to communicate or not to communicate. to blow it all off or not. to see what happens. the ongoing memory of event. take what one can of what comes. most everything is useless.
    to not know what to write anymore.
    divide it and finish it.
    leave it behind for someone else to dig through. it doesn't state much of anything. clumsy words. maybe. he doesn't really care.
    watch them all kill each other. the constant theme. laugh it away starving and freezing in a death camp somewhere. he doesn't care. as long as he doesn't end up like them - safe and comfortable living off living souls and flesh and minds. users.
    used.
    and flying squirrels.
    what a concept.

    and it could be something. and it could be anything. and it is nothing. and it is everything.
    alwaysville.
    and another thing he's thinking he's thinking is not really thinking as thinking is usually thought of thinking. but he doesn't know. maybe he knows nothing about thinking. it seems that a lot of people seem to think they know more about what he's thinking than he thinks he does about what he is thinking. maybe they're right. maybe they've been right all along.
    he doesn't know.
    but he doesn't think that's right. he doesn't think. but maybe that's it, he doesn't think. maybe.
    and this nonsense goes on and on. and that's all it is.
    and it could be something.
    and it doesn't matter if it's nothing because it's everything. stupid clocks. around.
    and the theory of clocks going around. one number after another.
    and now.
    and the clocks still spin themselves around. as long as they do he spins himself and one around with them. it's the clocks that are doing this, not him. like there's no linear progression at all. just time repeating and repeating and him repeating and repeating along with it. minute by minute. hour by hour. day by day. all the same and all different while we still remain the same. chariot? automobile? catapult? nuclear warhead? what? what times do we live in are these? now. a moment out of moments. a theme of moments.
    he watches it all wash around him. should he lift a finger? he is amazed by the wonder of it. dazzled. it could be confusion. maybe. he doesn't know. names are for losers. he just sits here and babbles as endlessly as he can get to about nothing much at all. repeating his favorite lines like a chorus of a song. visiting old familiar spaces. waiting for time to come around again. in and out of memory. how much experience in any moment is merely memory of another moment? when do we reach the land that time forgot?
    hello?

    yes to everyone.
    yes to no one.
    yes to you.
    yes to me.
    yes to us.
    yes to them.
    watching the clocks spin themselves around. wondering on about theories of time that we don't have the time to get too much in order to understand. clocks. nothing much more to time than clocks. what?
    nevermind.
    nevermind it at all.
    clocks. keep on an eye on the clocks keeping an eye on time. nothing about time. repeating - and each time it repeats itself and we repeat it is it the same? it? what it? huh?
    he can't seem to get it out of his head. something about time that he can't quite remember. losing it. gaining time. which? time ahead. time behind. time.
    simple. why go on about something as simple as time? a clock explains all we need to know about time. all we need to know in order to function together as best we are able within a concept of time repeating itself so and such that our experience can be for the most part memorization of experience. learn. time. time is money. money is just another clock. wait - how did he get here?
    money measures time and experience - and memory of experience.
    the love of time is the root of all evil.
    tick-tick-tick... the clocks are counting down. the clocks are running short on the time allotted them. we set them up to count the moments of our experience. they won't go fast enough to take in all we want - all we love.
    love.
    the love of love is the root of all evil.
    we divide the moments shorter and shorter. cram time full of experience stored in memory for the future use of time.
    the love of the future is the root of all evil.
    zen.
    the love of zen is the root of all evil.
    a bag over one's head.
    the dada-ananda has nothing to do with any of this.
    the dada-ananda has everything to do with this.
    k;sdlkas;ldks;aldk;saldk;sldk;slkd;slkd;sldk;sldk;saldk;sladk;saldk;sldks;aldks;lkds;aldk;asldkasdk;lsd.
    ongoing. in coming. caught in a crossfire among fractured factions of the one. divided. infinity found between zero and one.
    we must not forget the ongoing war.
    zen. zoom. zap!
    get lost.
    go away.
    come home again.
    or remain and duke it out with the rest of them. watch the clocks. synchronize watches. let's go.
    attack!
    over the hill.
    kill!
    and he doesn't know. maybe he is a fool.
    and he had a sense about these things. he didn't talk about it much except to reply, huh? to almost everything that was said to him in any given situation.
    flying blind.
    space captain.
    he has a sense of things he follows that he can't explain how or why whatever it is or isn't. don't ask. he just kinda finds himself in places and times that it doesn't follow that he should be. like here and now.
    he discovered that he had to stop believing in a lot of things along the way. not that he believed in them in the first place. concentration moon. this only leads to that which leads to the other thing.
    logic.
    this logic had little with facts but followed the same pattern as though. logic without facts. not confined to facts. and it was logic of contradictions. a contradiction of facts. covered in green. attend.
    confronted.
    sometimes with the only purpose in mind to prove the other facts wrong.
    zapadoolah gabzobnik.
    and vanish like a bat out of heck.
    he could sense pretty much where and when he wasn't wanted. his sense of an incomprehensible logic of contradiction would advise him thus. and if not he'd usually split just in case.

    11/21
    we are the other people.
    and so he went for a walk somewhere as he made this up and he would know when he got there because it would be here and now. if he got there. that was another thing. he never seemed to get there. it was always here. other people were there - or so they said. they placed themselves where they wanted to be and doing what they wanted to be doing. or maybe that wasn't the case at all. but if it wasn't they wouldn't ever let on that it wasn't. if anything they'd fight like hell that where they were was where they wanted to be and what they were doing was what they wanted to be doing. he didn't get it. was he the only one who was confused about this?
    but he wasn't really confused. he felt very comfortable usually about where he was and what he was doing - usually nowhere and doing nothing - except when someone else came along a told him he should be somewhere else and shouldn't be doing what he was doing. move along and cut it out.
    was that what it was too with the others? was it that they were settled into where they were told to be and doing what they were told to do instead of being where they wanted to be and doing what they wanted to do?
    no. it must be something else. that was too simple. it must be something far more complex than that. something they understood with their common sense. common sense was something he figured that he didn't have. like being born blind or something. he was born without common sense.
    stupid.
    or something like that.
    he thought of common sense as a social attribute. the ability to conform to the group and how the group communicates with itself.

    forever.
    it seemed to be forever.
    when it comes undone. when the wings take flight in one's mind.
    it was the last tv show on earth.
    a stick walk felt the balance nothing important had a sense meanwhile bunker satellite hologram attack destroyed some space/time unusable which fundamentalist found surprising as much use before things the attack transformed surprising useful items needed for rather psychically into ruins the next phase commonly ongoing mission to it as the bring about worry about unless concern referred whose whatever dug and headquarters temporarily no plans involved going on is or was fuck how can drug out it back world new or will better perceive in perpetual darkness even if there especially a attic no one glow of the dawn madness guided to strangle left hand knows except play this part to prevent syndrome showing up in the script to appear maintains all observe any given moment behind some such along a theme than actually being anything.
    dada.

    light another cigarette.

    and as his hand quivers and the pen wants to jump away on its own course and the cigarettes become more difficult to light and he sometimes dribbles coffee into his beard and he laughs at things no one around him seems to think is funny but he can get them sometimes laughing too or he goes on long monologues of whatever dada pours forth from his cup runneth over mind until someone shuts him up.
    and he sits at the center of his web and feels the threads vibrate and he knows he's captured something. he goes out and spins it up and hangs it up for the time being until he feels the need to digest it later.
    that's kinda how it works too. how he works.
    waiting.

    somewhere some balancing act of opposites caught in cages of a dualistic on/off logic world. either/or.
    meanwhile - a hat tried on for size and wear it around awhile. naked hippies. sometime before he blows his brain out. how fucking romantic does it get?

