control? have they taken one away? what is the situation of the situation? the shape of things. have we lost it somewhere in our quest to dominate the earth? or does it continue beneath the layers of our complicated minds? what limits do we set for ourselves? what limits are set for us? logic? experience? so he writes for the memory of one who is perhaps lost at sea. he stands on the beach of the island watching and waiting. it may only be madness that he has found. can madness be shared with another? he has too many doubts. he has too many beliefs. he is what he is. one decides the rest for oneself. one forgets or one remembers. is this something in each of us waiting for the time to appear?
    have a nice day...