and opening. a nothing. a beginning. robot.
    and now still the same thing of not knowing what to write or not.
    don't know nothing much about nothing.
    it is what it is.
    getting revved up or something.
    a play.
    follow a path.
    ha?

    calling it up and calling it down.
    a lot of things have changed and nothing has changed. he doesn't know. but why does he feel like he needs to know something? what good does knowing anything do? look at all these people who know things - all sorts of things. what good does it do them? what good are they doing? they're always fighting and they've been fighting since as far back as far back seems to go.
 
    an earth frozen. comments. comets. here we go again into a darkness unperceived. into a light that is blinding and binding. a major force. a development. is he just witnessing what has been witnessed before? what has been witnessed before? what was it that was described? a knife edge. a point no longer returned to. an opening.
    what is the message here? what is this place and time? what is what?
    and nevermind that. everybody, take one's stance. forward march. the flag of one's consciousness flying. believe. leave us.
    alone. no one to talk to. nothing to talk about. about their lives. he does not understand. it was alive once - or maybe not. is it now? can we see it at the same time as being what it is?
    the dimensions of one's thoughts. if we could believe as they do. if we could have faith. our own failure. our own defeat. a parting glance. a downward trend. hopelessness.
    the disease that comes to us now. of unhappiness. of sneers and frowns.
    what more is expected now? it seems as though it is nothing.
    and it is him. now we leave him though we can never leave him really. to lose ourselves in the crowd. something. as we try to figure out the dynamics of this. to be here alone with it. all their books and schools, all their money, all their political actions, all their armies, all their gods, all of them and here we are alone. what do we conclude? what do we surmise? what does our logic and reason tell us?
    we leave it to him to decide.
    he wakes up.
    a green teddy bear that tells him to kill people. that's what he told the doctor. that was what the doctor wanted to hear. so he told her. this was what the doctor believed in. he could fathom that he was just a more or less regular guy who was in the position he was in because he had been fucked over by by the system the doctor was integrated with and depended on to survive. this was beyond her comprehension. she could only believe that he was here because he was nuts and was hearing voices and stuff. he realized this and gave her what she needed to keep her own sense of reality intact. he realized she needed a sense of reality more than he did. that was why she was the doctor. so he told her his green teddy bear that his daughter had given him told him to kill people. she wrote it down. it's now in his official government file.
    and now the bear is missing. he lost it on the train downtown. who knows who it's telling to kill people now? he knew better. he knew that the idea of a little green teddy bear telling him to kill people was silly. but who knows if the next person will know that.
 
    a time of times.
    such times as these. and should we be concerned?
    the main brain. the idea of the idea. and if we were to be concerned, what are we to be concerned about? ourselves? others? who? and what? what is it here? is just our own breakdown? should we stop it, or let it go? try to follow it and be guided by it to wherever and whenever it goes to? but what if it is something outside ourselves? what then?
    he doesn't know. he doesn't even know if there is anything to be concerned about here at all. he's just making it up as he goes along. he just doesn't know.
    if he could ask someone. but how? he can't explain. he can't describe what may be incredibly wonderful or horrible.
    he doesn't know.
    he goes in and out of it.
    a robot somewhere. remote control. he looks at it and tries to see past it. he listens. what is it he hears? something behind their actions and their speech. something behind their thoughts. or is he imagining things moving in the shadows?
    he tries to get this down. he tries to put as many words to it as he can while it's here in his head and all around him. was it here before? will it remain? will it return? is it even anything?
 