    11/23
    guns.
    knives.
    rainbows.
    neon signs in the windows.
    hello.
    and he's trying to get started writing here with a word or two that become a phrase that may turn into a sentence into a paragraph into a pages long jag rag on about something dada firing in his brain for awhile.
    nothing yet.
    another day. neither here nor there. neither now nor then. nothing much at all. he supposes there are a million things he could write on about but it would all turn into nothing while maybe making sense for about... well, not really making much sense at all really.
    and he was talking to someone the other night about how a lot of the times with a lot of people the conversation results in unanswerable questions well into the realms of theory and speculation and some such and how it's not always the point of trying to arrive at answers but it seems to be enough and quite a bit of time and energy just to work things up to arriving at the questions.
    so what?
    the price of a dozen eggs. sales tax. overthrowing the government. abortion. drugs. kids dropping out of school. life insurance.
    enlightenment.
    dada.
    eggshells.
    brick buildings.
    coffins.
    salt and pepper.
    whatever comes to mind on a gray november afternoon.
    something.
    dreaming. away and dreaming.
    and he goes back to the island to talk with thing awhile.
    nothing much going on there.

    and it spun.
    it twisted shape though what twisted and what shape and what it was that was twisted and shape or no shape he didn't know.
    zap!
    a spark. a momentary thing about being lost in space/time whazoo playing with the context and all.
    whoosh!
    whee!
    and what is.
    and what isn't.
    drop it.
    drop the bomb.
    drop the other shoe.
    get out while the getting's still good - or some such. what does it lead to?
    just something blowing around in his own mad mind.
    nothing at all.
    common sense tells us this.
    common sense tells us that.
    he'd like to tell common sense a thing or two. maybe yes. maybe no. he's just along for the ride. he's just looking around in the many places no one's looked before - at least more than a brief glance on their way to some conclusion more in keeping with the dictates of common sense.
    right?
    right.
    but he doesn't know. he just doesn't know. he just goddamn fucking doesn't know - ok?

    the wind howls outside. it's raining.
    gloria.
    g-l-o-r-i-a.
    somewhere the sun is shining, baby. but it ain't shining here. no way. no how, daddy. capability of flying. a game. soul stripper. designs of dada. sit down. boyfriend. girlfriend. magick is at hand afoot dancing casting spells out of energy divided and coming together.
    they can figure it out for themselves.
    active principle.
    juggle it.
    military bases. revolt in order to speak one's mind. and one's gotta know what one's mind is, baby. dog flesh. pumpkin. and if all one's mind is is all the dada spewing outta one's mouth that is only a variation on a long dead theme mirror reversed as something brand new and daring and forget it, baby.
    cheap.
    and it's ok. go one's own way. he doesn't care. he knows where and when his flag flies.
    joke 'em if they can't take a fuck.
    machine gun.
    going down just the same. it's ok. let it go and hold tight to what one can.

    11/24
    and so he had enough of that for awhile - whatever that was. it goes nowhere. escapist dada. head shit. but then what isn't? he doesn't know. try to sit back and think about it. nothing comes and nothing goes. it remains.
    the vagueness of feeling there is a connection running through it all. what? what comes and what goes? he doesn't know. it comes together and then breaks apart again.
    split.
    he decides to try flying. he's scared at first. fear of heights. he opens the window and leaps away.
    he lands himself sometime else back in the mining town. who did he leave here? someone who delivered a pizza. how long ago was that? what was their name? they're probably gone by now.
    he sees a dog named spot and a child playing up at the end of the street. they see him. the child waves. spot barks.
    what was this whole trip anyway? awhile ago? a year or so? he saw it happening pretty clearly. he was there. now it's gone except for parts of it he now makes up in his head sitting here day after day.
    nuts.
    nothing from nothing. he can only pretend. he is left pretending.
    and god walks up next to him and offers him a cigarette. he takes it. some fancy import thing. he's not impressed. god lights it and speaks, you seem somewhat confused.
    i am not confused. everything around me is confused. you're confused, he replied.
    and god said, do you think so?
    i know so.
    this is the way things are.
    hey - just drop it, ok? i'm tired of hearing that bullshit. things are not the way they are. things are the way we make them.
    you are only human, remember that.
    yes - thank you very much. i don't need reminding of that. but that's not what i'm talking about and you know it.
    do i?
    fuck off. and he threw the cigarette down and walked away.
    then god was walking toward him from the other direction.
    i told you to fuck off, he said. just die.
    i cannot, god says walking up to almost being in his face. i cannot die. do you know what that means? do you know what hell that can become? i can pick up or drop whatever physical mortal form i choose, but i cannot die.
    that's your problem. i don't care about that. it's what you do to others that i care about. ok - so you can't die. tough shit for you. by just go away then. and take it all away with you. leave us alone.
    i cannot. i cannot die but without you i cannot live. don't you understand?
    i refuse you.
    you cannot refuse me. i am you. we all are you. without us you are nothing.
    i'll take that over this.
    will you?
    i'll give it a shot.
    you don't give the void a shot. once you're there there is nothing to bring you back.
    ok - fine. you got me any way i turn. so you're vastly superior to me. so fucking what? what do you want?
    you know what we want.
    maybe. you just hint at it and whatever else. you never say anything directly.
    these things cannot be spoken of directly.
    well, whatever. you know what i need.
    and you will have it when you are ready and you need it. you won't even have to ask for it and it will be given to you when the time comes.
    and until then?
    you are still learning.
    i haven't learned anything since as far as i can remember except that everything i've learned is bullshit.
    yes, it is. and you have learned that very well. it's the steps you need to take beyond that that you are just now beginning to learn.
    yeah, right. what is this, another star wars sequel? turn to the force or somesuch dada like that?
    you could put it that way, but it's not like that. that is something else you have learned and are still learning. you have learned that it is not that simple. there is darkness in light and light in darkness.
    whoopie! yin and yang. sounds good on paper but i still have my hand out for something more tangible.
    what do you want?
    you know.
    maybe i do. but i need to see if you know.
    i know.
    then speak it.
    speak what cannot be spoken?
    what is it that you want put into your hand that you cannot speak of?
    either you know or you don't. if you do then cut the mystical dada and give it to me. if you don't or can't then i have no use for you or anyone like you.
    is this what you believe?
    yes.
    ok - as you wish.

    and he's back here at the cafe. wasting away another afternoon. dreaming. mortal. gotta shit. be right back.
    shit.
    get a key for the bathroom. dream. awake. dreaming.
    open the door.
    take down the walls.
    we all gotta shit.
    we all gotta piss.
    we all gotta fuck.
    what's the big goddamn deal? civilizations rise and fall and all because we need a place to shit, piss and fuck.
    what?
    huh?
    don't mind him. he's just some idiot lost in the woods. he's sorry if he's trespassing on one's holy ground.
    all art - all politics - all religion - all that's human - all that's divine - all that's perfect - all that's in error - all that's forgiven - all that's revenged - all that's damned forever - all that's eclipsed by the moon - all that's hated - all that's loved.
    all in all from one extreme to another. and all he wants is a place to shit in peace.
    om.
    laughing all the way. one little piggy. two little piggies.
    unicorns.
    big fat men.
    big fat women.
    skinny shrunken children locked in closets sitting in their own shit. don't they know any better?
    garbage in - garbage out.
    eat.
    lonesome.
    let go.
    leave it in a steaming heap behind one. annihilate. rape. pillage. destroy. salt the fields. make it as complex and expensive as one can.
    die.
    fuck off and die.

    he's got that rainbow dancing feeling. got flowers growing outta his hair. flying out the windows and smashing through the mirrors. burning down the house.
    got a load off his mind and he wiped his ass with all the documents of their rights and responsibilites.
    freedom is action. it cannot be spoken. it's a handshake or a fist. whatever gets one through the night. one can beat him anytime one wants as long as one knows that he'll do the same when the wheel spins around again and it's his turn.
    or he'll walk away.
    fuck off and die.
    spill one's guts and disappear. one's ground is barren. rocks. salt. the burning sun and not a drop to drink. so scream on. make all the noise one needs to make.
    he doesn't care anymore. he never did.
    he got caught in it at times. he fought it. but who cares? no one wins this war.
    blow it all away outta one's freaking mind - zap!
    flush it.
    bye-bye.
    down we go underground to feed the flowers and the trees. to make the garden grow. to reach for the sun again.
    a rose is a turd by another name and each smells just as sweet to those who know what each should smell like.
    get out the air freshener. sweet rose. nevermind the military industrial complex thing that put that can in one's hand - that stick of incense - whatever gets one through the night of shit all around one. though the shit one produces with everything one does and then deny. point one's finger at someone else.
    those who smelt it dealt it.

    candles burning around the site of the sacrifice. waiting for the ufos to quit fucking around and land someplace.
    holy ground.
    where one's thoughts soar wild and free from the gravity of this world of shit. earth. tree. sitting on the throne.
    the deeper one goes the higher one flies.
    holy shit.
    the holy see no evil.
    hike up those robes, baby, and squat like the rest of us apes and dada.
    quit pretending one is someone else.
    but the architectural design and the frescos and sculpture.
    tear down the wall.
    love stinks.
    get it together.
    get one's shit together.
    and they'll gladly pay whatever millions of dollars to own that piece of shit cleverly disguised as a still life study of sunflowers.
    mucus.
    blood, sweat and tears.
    all too human.
    to purify the strench of our self-inflicted atrocities.
    groin.
    dada.
    the burning glow of the fire down below. shit, piss and/or fuck.
    take it in and give it out.
    filth.
    dirty.
    flesh.
    eat it.
    shit it.
    a poem on the basest form of madness and degradation. doesn't know enough not to play in his own shit.
    read a book.
    watch tv.
    play guitar.
    sing.
    dance.
    anything but sitting around with one's thumb up one's ass.
    politics of the anus.
    common ground.
    common sense.
    some fuck.
    some are fucked.
    some stand up to piss.
    some sit down.
    but everybody's gotta squat to shit.
    the war has wait a few moments more.
    where's the key to the bathroom? which button does one push? how many hoops does one have leap through?
    the evolution of the human dada mind.
    it all works out in the end.
    let it go.
    then pick up one's gun again and fuck or be fucked.
    let's dance.

    11/25
    diagram.
    the possibilty of impossibility.
    chart.
    seascape with sunset centered on the wall behind the people on the sofa watching the tv news reports about world-wide death and destruction.
    grapefruit.
    mask.
    envelope.
    what else is behind the curtain?
    fear.
    hope.
    a measurement of what is unending until infinity is found or until we are taken away.

    11/26
    complex. again.
    old news. good news.
    space.
    time.
    a begining. reports from elsewhere. a new heaven. a new hell. development. the christ. annointed.
    and one of the people sitting on the sofa was maybe him. someplace. sometime. here and there. now and then.
    he held the remote and flipped through the channels pausing to pick up a phrase or two before moving on. montage. which wasn't important.
    he had momentarily forgotten the names of those who sat with him. he had known them all for a least a year or more. which wasn't inportant.
    in a city somwhere he dug the ground for a garden to be planted. he'd forgotten the name of this city. which wasn't important.
    in a clear sphere filled with foggy gas floated flower-like aliens. they spoke to the earth scientists through a computer translating system.
    dada to dada.
    mind to mind through the space/time of mindlessness between. on line. treetop. highschool hallway. rioting. hand through a wall. handknitted poloshirts. significance.
    mammalian.
    memory.
    survival.
    amazing.

    electronic framework. open. a clear shot at the prophet. crosshairs on her third eye as she speaks with flaming mouth and tongue the absurity of it all. spewing.
    a dead rainbow in an oilslick puddle in the gutter while a transaction is made in front of a chained and locked loading platform door on a sunny sunday afternoon a little above freezing temperture. and what is the meaning of this? what picture is painted? old woman on a park bench. skateboards. a chance at reason. a display of emotions quickly supressed.
    nothing happens.
    nothing becomes anything more than what it is. this is our sin - if such sin exists. this is the nature of our error. mistaken idenity.
    and who and what is the cause? he is so far behind in this account of his perceptions of reality that he is perhaps wondering at all how much it may still be important either to anyone else or himself. the time has come and gone. he has done nothing.
    his fear and the contempt of his fear makes him feel for those around him. is this a sin? is this an error. is this someone's idea of a joke?

    and death speaks through us. we are the living. we are the only ones who can speak. we are alive through the mercy of death. life between death. and few spaek of death that precedes death from which we all have come. we all were dead. life being the continuance of death.
    defuse.
    disarm.
    waves on the endless sea. what more? what less? reasonable logical conclusion. a chocolate milkshake. what is not life and life only? what is not death and death only? spinach casserole. puppy. shoe. rug. ashtray. the spoon. why even the question?
    the trigger is pulled. the top of the prophet's head is blown apart shattered into a subjective sense of eternity. how true.
    her body staggers a couple of dance steps and then falls.
    a fish.
    a daycare center.
    death. life. comedy. tragedy. how one person's death is cheered as another's is grieved. as though it made a difference.
    emotional content.
    the prophet's body twitches awhile and then is still.
    what is the body now? who? female? living? soulless?
    stop.
    it's over.
    the prophet is dead, damn it. the rifle is disassembled and put back in its case. the killer walks to the freight elevator.
    what occurs?
    what has failed to occur?
    why this moment and not another?
    what is the purpose of him writing this and not something else?
    beg for forgiveness.
    rollover.
    play dead.
    arf.
    nice doggie.
    at perhaps at this point is when the ufos start landing someplace like out in the deserts of the world.
    maybe.
    collapse. fragments of a dozen clashing utopias. gears. the head of the beast sheared away from the rest of the body. writing. screaming. both the innoscent and the guilty suffer the pain. is there a difference? action/reaction.
    and he goes to the kitchen after the others have gone to bed. bored. he takes out another sheet of paper and begins drawing designs and patterns of designs. the machine.
    some semblance of disorder. a wakefull eye. look out. the passing clouds of despair. light and dark. eating a sandwich. nothing. something.
    pointless.