    sit back.
    relax.
    everything is ok.
    nothing to worry about. it's just his worrying mind spinning out fears.
    dreams and images of dreams. dream image.
    time broken. time fractured. dance down it. dance it down.
    and here he sits with these words spilling out of his mind. and who knows why? is there a why? is there a reason? is there a cause? is there a question?
    he plays any part as easily as any other. whatever part they decide for him to play. and they do decide. they choose. he can tell. he doesn't always know what they have decided or chosen for him to play for them. but that they have set it up is perfectly obvious. he sees their moves. he sees their expressions. he hears their voice and what words they use about what they talk about.
    it is what it is. it becomes what it becomes. it is lost as it is found. it comes as it goes. forever.
    gibberish.
    and maybe it's time to go. and maybe it's time to stay. how does he decide if even there is a decision to be made?
    or is he looking into this too far? or do others not look far enough?
    and what this shows him of himself. and what this shows us of ourselves. if it becomes anything.
    he tries not to direct it but to follow it. he lets whatever come into it as he can. but he is sure that there is much he avoids as much as he is drawn to.
    and such endless examination as this is seen as idle nothingness by many and most of all sides involved. so what?
    he takes up space. no more or less than anyone else.
    familiar phrases repeat. repeating as meaningful or as meaningless as anything else repeating. everything repeating.
    and it is something. he doesn't know what it is but here it is. if it has anything to do with another's world, then fine. if not, fine too. whatever. it seems like it doesn't. it seems like he's going through this by himself. if there is any common experience to this he doesn't know what it might be. he writes it down. someone might read it and understand. is that common experience? is there more to it than that?
    he sits here writing. he writes to someone. he has no idea who or where or when they might be.
    the isolation. the isolation of creation. cold. outside each other and ourselves.
    and he is always here and now. sometimes others come by. a momentary connection. a flash of familiarity. then gone.
    that's what it is. should he expect anything more?
    whoosh!
    zap!

    and the anger.
    and the raging anger he feels at those all the way to the top of the chain of command to this god and all who serve it who created this god to serve them in their greed and lust for power they justify with it.
    down.
    all will come down. level it. bring it to us eye to eye. revel it in ourselves and each other.
    and more.
    and he doesn't know.
    and he falls further into the depths of hell this raging anger creates around him. people he despises. people who are demons of possessed by same. insane.
    or is it him?

    and his life going through the veils of illusions. yet is there any more than that? what is perceived beyond that? to what goal does this journey lead or is it just a journey to itself? why not stop? if it is all illusion why not just lose oneself in it? gone. right where and when he is. no more and no less.
    yet this is the battleground. this is where and when the war goes on forever. he must defend himself against the attacks set upon him and fight to survive and stand his ground what little of it is left. as he sees these others do. this is their fate. he does not wish it to become his. they can have it. but what more is there than this?
 
    the idiot wind blowing through the curtains. the grand scheme.
    and he's got it. and he won't tell anyone what it is. he won't give it up. he will die with it.
    a game. a joke. whistling in the dark. a god. gods. something to laugh at. something to call upon to rise above the destruction brought about by mortal desires. fate. beginning. middle. end.
    nothing more and nothing less.
    and he is frightened. he has explored the shadows of the land the moon resides in and found nothing. himself. no more mirrors to tell him who he is and who he is not. where and when existence is pointless.
    that is the joke. when the thing one fears most causes one to laugh. and how would one know if one were not frightened to begin with? what would there be to overcome if there was no obstacle?
    this is what we have not learned. we search for peace where and when it will never be found. we look for it to be somewhere else other time away from ourselves and where and when we are here and now.
    a reminder. a trick of fate. a turn of the card. once. twice. magick.
    and the view narrows. we peer into the mystery through a keyhole instead of flinging open the door.
    up off our knees!
    down with our pants!
    burn all our flags!
    shit!

    zebra.
    gone.
    a boy with a spoon. his parents as guardians of a reality he was never part of. no one knew him. no one recognized him or remembered his name.
    someone else. they created an identity for him and dressed him in it to cover his nakedness. the light too bright.
    and he could be and is anyone.
    jesus. junk. television. disguise. who knows?
    it cracks. the light gets out. quickly it is repaired but it proves unable to hold back the flood that builds inside this vessel pushing against any limit imposed upon it. none are expansive enough to contain all it is.
    the infinity.
    the alpha and omega.
    and whatever form it takes. a shoe. a tree. a dog.
    rug.
    ashtray.
    spoon.
    these are words and words are even less than what they describe. and if what is described is more than what it is then how much more less are the words describing it? nothing comes close.
    yet words and their arrangement can sometimes move beyond what is described, or at least point in that direction.
    a long process of elimination. it's not this. it's not that. it's not the other thing. yet it is this and that and the other thing. it is more than they are or anything else - everything else.
    and so on.
    more word games than one can shake a stick at. and he loves those who pick through them and disprove them with their rationalogic reveling what they know and what they do not know.
    a joke.
    by disproving them they are proven. any words he might put down will not state it any less than any others.
    the sky is green.
    shoes for industry.
    a hat is that on a cat.
    puzmodi dundlequarp exizaltookja.
    plop.
    ka-boom!
    jesus.
    zap!
    whoosh!
    dada...
    ?

    the list goes on. the circus is in town.

    kottog's army made a sweep of the city. trucks were filled with those who had nothing better to do. quickly.
    away. work farms.
    gottok was surprised by his fury rising and how the sun burned hot and drove kottog's army under it to exhaust themselves such that revolution was made and another city fell to its knees.
    the city. the eternal place of time.
    this babylon.
    this jerusalem.
    this eden.
    the fruit is ripe.
 
    and to the island.
    and what becomes of him now? this is the place and time where and when all is lost. he knows they are after him and he knows they will arrive any moment now. they are the future as well as the past.
    it is here and now. that is where and when they cannot come. he occupies this space and time alone. this is his island though there are much more than many like it.
    he is alone. that is where they cannot reach. no one. not himself as who he is.
    a joke.
    a riddle without a clue except the riddle itself.
 
    an elf.
    everything. we were talking about everything here though of course we can only mention an infinitesimal part of it which is no more or less a part of it than any other not of it itself. everything. remember that. because no matter how much one denies this and argues with it or whatever else one may or may not do - even ignore it altogether - it remains as it is. it is true in that it does not need to be true in order to be true. it is what it is. that is its truth. and its truth is a lie.
    a leaf.
    above all things. whoosh! and down it comes to fall to the very depths of depth itself. and it is we who judge it then. it does not judge us or itself.
    come on.
 
    a game of words to show one that there is nothing to these words we use. to show one what these words are unable to describe.
    what is.
    and more and more while there is no more other than more and more of itself.
    itself.
    and he's got nothing else to do. he's as bored as anyone else. ah-choo!
    the devil speaks. and those who fear the devil fear themselves for there is no other than who we are and who we become. so we use the devil to frighten them back to reality.
    boo!
    such delight.
    one can say and do nothing against us. we call out our own names. a game. we act out the will of their god against them.
    action/reaction.
    think again.
    all that they call us becomes another weapon we can use against them. we ourselves are unarmed and harmless. it's the power those names give us that feeds the fear they feel.
    drop it. surrender. though they will not. and they defeat us and then turn on themselves because they cannot live without an enemy. and that is how we defeat them though there is no difference between us. they drew the line. they ate the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil.
    choke on it and die.
    we ate from the tree of life and became the gods.
    each and all.
    we have no further use for them. we got what we came here for.
 
    and this is it. there is nothing else. and one can either live with it or not. open and shut case.
    a breeze.
    mind.
    nevermind.
    a poem without poetry or a poet. what is.
    disease.
    a cure.
    a wink.
    donut.
    rug.
    ashtray.
    spoon.
    repeating ever and forever now.

    of course not all those swept up by kottog's army were gottok's people. most were not. idleness does not automatically include one. idleness with a purpose is our cause.
    most of these were those who fell from grace from kottog's order. they bemoan this as their fate, if only this... if only that... they would repeat to anyone who would listen.
    idleness with a purpose. perhaps idleness itself being that purpose. to play in the devil's playground.

    and the story so far is that we make up any damn thing we want to just to see what one can follow and what one can't.
    chocolate. maybe there's a surprise at the end of it. who knows? maybe one understands this more than we do. though of course who does? the others are too stupid to understand anything beyond what's right in front of their face leading them by the nose any way it wants to.
    sheep.
    rock of ages.
    if it ain't broke, don't fix it. and it wouldn't have lasted as long as it did if it were broke.
    they can bitch all they want to.
    stomp their feet and hold their breath till their face turns blue. nothing changes the fact that everything done to them has been done to them by themselves.
    everything else is a myth. a pretty picture story.
    hello?
    anybody home?
    knock knock.
    sleep.
    and our story is one they will not believe. we've been telling it to them for thousands of years and they choose to ignore it and take pieces of it they can use in their war against one another.
    oh well.
    no skin off our nose.
 