    askew.
    let's see... where was he? somewhere talking to god or someone just like it. in the mining town. operate. he goes back. god is sitting on the steps leading up to the old general store cleaning its figernails with a pocketknife. it's dressed like it's going to the opera - even with a cape. how fucking quaint.
    hello again, it says without looking up.
    he sits down next to it. it stops - snaps the blade back in and puts the knife in its pocket. are we through venting our frustration? it asks smugly.
    don't talk down to me, he replies.
    no - i see we haven't, it sighed and leaned back elbows on the step behind it. go ahead, i can wait.
    wait for what?
    wait for you to calm down enough to listen.
    who am i listening to?
    who do you want to listen to? who would you listen to?
    someone who doesn't hold themselves above me. who doesn't act like some aloof asshole.
    yes, of course - you and your precious pride. how human.
    human? and who are you to judge that? i don't care who you pretend to be or are. i see nothing special about you that makes you any different than me.
    shall i show you how different i am?
    how? make it rain or snow? call up a plague of frogs? turn the river into blood? make my skin break out into boils and sores and my hair fall out? that doesn't make you different. it just makes you more powerful. a spoiled brat can do the same given those powers. you are very much human - too human.
    yes, i am very much human. but at the same time i am more. i am the archetype of what it is to be human - an invented god. or is the other way around. which came first?
    which came first isn't my concern. i am not interested in first or last. that is meaningless.
    they mean everything. without opposites like first and last nothing could happen. contrast, you know.
    he sighed a deep sigh, yeah, i know that. it's not that in itself but the values placed on one or the other. i would expect you to be above that. but i see that you are just as petty as we are.
    maybe that's more your perception of me - or your invention - and what you need me to be.
    as i am the expression of you?
    what goes around, comes around.
    cute.
    and we both laughed though neither could explain to anyone else what we were laughing about. hippies. geeks. gizmos. dog shit. heaven. jesus h. christ. rug. ashtray. spoon.
    it happens like that.
    what i am, god continued, is just as much a part of this as you are whether i am imagined or not. no more. no less. it could easily be the other way around. neither of us is better than the other. both involve playing a role in the play as a whole. we both follow the same script.
    he looked at it a moment. what was going on here? you've certainly changed your tune, he said. this isn't your usual line.
    i say what i need to say. you hear what you need to hear.
    ok - so what? what are you saying that is new? i've heard this before.
    you've heard it but haven't really listened to it.
    there's not much to listen to. just accept my fate. keep my mouth shut and what?
    what do you want?
    what i don't want is more bullshit.
    what bullshit?
    everything - everyone - including you. the whole thing is just plain stupid. i see no need for any of it.
    so change it.
    how?
    you know how.
    do i?
    yes, you do.
    well, i have changed it - for myself. maybe just in my own head. but it's enough if that's all i get.
    what more do you want?
    all of it.
    you want to be god?
    fuck god. i want to be rid of god and all god wanna-bes. i want the world rid of god. what has god done for anyone? or that anyone has done who supposedly represents god? even if it's only an idea of god. and that's what i've pretty much managed to do for myself. it's all these other flaming moron assholes who want big daddy - or big mommy - or whoever. they're the ones fucking up everything. that's what i deal with. and you just sit there and fan the flames.
    i am no more than an expression of human need and desire.
    and fear - mostly fear. that's what you're hooked on. without human fear you'd poof into dust and blow away.
    true.
    you admit it?
    yes - but i maintain that even human fear is a product of human need and desire. they are all linked together. you cannot have one without the other.
    i guess maybe that's so. but it's still you who feeds on it.
    do i feed, or am i fed?
    meaning?
    meaning, i exist and need substance for my existence however intangible it may be. take away that substance and i cease to exist.
    we're back to which came first.
    which you said you weren't concerned about but i can see that you are concerned with nothing else but. you see effect - pain. and you search madly for cause.
    i see pain as both cause and effect. pain produces pain. what i look for is what maintains this idea and keeps the human race in pain. i look for who benefits from it and i keep coming back to you.
    yet i am a figment of human imagination.
    are you?
    prove that i exist other than that.
    i am here talking with you.
    yes - and you are classified as being highly delusional by the people who control your world and its reality.
    the same people who serve you.
    no one serves me. they serve themselves. i am just a byproduct of the process. if anyone serves anybody, i serve them.
    so your hands are clean?
    yes and no, it said then stood up and walked down the steps to the dirt street and turned and faced him. look, i think you're taking this far too seriously. you're all wrapped up in what amouts to chasing your own tail. you're doing exactly what you accuse and judge other people of doing and have been doing for thousands of years. you're no different. you're following the same path and falling into the same traps. there is no solution to this. why can't you just accept that?
    i have.
    have you?
    yes. i'm not seeking a solution. i know there isn't one. it's not me who has fallen into that trap or is even following the path. that is the others. they haven't learned despite all the other things they've figured out. all their knowledge and what they produce with that knowledge follows the same pattern. instead of figuring out that weapons of all kinds won't solve their problems but only create more they build bigger and better ones. they can't even produce a bar of soap without it being involved somehow in their weapons production system. and i don't know what i was talking about. something.
    god laughed, you poor fool. you are so amusing. you wrestle with things that you cannot grasp at the expense of your own physical and mental well being. you are perhaps to be admired for that but you are just another of an ending series of ones who see the light but still can't find their way out of the tunnel.
    at least i try. and i have found my way out. i can leave anytime i want to. i just don't want to, at least not yet. i just can't leave them and say, fuck them. let them rot in their own hell.
    it seems to me you've said that quite a bit.
    yeah - i do. i can work myself up to it when i get frustrated. but that feeling doesn't last for more than a day or so. though, i don't know, it comes closer each time.
    the island?
    yeah - or someplace.
    and what am i supposed to say? yes, you're right? no, you're wrong?
    don't say anything you don't want to. this is just another situation where i'm just talking to myself - right?
    it depends.
    on what?
    on what you choose to believe what it is to be.
    i don't want to believe in anything. i doubt everything. i want to know what it is.
    it's whatever one believes it to be. do i have to remind you of your own words?
    none of my words are my own. i become possessed by ideas searching for expression. i don't know where they come from. demons maybe.
    yes, this is true. it has been true for many of your kind throughout the ages.
    my kind?
    those either driven to madness or genius or both by thoughts not their own.
    oh boy - i feel so special.
    you are.
    no more than anyone else. i am unique among a species who are each unique.
    some are more unique than others.
    yeah? well if i'm so special and unique how come i ain't rich, as they say?
    but you are.
    am i?
    you have all the treasure of heaven.
    a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. i can't spend any of that to even buy a pack of cigarettes. try telling that to those running the show.
    they will come and go.
    but they keep coming after they go. they still outnumber us and keep us down.
    us?
    people like me. those you were just talking about. can't keep our shit together in their fucked up world of wealth and power.
    you hungry?
    what?
    i said, are you hungry?
    sure.
    i could go for a pizza.
    i'm sick of pizza. how about a shitload of seafood? haven't had that in awhile.
    follow me. and it walked toward the hotel which had a restaurant. we entered and there was a table set and ready for us with a waiter standing by.
    so it goes.
    lobster, crab, shrimp, scallops, clams. we ate until we wanted to puke.
    we sat back with coffee and brandy. candle light. a woman played improvised piano.
    make up a name. picture a face. call it the beast and she the whore. he gives both of them a vampire's beauty. perfect. not a flaw. what image of god does he place before him to keep him from facing himself?
    the wonder.
    the divine.
    and him? some hideous drooling hunchbacked poxed skinned foul stenched sub-human thing barely able to speak two words that make sense in a row.
    how accurate is this?
    who's fooling who?
    one way or the other it's always someone on top and someone on the bottom. who cares? he'll be the villain. he'll be the victim. he'll be whoever one needs him or wants him to be. he'll take away one's pain and twist it and weave it into his being.
    he'll detonate it elsewhere. in his head. he wants to grab his chair and smash it over god's head and take the splinters and jab them into the woman's throat.
    he wants to kill kill kill.
    he wants to die die die.
    thank one's lucky stars that it's him instead of oneself. he has gone to hell to buy the ticket for one's salvation.
    have a nice eternity.
    fuck off and die.

    and a betrayal of innocence. a cheek turned with a slap across the face. we search the shadows for someone else to blame. our madness is complete.
    the crime of every moment of our lives. who brings such misery into paradise? is it born? is it taught and learned? is it planned or is it an accident or fate?
    tomorrow our troubles will be over despite the fact that we've lived through a billion or more tomorrows and nothing has changed since yesterday. we drive cars on freeways instead of carts on dirt roads. we look down from space like god from aboe and still point our fingers at one another.
    hello?
    anybody home?
    nobody but us chickens. pecking the ground and squawking and flapping our wings trying to fly at the slightest unfamiliar sound or movement.

    question of balance.
    doesn't one feel small?
    mirror on the wall.
    biggest fool of them all.
    so much going through his head and nothing going through his head.
    what did he create?
    who did he create?
    himself?
    anyone?
    what was he created by?
    who was he created by?
    a question of balance. one cannot exist without the other. yet each seeks the other's destruction it seems. and here were are caught on the head of a pin dancing like angels at angles.
 
    a form of language.
    the earth energy. powers of the air. catalyst.
    negative.
    positive.
    stimulate. bothered. irritation. mental. spiritual.
 
    and he goes back to the restaurant. we are all sitting there as before. he takes out a sheet of paper and draws sketching a scribbling sketch of a witch.
    you're still here, god said.
    i went away for awhile, he replied.
    i know.
    you know what i wanted to do to you?
    yes.
    do you know why?
    there was nothing to stop you.
    but i couldn't. not again. i'm always killing somebody.
    guilt perhaps - or shame? it shrugged.
    yeah - maybe. i was just tired of it. but it would have felt good.
    does that bother you?
    i don't know. it would have if i had done it to real people. but as far as i know none of you are real.
    and if i told you we would have felt pain just as much as real people?
    yeah, i guess. if i thought that. maybe i had my doubts.
    but you still would want to?
    yes.
    just as you want to do it to real people?
    i fantasize about it.
    and?
    well, i don't know. should i feel that way? should i feel love instead? isn't that the goal?
    it would depend on what you think love is.
    that's what i don't know. it is suggested that love is or involves sacrifice - giving. i don't know what i have to give anyone. anything i value i keep for myself. i don't care who gets what's left.
    yes?

    and slipping into another sort of dream. on and on.
 
    we pull it over on them. they don't and won't take the time to think beyond what's happening beyond their immediate gratification schemes. we play them out.
    they fall for it. they never realize that we invented all of it. all the schemes of this and that and the other thing. all of it. all that we dream up and imagine for them to aspire to and fight over. it never occurs to them that we might be taking over the whole planet.
    one thing leads to another and another and on and on until even those who devote their lives to unraveling it lose track of it. there's nothing to track because technically none of it exists. we got them to put it together for us themselves. when it comes too close we diviert their attention elsewhere - all the others they blame for it all. not us. who are we? no one. we lead them by the nose and other parts of their body along paths they are willing to follow and obey guided by their selfish greed. we promise them anything and everything and deliver nothing. as long as the work gets done we don't care.
    and it all works with time. time eating itself alive. time running out of time.
    and god. our greatest invention yet.
    who would have thought?
    all working on the same clock in different times. all worshipping the same god with different names. we have them armed and ready for the big fight for the finish.
 
    11/29?
    confessions of an idiot. a geek. eat more chicken than any man ever seen. lifetime to lifetime.
    blood. mutant genetic strain.
    playing god for thousands of years. can anyone imagine how hard that was? passing on the memory. and we sunk it all beneath the ocean. it was never there to begin with. can one imagine what it does to sink an entire contenent? floods and all stuff like that. havoc with the weather for awhile.
    anyway, we all know who we are now - though not right away. it takes awhile for our memory to surface through all the cultural conditioning dada placed upon us from birth to death in whatever culture we find ourselves in. many never make it. one may remember while another does not.
    and one of us can spot another one of us right off - even briefly passing on the street. a nod and a wink. one just knows.
    one becomes aware that one is different though one may not quite know why or how. then one must learn how to either isolate oneself or to infiltrate the others. one becomes invisible either way. in this way we can be anywhere at any time.
    ha! this is such a crock o' shit. don't believe a word of it.

    keeping the magick alive. waiting for the place and time to come.
    quack.
    lost in the woods following the piper calling the tune we hear in our minds.
    nevermind.
    all and everything sunk to the bottom of our consciousness to rise again where and when the place and time is right. here and now.
    rising through memory.
    bringing light and darkness to the world.
    and maybe hitler too.
    or maybe someone whispering in his ear.
    or something.
    or anyone.
 
    he sits still in the kitchen. it's 3:32 am and that ufo's been casting colored changing spectral light in the garden since - was it yesterday? the day before? a week? a month? when? since whenever. or maybe it's not there at all.
    another death.
    and pigs.
    nowhere.
    sperm count.
    open wound.
    abuse.
    fear.
    top to bottom.
    hot spot.
    around.
    maybe.
    sleep/no sleep.
    blues/no blues.
    dada/no dada.
    etc.

    that deaf, dumb and blind kid.
    another cigarette. talking among familiar faces. look around. forlorn. a wakeful eye. bygones. honor among theives.
    port watson. everywhere. volcano.
    golden dog. jumping.
    and the day that never comes. holding breath. a scarf. siren. streets.
    a comedy of errors.
    and actually it has nothing to do with atlantis at all. he just made that up. did he? what? who we are is an ultra ultimate adaptive species which is not really a species at all but which mimics whatever species is best suited to whatever environment we may find ourselves in.
    and a few odd millions of years ago we sized up this particular ape species as the most likely to succeed and become the top of the heap of the animal world. so we slipped into its dna and went along for the ride.
    that we are human is basically irrelevent. we could be a dog, a cat, a goat, a toad, a tree, a virus - whatever.
    we could be a rock for that matter.
    we could be a styrofoam cup.
    we could be a nuclear warhead.
    and some of us are just that.
    and we don't know what to do with these ape-humans. they've been more or less organized as civilizations for about 10,000 years or so give or take and what have they done since then?
    fight an ongoing series of wars that has been one long continous war over petty nonsense. that's the sum total of their accomplishments whatever serves the war effort.
    through the mirrors.
    and they're intelligent enough - no problem there. but there's something missing. something in their brain chemistry or something maybe.
    and we've pretty much gone along with a policy of non-interference - sort of. we've placed things along their path within their grasp. fire - the plow - the wheel - the spoon - etc. but we've pretty much have left them alone to develop as they may otherwise.
   we've meanwhiled the time away going to other worlds and stuff. watching and waiting for them to catch up.
    anyway - except until recently that is. yonder about the past 100 years or so when it became quite obvious that they were on their way to becoming extinct. so we had to take more drastic measures rather than wait and see. we did things like introduce lsd and stuff like that to speed up the evolutionary process. but there's too many random factors. warp drive. who knows? time will tell what catches up with what. action/reaction. contra-action/reaction
    and maybe we should have left well enough alone from the start. let them die off from the start - or just kept them as pets.
 
    11/30
    it's nothing.
    he's so bored that he'll make anything up at this point to amuse himself. is that it?
    again watching and waiting.
    desire.
    words.
    and he could paint a painting. would it be the same thing? people insane. setting up conditions for nothing to happen. he doesn't know.
    he doesn't know. it comes down to that. he doesn't know nothing. he can't see what right in front of his face so he makes up whatever out of thin air of imagination.
    he hears the call dancing through the night. signal. does anyone hear it?

    a mission.
    everybody's on a mission. all part of the plan - the project. the machine. and it's nothing. those just trying to get away with living their lives day to day - weekend to weekend. they don't see it. they don't want to see it. they don't even look in that direction. it's nothing. everything is fine. nothing's going wrong. it's nothing.
    today. worry about tomorrow. hate the past. love. kisses in the dark. sweet romance. holding hands. snuggling down the street. a chance that someone understands. it's hard when it's ripped apart. is that the main concern?
    strange word. all the strange words. all the words are strange.
    in a state of waiting. what is he doing here? the same old question asked by millions or billions through timeless ages. what the fuck? without answers. silence. he knows the explanations. he knows the reasons and the causes and the effects. he knows the trappings of expectations. and so what is he left with when it's all been cleared away?
    something. a beginning. an ending. a middle. sign on the bottom line. waiting. be here now. replacement. representative. a note. a letter.
    the phone rings somewhere. no one answers it.
    wait.
    stop.

    so as usual he's wondering what he's writing about. nothing easy. nothing much. ho-hum. just taking up space and time.
    the void.
    memory.
    always splitting between the two or three - this and that and the other thing.
    one divided.
    it.
    it's a hat. a hat is it. how to explain. there's not much to explain. not too much that anyone wouldn't already know or could figure out if one thought about it. but why think about it? keep on with what one is doing.
    he thinks about it. it thinks about it. he breaks it down. it breaks him down. god of fire and light. a god. an angry god. god has nothing to do with it and it has nothing to do with god. god has its part to play in the grand scheme of things as they are and will be. that's all. and god does play a part to the human mind. the idea of god down through the ageless ages. or something. screaming in each other's face. the war is on. long live victory. god is on our side. god and anti-god. both of them the cosmic fools. it is amused by their eternal antics that make the whole created universe shake, rattle and roll. fucking and making babies. death.
    both god and anti-god die in each other's arms. both die alone. both die at the other's hand. both are dead. it is magick.
    wake him to the light and the dark. let him see to the right and the left. let him become undivided unto himself. let him dance away.
    so the point to it is that there is no point. get it? it is the point in being pointless. there is no point to anything else but it. one cannot find it because one never lost it. it is all and everywhere. that's why there can't be any point to it.
    it is a dog. a dog is it. it is the slice of lemon on the bottom of his water glass.
    it.
    but it is no thing. one cannot look for it anywhere because it is everywhere. a clue. daddy dada dogma. it is the point and the point of it is that it is pointless. it is a colorless rainbow - though that is utterly meaningless as it is intended to be in order to confuse one all the more. as it is that cofusion that is the realization of it as the less one understands the more one understands. yup. an island out in the middle of the sea that has no middle. it can be found in a garbage can. it can be found in a cesspool. it can be found in a puddle of acoholic bum vomit on the sidewalk. it can be found in the pus spotted on a bathroom mirror from a squeezed pimple. it can be found in the sparkle of the crown jewels. it can be found in the flashing smile of a starlet. it's all the same.
    this is the wonder and delight of it. this is what makes it so nifty keen. forget everything that makes one stick their nose in the air looking for the pie in the sky. it doesn't matter who or what is good or evil. everything is interchangeable. it transcends all that dada and exposes it for what it is.
    86.
    hair tied back and a stiff cracked grin. and him? who is he? who he is nothing to anyone scribbling in some corner in a cafe while one chatters about the latest thing to hit the market.
    whoosh!
    one word as good as another. he doesn't pay that much attention to them. why should anyone else?
    laughing all the way.
    a clown.
    nevermind.
    reaching for it with it. it is the hand that reaches for it and also the process of reaching for it. and who cares what the difference is? let the others fight about it. he's just here to watch the show and laugh at himself most of all.
    to be a fool. to be willing to be and play the fool.
    mommy.
    daddy.
    sister.
    brother.
    it. all but it is not it. though all of it is it.
    and uncle joe.
    and aunt marie.