    and he must state here that he is a raving fucking genius. no, really - he is. no kidding. and one doesn't need to agree with him - or disagree either. it's not important. he doesn't give a rat's ass what anyone thinks or not. he just wanted to write that down.
    genius doesn't mean anything. hitler was a genius. so what? big deal. all these people running the system are geniuses - or at least they're not stupid like us.
    what do we do but whine and complain? no wonder they're kicking our ass all over the place.
    eh?
    dig?

    so we drop by to see how it's going. check on the mechanisms we have installed. routine maintenance.
    and another cigarette.
    relax. everything is being taken care of. whoosh! zap?
    like disappearing through the eye of a needle in a haystack.
    guess again. spin the wheel one more time, baby.
    purple.
    dime a dozen.

    and one acid night the world was ending. governments were toppling and the world was breaking out into wars and riots and millions or billions of people were dying in the space/time of a day.
    the shit was hitting the fan. everyone was making their move no holds barred free for all going for the gold primal angst driven shoot out big bang theory.
    ha!
    he was swept away.
    whoosh!
    zap!
    mindshift/ship thing. instant calm hit him. he stopped shaking and a grin grew on his face. he sat back down and watched the world consume itself in the flames of its own self-hatred
    good-bye.
    no place like home.
    he radiated with it and it with him. stone free. waving his freak flag high.
    he laughed. wind in his hair. stepping through a multidimensional doorway that was everywhere and nowhere forever in a fleeting moment.
    displaced. gone. hidden.
    everything was a joke.
    the tv reports of the slaughter, the body counts, the aftermath of a world gone off the edge.
    he had to laugh. he had to slip into something more comfortable.
    it's like nothing is there at all.
    to fly or fall.
    there's nothing there. there is everything to imagine.
    imagine.
    imagine it.
    imagine it oneself.
    we will watch and wait.
    we can convince no one who cannot convince themselves. past reason and logic into imagination. for those who follow their hearts in a heartbeat. for those who sing the song.
    we know who everyone is. we know where and when they are. we know their position and circumstance. we know who and what they are up against.
    when the clocks run out of time. after midnight. when the music's over and the lights are turned out.
    it's time to shine the fuck on. or what?
    and maybe we're wrong. but we can't let it go on the off chance we're right. we're not stating anything one way or the other. it doesn't matter. this is what we have chosen for ourselves as it was chosen for us.
    1000 buddhas.
    bring down the gods and when we realize no one rules above us we are lifted to heights we could only dream of since the dawn of our time. we could hardly imagine what it might be.
    our minds. it's all in our minds. gone. out of our minds on wings of imagination. remembering the heat of the sun and remaining close to the cool of the moon. around and around.
    all turned around inside out and back again.
    birth.
    yesterday's news blowing down the streets of babylon.
    hey!
    and the words spill out so easily here and now as he sits scribbling away into a dream spinning itself in his head left vacant.
    gone, baby, gone.
    they pay him to be gone. paid to be absent.
    not yet.
    wait.
    it will come.
    maybe.
    or it will all march on into oblivion.
    and here he sits. left behind. but that's ok. he likes it here. he likes it now. let it come and go as it will. he doesn't ask for more.
    grin.
    acid grin burning through morning gray haze to an afternoon he'll lay in the sun and watch the clouds drift by. the storm clouds once dark with heavy weather. now fluffy bunnies hopping away over the horizon.
    what an idiot.
    idiot grin.
    hello?
    anybody home?