    the first and the last. and the circle unbroken but never completed. and the meek inheirting an earth in utter ruin trashed to hell.
    and all he's got now is this stupid notebook and his favorite pen, a cup of coffee, a pack of cigarettes and an empty stomach.
    and acid.
    he ain't thinking about much of nothing at all. sometimes.
    mega-death weponary - satellite communications - art fags - a spoon - a kitchen table - shoes for industry - broken hearts - moonlight - tea for two - a shadow in the closet - sugar - mind slaves - his unweildy prick made its way toward her gaping cunt or vice versa.
    a scam. a delusion of pure logic. a wisdom based on ignorance. justification. rug. ashtray. envelope. broom. zoom. eyeball.
 
    and ok - maybe he has this figured out a little better now or not. maybe. first - forget the atlantian stuff. well, don't forget it entirely - kinda maybe sort of put it on hold or something because he's working on this genetic virus theory now. it's been thought of before. something from outer space maybe. like language being a virus sort of. ok? and it's sort of like how the neo-nazis say race mixing is genocide because it is sort of. that's what we have in mind - extermination of race and race consciousness. those who maintain their race at the exclusion and expense of others will become extinct.
    the virus transmitted as mutation.
    let's be frank - sort of.
    something as strange and bizarre as that and dada.
    dada is the code word.
    dada is the virus and the virus is dada. we have become human and are transcending being human.
    life is the virus and the virus is life. life evolving and mutating through the life and death of life itself. light and shadow of the greater light.
    spewing forth enzyme nonesuch cat food resembling life dada.
    we draw back the curtain and catch the god and goddess clutching at each other in energy particle thing in an uncertainity priciple daisy chained orgy of mutual orgasm approaching ecstasy vibrating om smooth motion grace of spheres just like in the movies as well as clumbsy and crude and smelly and hairpulling and elbows in eyes and twisted logic as real life down and dirty back seat teen-age hormonal lust s-e-x.
    and as the god and goddess sit up and light up cigarettes.
    it.
    or some cosmic trash such as that. and he doesn't know. it all goes wrong. cut, shouts the director. retake.
    this is fun. he hopes one can realize at least that.
 
    dada is shit. the human consciousness perception of reality is toilet paper. read it like tea leaves.
    puke.
    lick up the blood.
    and we'll use any ways and means to get to them. bring them down. tear it up. drive them mad.
    they've driven us mad and we've survived. we thought we'd return the favor. maybe they'll suvive and maybe they won't. they depend on themselves being sane and rational so much. who knows?
    mission from hell commanded from heaven. to obliterate both. to use one against the other.
    fuck god.
    fuck satan.
    fuck them all.
    we are the newborn orphaned from birth run out of all camps worldwide in the streets.
    and no one gets it. maybe that's because one is desperately searching for something to get.
    one can't get it unless one's got it. got the virus maybe. and the only one who can say if one has got it or not is oneself. but one doesn't get it unless it's in black and white. unless it's defined.
    take a side and die with the rest.
    rah-rah-rah.
    zap!
    it'll be over before one knows it and it won't hurt a bit. right in the comfort of one's own home. push the button.
    dada sez put one's hands on one's head and surrender to one's own senselessness.
 
    telephone.
    drumbeat.
    lazy and useless.
    quit one's job and join the evolution revolution rolling and tumbling under the covers fucking its brain out. shut up with one's manifesto reguritations and take off one's clothes and get down on the floor with the rest of us, baby.
    suck and be sucked. point one's finger up one's asshole and twirl on it is the only revolution worth dancing to. don't point it at us and our friends. we'll bite it off and spit it back in one's face. and one has to figure out who's our friend and who isn't.
    we love our enemies.
    if we never see one again it will be too soon, as they say it the cartoons.
    we love one like there's no tomorrow.
    no tomorrow.
    the future is for losers.
    we've discovered the truth by listening to one's lies.
    give up.
    walk away from it.
    go home.
    crawl into a hole and die.
    bite the big one.
    love love love.
    zero landscapes. nuke it. jesus in an anti-radiation suit counting up the dead to be loaded on the trucks and taken to the promised land.
    streets of gold. bring one's own lunch. a pillar of salt.
    and stop us if we're going too fast.
    on a roll here.
    roll on.
    out of gas but it's all down hill from here.
    wheels.
    crazy shit.
    crazy mothers.
    daddy.
    daddy.
    daddy.
    when will we ever stop to think that there ain't nothing to think about?
    keep on keeping on.
    bogus dada.
    anti-dada.
    bugs.
    flesh sweating and slippery sliding body to body and tongues and oozing genital mucus glop.
    saints preserve us.
    all's fair in love and war.
    nothing to laugh at.
    nothing to sneeze at.
    graveyard lingo. pull one's pants up and wait for the rapture.
    o' woe.
 
    fuzztop. bent. aperture.
    up jesus!
    hoopla oink oink.
 
    and back to his theory that he still now developing at this very moment as he scribbles out these here words wondering about his useless existence in tvland.
    ouch!
    and how come he doesn't care about the pain. he doesn't care who gets hurt. somebody's gotta pay the price - right?
    he hauls back to the mining town where he forgot he had the child from omelas all the time as it once was and is still again here and now. forget it kid. he wants his paradise and he wants it now.
    the dead.
    he flies back to omelas and wakes everyone up. they were only sleeping in jesus. put this place back together the way it was. it was only a bad dream. all in its place including this sniveling brat back in the cellar. he slams the door and bolts it and walks away from the screaming and pounding little fists and the sobs and the silent accptance of fate.
    at least it's not him. no, not him. he's one of the chosen. he can't take credit for that but he'll take the reward.
    he goes outside. the most beautiful woman he's ever seen stops her equally beautiful gray horse in front of him. he looks around. everything more beautiful than beauty itself. he looks back at her drifting toward her bedroom eyes.
    just like in the movies.
    this is more like it.
    no more monster nightmares. got that locked up tight. and how.
    child? what child? anybody seen a child around here?
    not him. never. all present and acounted for.
    just a dream. an island in the sun.
 
    are you sure about what you're doing? asked thing.
    no, i'm not sure, he said.
    he lights another cigarette.