    maybe not.
    he asks too much. nevermind. he's ok. he hopes everyone else is too. it's ok. ignore it long enough and...
    whoosh!
    zap!
    pop!
    fizz!
    and here we are. dancing. won't anyone dance with us? won't anyone dance with themselves? won't anyone dance with whoever comes this way even how terrible horrible ugly frightening a monster they may appear to be? imagine what one looks like to them.
    hold one's head up high. be proud. look down on those the others who cannot or will not rise to the heights one has attained.
    march on.
    excuse us while we kiss the sky and laugh behind one's back.
    we hide in the closets they're too afraid to look into. they might find themselves. ha-ha-hee-hee-ho-ho!
 
    a darkness around him. he hopes it's the darkest before dawn. but he notices it getting darker. another shot is fired somewhere followed by...
    some day.
    some night.
    the hour will come and all hell will break loose. he tries not to believe this. he tries not to see it. but he looks at the frightened faces and raging anger of many more each day.
    and his own.
    will he go too? will he kill and destroy when it all lets go?
    maybe.
    stay away from him. don't let him fool one into thinking he's a fairly nice harmless guy when the weather's calm. but when the storm comes and it maybe comes to oneself and him who is going to go down. or maybe if we can both cool out and groove our way through it somehow.
    together.
    alone.
    he doesn't know. he's just writing this because he ain't got nothing else to do is all it is as his mind spins itself in tail chasing circles around around.
    in and out.
    up and down.
    and all space/time between and beyond.
    a play of words.

    toward an unknown tomorrow. and yet all tomorrows are unknown.
    something very near. something very far away. something close to life as it is close to death. something not seen or heard but its presence is felt more than what is perceived through the senses as being here and there around him. something that stays with him. it never leaves. he just becomes too busy and involved to notice it sometimes. it's always there when he returns. perhaps it is nothing more than his own reflection bouncing back from his environment. psychic sonar or some such. a gray shadow of both light and dark. neutralized and invisible but still there.
    hello?
    no reply.

    and he exists with it. it neither cares nor doesn't care. it molds itself to what he needs. sometimes giving him what he wants. sometimes showing him what he wants instead of what he thinks he wants. he follows it as it follows him. this is his only guidance. guide dance. dancing with a guide.
    he doesn't know.
    he dreams of many things. he invents whatever he thinks of out of his imagination. he realizes his imagination is infinite. it is limited only by what he can or cannot think of to invent.
    maybe so.
 
    he finds himself here. he finds himself where and when there is no one and nothing to tell him who and what he is. where and when he doesn't have to think of who and what he is. he can understand without having to explain.
    he loses himself here. he forgets to think. he forgets that he has so much to think of that he has to think faster than he can think.
    he slips out awhile. have a smoke while the machine chews itself to pieces welding together in screaming agony or flying off every which way to land broken useless anymore.
    no one to come to fix it. let it die its death. let it find its own peace. he's got his. drifting out of thought and into experience. from i think i am to i am.
    not think.
    go away. leave him alone.
    whoosh!
    zap!
    into and out of thin air.

    and maybe there's a war on. he doesn't know. isn't there always? still to write out these words and words.
    a story.
    a story about beginning and ending. a story about this and that and the other thing. a story about space and time.
    take it down to the source - down to the core. find out how it works. if we can. how do we know when we have or haven't?
    does it even seem to be anything? why bother looking at all? accept it as it is. dada. yet who of us says what it is and what it is not? and are any of us willing to surrender that control over to anyone else?
    ask the questions.
    look at it again.
    lost in space.
    lost in time.
    and an obscure forgiveness of sins supposedly committed. we each call upon our favorite god to cast the others into hell and protect us? we live and breathe this. we give these gods and their human representatives on earth power over us.
    he casts them all out. he calls out their names to strip them down and make them return all they've stolen from us.
    fall.
    twilight.
    good-bye.
 
    so there's something or nothing. there is this or there is that or there is the other thing between all points in space and all moments of time.
    and people. back to people. he ignores people most of the time while spinning around in theories of abstract dada - or so he's been told.
    what is abstract?
    he finds people to be abstract fractured images representative of an inner being split here and there nudes descending staircases or some such. they speak in riddles of themselves and who they think they are and what they think they're doing and where they think they're trying to get to.
    but it's all here and now. that's where he's at. what's so abstract about that? how reality centered does it get than here and now?
    this is it. that's it. abstract nothing. ain't nothing abstract about it at all. not one tiny sub-atomic particle of it. real. as real as it gets. it is the thing of it. anything added to it is what is abstract.
    the sky is blue is abstract.
    so who's fooling who? who's fucking with whose reality? all realities are just as real and just as abstract as any other no matter how much research is done about them otherwise.
    ha!
    he'll be as abstract as he wants to be. because it is the others who are being abstract. he's the one making every attempt he can make considering his faults and limitations as they stand to be as non-abstract as humanly possible. and it's them who have given him a language that is nothing but abstract.
    and is it his fault they believe their perceptions to be real and just because a group of them get together and grunt the same phonetically similar sounds and scribble similar marks on paper that they feel that they have some claim to establish what is real?
    get serious.
    because they don't want to admit that they're fucking each other over nothing but what is abstract and has no basis in the reality that surrounds them as it really is but just represents what it is.
    right?
    maybe. maybe not.
    does anyone care?
    does he?
    nevermind.

    get up and dance. dance the night away until the golden glow of dawn comes receiving us into the light of ever-aware consciousness of what the fuck and then some.
    he sees us as these angel beings with halos radiant about our heads of warm purring thoughts and feelings no longer hidden but named and known and balanced with one another as we each and all are expressions of the interchanging dance we glide through with a newfound inner grace we discover once we get past all our fear.
    flags waving in a field of flags. and of course he is insane and he delights in his insanity and the wonderful beautiful visions it brings to mind out of his mind as he stands naked with it washing around him cleansing off the layers of the dust of ages built upon him like plaster and clay making him into an image stiff and dead as some monstrous representation of himself as perceived by others.
    what?
    yeah - something like that.
    and who else of them can and might say the same likewise of themselves? for it's not him and him alone. he refuses that. he refuses to admit that this is a solitary delusion of his particular variation on a theme of some run of the mill mental disorder. they can take that business someplace else. because he's kinda had his fill of arguing about that though he will argue about it until he drops. and he doesn't see nobody coming up with nothing else except some low level dada about some dreamed up psuedo-real world they've built up around themselves as far back as anyone can remember that every which way they think and try not to think and think of something else to think is based on one big dog eating dog tail chasing circle of blame and revenge and everybody being a victim to everybody else unless they turn around and beat someone else over the head and what fucking difference does that make?
     light another cigarette.

    and what a bunch of shit that is. oh boy. but he digs it. he digs what he sees about what he's trying to write over and over this way and that way and the other way. he'll bark up this tree forever because he knows what's up there. he knows he's got it. doesn't know exactly what it is but...
    just some psychoactive glittering generality but he's pretty certain others can see it too if they would admit it. but that's the problem. no one admits nothing.
    so what is it? what's the deal? we're either already there - here - or we're not. and if we're not then what the fuck are we doing?
    is this the only things we can come up with after however many millions of years of so-called evolution? are we that stupid? we seem to believe we are.
    no fucking way.
    maybe they are but he's not.
    check it out. look at the set up we've set up - set ourselves up in. how much longer are we going to keep putting people above us in one way or the other? he doesn't care which side anyone is on. they're all a bunch of follow the leader fascists whether it's politics, music, art, poetry, sports, stamp collecting, quilting bees - whatever. they're so twisted up into somebody else's idea of what's what that they're too terrified to even breathe too loudly.