    nonsense of nonsense.
    he was in a fit of enlightenment. he was clearly invisible. he was possessed by nothing. he was an idiot unleashed loose on a treasure hunt in his own zero-based mind that disappeared each time he tried to think about it.
    formulation (again).
    event.
    action.
    noise.
    obliterate the ego and find out that one doesn't know what one has got till it's gone. egghead. laughing.
    he'd shaped things into whatever he needed now. he took it over. it was his. he observed it perform tricks for him as he desired. his desires were free of the stigma of guilt. nothing happened at all.
    what happened then is anybody's guess. imagination. a suggestion of imagination. a sugesstion of passion - whim - desire.
    fear.
    the most hideous demon from hell transmutated into the most beautiful angel from heaven.
    what are these things between us?
    nothing.
    something.
    anything.
    everything.
    he just wants to see one smile. not one of those fuck off smiles - not a come on smile - not a smile of secrets - not a smile of ignorance - not a smile of gloried victory.
    a smile.
    just that.
    a thing between us.
    an understanding.
    and if he has to flip off inside his skull to find it, then...
    maybe we'll meet someday. maybe. maybe one will wake up one night by the light of the moon, a streetlight, a ufo, and there will be a shadow in the next room. a shadow pouring a cup of coffee and lighting a cigarette. a shadow who couldn't sleep. a shadow who lives in a dream. a shadow who wants to talk, who wants to listen, who wants to dance - who wants to fuck like a rabbit on acid melting through the fever breaking mind back and ahead to zero and then some into the eternal infinity forevermore in each and every direction especially those without direction but remain nowhere.
    or maybe not.
    he walks along this road. it's night. there is a fat full moon. whoosh. his mind is smooth and clear.
    surf.
    he keeps coming back somewhere.
    his own image in the mirror.
    god made us in its own image.
    me.
    myself.
    i.
    mirror.
    opposite.
    we look for our own reflection in one another.
    don't we?
    attraction.
    this and that and the other thing.
 
    and then it comes.
    realtime.
    awakening.
    a moment of confusion before order reorders itself at the scene of the crime.
    his crime is himself. he is the villain. he is the victim. everyone else are just innocent bystanders as he attempts to enact his own destruction.
    or something like that.
    what is the thing here?
    a hesitation.
    active.
    passive.
    act.
    pass.
    action.
    passion.

    what news?
    a spoon. spooning. concave. convex.
    dead air.
    an opening.
    penetrate of be penetrated.
    all penetration is rape.
    how else does he explain these things to anyone?
    penetrate one's consciousness with words.
    what comes across? what excuses does he need to make? what reasons? what promises? what threats?
    he smiles.
    perfect.
    ideal pure form. attainment. the crown. the apex disappearing into a point that is infinite in its finiteness.
    nonsense. double nonsense.
    illusion.
    delusion.
    a whip. black leather hip boots. a kiss. a mask.
    crack!
    chains.
    ropes.
    molten lead.
    a razor edged anal virbrator.
    he dug back in his closet and found all manner of things.
    he puked up the thing between us.
    bite.
    muzzle.
    bitch.
    bastard.
    cunt.
    prick.
    taking care of business.

    12/4
    sometime soon.
    sometime in a fantasy.
    sometime later.
    dream on, says the voice from hell.
    dream on. come on. where is one now? slip away. downtime. other voices.
    zero.
    between.
    one.
    bells. pavlov dog. artist. mr. jones. biting the spoor. listen. hat.
    there are certain people chosen by a sequence of random possibility. coincidence. the forest moves. a calling out of names in space/time. spectrum configuration. sensory input. get up and go. we sit in this dense jungle. we operate from distant command where they relax in big round chairs and play a game of chance. lists of the dead. this year.
    desert.
    come across. blue.

    and falling from grace. above. a ladder. a thigh. clock time. real time. dream time. juxtaposition. hair. stuffing it in like it was nothing. always something about hair. who would think of a thing like that? thing. between. down. a chair next to a window. a beam of light. please wait to be seated. the night comes. 43. newspaper. and now and again we are woken by a sound. we lie with eyes open. off somewhere. wings flapping. stone the crows. ice. nine.
    10.
    11.
    12.
    thirteen.
    thirteen children.
    thirteen dancing.
    thirteen in.
    thirteen meadows.
    thirteen of.
    thirteen desire.
    thirteen and.
    thirteen pain.
    thirteen following.
    thirteen the.
    thirteen surprise.

    and a foundation in hell.
    and all manner of meaninglessness captured alive into an awaiting death. who would think of such a thing? what such thing would one think of? not him. all of the not him neverminds who eat at the same table in a flash of memory. treelined. a saving savior. a savings account. and those who run the show. quickly. drop of a hat. changing the round about. a semblance of chaos. eating the flesh of the wicked gone mad from absorbtion of their desire into themselves such that it erupts vacantly through the wink of an eye.
    do not notice anything. do not say no too quickly. dust. we want our planet back. back where? back from what? who?
    got it down to the concrete and flies. guts. once a day. a cigarette.

    an unknown substance.
    a play of words.
    the sky is falling again.

    a year of 10,000 days begins in drop of water. fluidity between hope and despair. recurrent theme. and desire. and a wish. something real and true. eyes. touch. an envelope of pleasure and pain. nerve endings. or the mind. or the heart. or the soul. but of course there are no such things as these. of a mysterious pride.
    a soul. a beginnging without an end and an end without a beginning. yes - the soul does not exist. it cannot exist. yes - nothing but the soul exists.
    transform. to argue without logic against logic itself. then charge the widmill. to laugh at the sky. to plunge down a well to taste the sweet cool waters of hell to quench the taste of lifetimes spent searching in deserts for remnents and artifacts of a god who has vanished from the face of the earth without a word to the wise. without something to stand on. without consent.
    a feast. flesh. raped by devils this god has left to watch over us. war. disease. and they worry about details while the structure is rotten. it's been standing far too long without being finished. exposed. a summer's rain could bring it down.
    and he wonders again how do we communicate with the same words that mean nothing and everything? nothing needs to be. just the recognition that it is not. just a smile - a wink - a nod - in the dark.
    and he is alive whether he is dead or not. sleep. forgetting. we expect the pain before we feel it. a simple phrase to turn in our minds to wonder. rebuilt. paradise bathed in blood.
    light another cigarette.
    slip into something a bit more comfortable as it slips away.
 
    luxury. a feast of poverty. that's nice. twice. peanut butter sandwich. and a concern here among the others seems to be about what political concerns there may be about what disguise is used to perform a much needed service for the people. removal. face. mask. operation. scapel.
    in the breed of our mutant race trying just to keep warm in the shade. fire escape. downstream. feed. candle.
    and thing comes along and says, i know what it's like. i know that there is nothing that i or anyone else can do for you or nothing you or anyone can do for me. we are stuck here with a situation constantly changing around us and ourselves changing with it. who we are is shaped by the other. i become you as you become me. we stop ourselves. we look for a beginning. we step along the edge jagged by the descrepency of our seperate perception. i do not know so many things. i do not understand what things i do know or how or why i know them.
    thing, he said, this is what plagues us all. that is our design.

    12/6
    a design among designs. designed by design. patterns of non-pattern in the dust and clay. the absolute of dada. something is something while it could be anything. something has to be something. maybe.
    calculated by design.
    and anyone can say, i invented dada. a valid remark by the fact that it is invalid.
    and someone can say, by the grace of dada i invented the wheel. the nature of event. the possibility of design. an empty bag.
    and it can be said, do i know nothing at all? am i not reasonable and responsible?
    these who are directed by design who perform the simple tasks with simple understanding. those who merge their activity into a merged mono direction.
    and it could be said, i invented the world and all possible worlds like this one that exist in the folds of spacetime.
    the mind of design. the design of the mind.
    and maybe it is said, kneel before me. i am your god. i take shape and form. i create design. i create myself into the design. i am created by the design i create.
    self portrait.
    fix.
    the burning bush speaking i am that i am.
    the mass killer giggling to himself.
    hyper-nonsense. to return. to speak. one symbiotic process. gone. knee jerk. panel discussion. a match struck. simple. he hears it on the lips of thousands. he hears it on the radio - on the television - on the telphones - ongoing conversations. a poem of noise. a poem of thought. purity.
    sequence.
    a cake.
    a device. a design by device. a device by design. put the two together. get it back together by taking it apart. into something. into nothing.
    eat it. two.
    open to the flames.
 