    1/10
    as it hits the time gone by. a sneeze. a hat. as the big people attend their big power meetings making jokes to keep their minds off how much destruction they call up with papers their staffs have drawn up with their rubber stamp signatures on them and on and on. oh boy. ho-hum.
 
    as he calls down the names. as he calls up the names.
    and why should he bother. dada. people are insane. locked in boxes of role behavior. wishing.
    and all it is.
    and all it was.
    and all it will be.
    nowhere. the place and the time. to remove oneself from their fantasy reality and find oneself home.
    outside.
    outside inside.
    as they laugh aloud. as their pockets are filled and they are chained to all they possess.
    and the truth like vapor.
    and he still refuses to admit that it is just him and something wrong with his mind.
 
    again - why does he bother? there is no way to describe it without seeming totally stupid and they laugh and walk away. it's obvious that one is out of it. don't know what one is talking about.
    gather.
    gather the information.
    gather the people.
    gather what one can.
    they own this world and all that's in it. leave it behind. and it's all very very old and all very brand new. and no one cares. they'd rather fight their war ongoing with one another. children born into a world of doom. it's all the same. nothing changes as much as it does change.
    dada.
    nothing but dada.

    turn one's back. turn one's face away. here we are again. one finds out who one's friends are as it goes down. as we all go down. losing it.
    and the magick of it. the warmth of an inner fire. glowing coal that can be fanned into flames. burn.
    and another cigarette. light another cigarette. jim. hello. duck. and lose it. lose it all. nothing here to worry oneself about on and on along the way to nowhere. look out. look in. monkey. monkey music. monkey man, woman and child sitting on a fence counting their fingers and toes.
    something magick.
    there ain't no such thing. just a game of words one gets into while lighting cigarettes down by the river gazing into the eyes of those passers-by who've lost their way. knowing that there is no way to be lost if one is here and now. in and out. end of conversation. look around. drop it. drop it all. but there is that that won't leave one no matter what else may come along to take one away through it.
    as god has hardened their hearts. as the wheels turns it under at the end of the season. we interrupt. we stop it and try to hold it back. make it give more than it has to give. as it all makes perfect sense.
 
    and as he's just sitting here wasting time, he supposes. here today, gone tomorrow. it doesn't matter what words he puts down. nothing he can write that won't be complete nonsense to someone else because they don't see nothing about it.
    it.
    nothing to it at all. don't look past what it is but look into all that it is. that's what we do. we don't see all of it. then we replace what we don't see with our imagined fantasy we think then is real. and it's tricky because it's through imaginative fantasy that the other part of the whole that exists outside what is sensed physically is reveled.
    or something like that.
    dreamtime. our brain. hello? this is the wake up call. dada. divided from one another in realms of space and time.
    we are the ones here now as here now is forever here now. the consciousness of here now. all else passes away. we walk through the world without being part of it beyond what we eat and shit. that's all it is. no more can be added. no less can be subtracted. it remains the same no matter how it is exchanged or held onto.
    a world where and when wishes come true. wind in our hair. guns. riots in the street of the world babylon. fires in the hearts of those who lose themselves and go mad and bite the hands that feed them at long last after their seemingly endless slumber in a once upon time and happily ever after land where and when they were safe and warm. but they realized finally what price was extracted from them for this fantasy to be maintained for them. no soul. no soul at all as far as the eye can see. this city is all lit up like a treasure room full of gold and jewels but there ain't no soul in any of it.
    the soul of this city is found in the vomit on the sidewalks where the people who've had more than their fill wander in their own self-contained paradise walled up against the constant onslaught upon them from the overkill decadence pushing and pulling every which way to be in the spotlight to be what steals the show.
    asleep . go to sleep. it's alright. they have their house all locked up tight and wired to detect the slightest presence of anything evil lurking about. but what about the nightmares that keep waking them up? they try to run but cannot run fast enough to get away from what's breathing down their neck. what is it?
    what about the evil that lurks in the dark alleys of their mind. eh? huh? whatever are we writing about here? they're doing ok. how dare we question what they are doing or what they have done or what they will do.
    what will they do? what will they do when the lights go out and there ain't nobody around to turn them back on? what will they do when the darkness descends upon them and just won't go away?
    we know. we've been there. we've been through it. we've been to hell and back again. we laugh at it all while they're hitting every panic button within reach they can get their hands on armed and ready to blow away anyone and anything that makes a wrong move. we're laughing our fool heads off.
    we're the ones they're terrified of. we're the ones they've cast out of their lives because they couldn't face who we are. who are we?
    we're the ones who walk free on their streets while they're too frightened to look out their windows. we've become the monsters that live in their heads that follow them everywhere they go. and the funniest thing of it all is that we're about as harmless as anyone could be. we're pushovers. but because they've convinced themselves that we are these demons from hell they've given us power enough to destroy them from the inside out because that's where we reside. we live among them. we are the masters of disguise. we could be anyone.
    zzzzz...
    and he's been around that before and dada on about that. just gaze about him. microscope world on ice quickly moving about and he doesn't know about how he's seeing it wrongwise about how he sees it now as he sees it. just kinda watch it flow. he doesn't feel too involved or in touch with it. and something about maybe he doesn't know but he's here and writing. he knows how to write in a limited sense of his limited ability to write with these words he puts in different order. as to whether this is any sort of communication or not is highly doubtful as he doesn't feel to be in much communication with anyone except in his imagination.
    it's all a mad and maddening dream and no one notices. no one sees anything highly unusual. very highly unusual. a dream come true. reactive reality.
    flip.
    flop.
    zero. and wide-eyed glazed look. mirror. who's that? some guy. he doesn't know too much about him. ask the others. they have all the answers.
    ho-hum.
    zap!
 