    and he communicates a state of mind. madness.
    and he's writng this thing and it's scattered all over the place.
    he waved his hands and white crows appeared flying in circles.
    go! he commanded them.
    and he thought, there are too many of us to count. it is somewhat troubling. i am in too many places at once. and time is all out of whack.
    as he was wadding up another drawing design he didn't like when...
    whirlwind bedroom spirialed through the open settling dust reassembled nostrils bolt of lightning chest lifted filled clear eyes rubbed complete fetal curled could not reach somewhere frozen in amazement dark room panal slid open the angel panel slid shut vanished dimenisional greet house doorway into a down to behind part of the problem worst now turned around the solution sit down to the side another figure fireplace exactly hidden otherwise dark light waiting coming chair smiled briefly and turned away.
 
    and someone saw the white crow among the pigeons in the park.
    someone: look
    anyone: what?
    someone: that crow there - it's white.
    anyone: that's not a crow. crows aren't white.
    someone: what is it then?
    anyone: i don't know.
    someone: it's a crow. picture it black. it's exactly like a crow. what else could it be?
    anyone: ok. it's a white crow. so what?
    someone: so what? what do you mean, so what? think about it.
    anyone: what's there to think about?
    someone: you don't think it's strange to see a white crow?
    anyone: well, i suppose it it, but what of it?
    someone: look past it. look into it. look around it and beyond it.
    anyone: what are you talking about?
    someone: forget it. ok?
    anyone: ok don't get all upset.
    someone: i'm not upset. excited maybe, but not upset.
    anyone: it doesn't mean anything.
    someone: i can understand why you feel that way.
    anyone: do you?
    someone: yes. it's very easy to understand you. there's nothing to you at all.
    anyone: maybe there's more to me than you think.
    someone: i doubt it.
    anyone: i just might surprise you someday.
    someone: i would be surprised if you did.
    anyone: and maybe that someday is today.
    someone: is it?
    anyone: wait here.
    and anyone walked over to where the group of pigeons were pecking the ground and strutting around where the white crow was. the pigeons flapped away. the white crow stood alone. anyone picked it up and carried it back to someone. he stood before someone and bit off the head of the white crow and spit it in someone's face. it hit someone in the forehead and exploded. someone fell backward into pools of ecstasy vibrating through the universe.
    anyone: see - i told you.

    rearranged circular high the room made it sunken center counter-clockwise interesting right meter in the spaces more lay behind perimeter dark figure stood stumbled late hey along tuna melt through the door want except the child stopped on the way styrofoam box sit down find out asked psychic between four to go a time t-shirt a time happen picture people's faces there is 17.
    the press.
    the invitation.
    what do is quiet everyone stupid now with this speaking well know what a mess any of this who any the other night is turning into or out of scared checking on two of claimed other people real world true about presense here in question whether it is a character somewhat go around story some dada anima perhaps both represents the child again perhaps real?
    speaking from the dead.
    and what?
    a cockroach.
    a cockroach crawling through the remains of a megacomputer leftover from the destruction and somehow still functioning. a cockroach crawling as others are crawling or have crawled and will crawl completing circuits unknown. insect intelligence linking with this automatic binary beast and calling up files. calling up a memory. a remembering in cockroach cyberspace that maybe this all it was to begin with anyway.
    turn turn turn.
    spin, baby, spin.
    dig it.
    slogging through the wastland of thought and ideas and imaginary things.
    and he thinks sometimes of what this all represents. he sits in the kitchen in the house on the island. he sits in the cafe. he draws pretty designs of the machine. he writes pretty words of the machine.

    why?
 
    the end.
    the beginning.
    the point of no return.
    the island. the last stronghold. the last outpost.
    the sea.
    the sea of too many faces.
    where and when does the island begin and end?
    the i am.
    popeye.
    is he taking this seriously yet?

    and home.
    no place like home.
    his home.
    this island where and when no one can reach him like brazil. perfect isolation. no one can hurt him or cause him pain or unhappiness.
    what more does he need?
    and he can conjure up anyone he wants to. as many as he wants.
    he wants no one. just thing.
    a place to shit in peace.
    untouched. unbotherd. untroubled.
    ka-boom! goes the rest of the world.
    he stares into the leaping flames of the fire.
    he lights another cigarette.

    a pit.
    he faces the faces around him. these faces he's made up for his own amusement. make up his mind.  he makes up his face to face himself in the face he faces - face to face.
    and another moment. and a monkey turning the key to the cage. listening. be specific. and around tables of talk talk about this and that and the other thing.
    another cigarette.
    another cigarette.
    another cigarette.
    roulette wheel. another number. lose or gain. look at the sky one last time and maybe a memory will begin to lead him to look at the sky one last time. until he is hit by that truck. fuck. down again. another number. pick a number from zero to one. take one's time. don't forget. try to remember.
    and he loses himself off on some dada trash in his head while there's all these other things loose in realtime. another time. finance. bank machines. another number. winners and losers.
    and most don't know how much just plain old dumb luck has a bearing on the most logical conclusion.
    headache. function. pain and money. honey. baby. smart ass punk yapping like a neo-prophet not quite hanging onto the fact that there ain't no prophets left. there ain't no more to predict. this is it. fulfillment zap!
    dogma. madog. arf!
    down. sit.
    and if what one knows is where one is at. hold on. it's scary. it's delightful. crazy shit. what's happening?
 
    keep it going. through the fog of dogma. people complaining. people dreaming. people not here or now. a mouthful of cocolate on the bottom of his double espresso mocha.
    nothing. not one thing and not the other or the other thing. explanation. wishing.
    and he's here and now. radio. more or less close shave. and he's thinking. he's thinking about what he is not thinking. what is he not thinking? something. blank. no one speaks much. waiting for something to begin. just like anyone else. just like everyone. just something else to talk about.
    end it.
    and if he remembers back when he's trying to remember when he was thinking of ending this with the whole world blowing itself up. if this is just a story. but maybe that's happened. maybe that's the case. the most horrible thing imaginable. he can imagine it. he imagines it all the time. nothing to it. he doesn't care. all these dreams coming to an end. idiot. magick.
 
    insurance claims. voices. the nevermind neverminding itself. whatnot. bring it down. setting it in place. and perhaps he could explain. maybe he can never explain. maybe he doesn't want to explain. maybe no one doesn't want it explained.
    he takes it on. he feels it. he knows where it comes from and where it goes. finding it alive.
    and no one understands it seems like. random. years and years of senseless thought. he is a spectrum spectre. opening. a prayer.
    he is guided. he is brought into it as it brings him into itself. he is one as it is one. he and it are the same one. and this is not just himself but for everyone if they would realize it. he is not a representative. his life is no one's life as no one's life is his.
    there is the common ground - the place we all stand for whatever cause and for whatever reason.
    beyond myth. beyond himself. nothing more than lies one must decide what is truth or not.
    there is no purpose to his writing beyond the writing itself - the act of writing.
    his home is in his heart. our heart. one's heart. all beating together in different time. continual.
    what does any of this matter what it means or not? what meaning? what purpose? how have we set ourselves against one another?
    there is peace and we call out for war. a place and time. a moment.
 
    access.
    turn it on.
    down.
    the same words over and over. nothing changes. he sees their faces twisted with what has been, what will be, what is.
    our language is not the same. walls of words. he cannot look at anyone. he is ashamed of who they see him as. perhaps they are right.
    he attempts to clarify things between us. maybe this cannot be done. maybe there is too much darkness of formlessness and shapelessness where we imagine monsters we mistake for one another. maybe this and maybe much else.
    maybe.
    so this world goes on until it ends. will it ever end? when? how does this happen to begin with?
    the same questions written out in every language we have devised. dust of thousands of years layered upon them.
    another cigarette. come on now. napkin. he is led away. he is gone from the others and their ways. the light. working toward the light as we seek comfort in the darkness.
    vengence. revenge. an anger never satisfied. beyond forgiveness. beyond thought. burning inside. rage.
    he looks into the flames. he remembers being on a farm. a nice place to be. he leaves himself there. he wants nothing more. picture a farm. picture him sitting at a kitchen table. picture him walking down country roads, trough the fields, into the woods. picture him putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger. picture oneself.
   nevermind.