    and too much and not enough. and the way it plays itself out. in one door and out the other again and again. don't look. down. broken. abstract.
    yeah - fuck abstract. people on saying they don't understand anything abstract. what the fuck? like their world is solid. solid as what? solid as a spin of an electron that is a phenomena that exists in the description? solid as a teacup? as solid as a urinal? a world of teacups and urinals. a world on ice. frozen. all the same. locked down. damned. constipated. dada.
    their world is nothing but abstract. an image of their perception that won't look one way or the other or the other or the other. a reality of mimicry. a monkey see monkey do reality.
    insane. abstract insanity. and if one sees between the cracks in their world and takes a look at what it really is. if one takes the chance to look away from the agreed upon direction we're all supposed to face. insane. gone insane.
    ha!
    so wild and free.
    ha!
    independent.
    ha!
 
    and then there's all of it.
    people. situations.
    zap!
    nothing more to it.
    the moon. who cares? just write dada all day. apply. a thought. an idiot poem.

    lipstick. on time. no time. the radiance of our being now and evermore. connected to the light of it. plunged into the darkness. borderline. tightwire. a calling. don't know why. just rummaging through these old words looking for something to wear.
    dumb. stupid. nowhere to go. through the words. torn and broken. some repaired. some fits together with parts of others. some trying to attain some definition of their own out what's left of them.
    hidden from view. cloaks of words. long luxurious capes. and words as loincloths.
    something about words and words and words.

    outside looking in and inside looking out. what difference does it make? the same distance is involved. flip. flop. all work and no play...
    and he has time now. he has all the time in the world he can get into the rest of his life. lottsa time to play.
    but he still has to work. work on keeping whatever sanity he's been able to somehow hold onto. a killer. he could be the perfect killer. he thinks about it. he doesn't give a shit. people aren't real. they're only obstacles and annoyances in the way of him being able to play.
    play along.
    cracks in the wall.
    cracks in the sidewalk.
    cracks in the sky.
    drop it.
    cracks in the face one wears with bullet hole in-between the eyes. stunned out of existence. one's existence was an obstacle and an annoyance anyway. who cares? some judge and jury who act out some badly written play of justice. ha! does one think they do it because they care? oblivion. ashes and dust. something that rots in the ground out of the way while we have room to move. room to play. room to dance.
    the horror of it.
    what did one live for?
    what did one die for?
    one down. two down. all fall down. dead. gone. out of our sight and out of our minds.
    and do we really need anyone? maybe to define ourselves who we are as not being a dumbfuck like them. at least our lives aren't that bad. we do have something to celebrate.
    death squad zombies from hell coming for the others.
    and this is the work he must do scribbling this nonsense. it keeps him from getting a gun and blowing away as many of them as he can.
    and they can scorn him and look down their snot nose at him but they can be glad it's not them. he's glad it's not them. he seriously doubts they could handle it. they'd fuck it up. they'd get away from themselves and bang bang bang...
    he knows them. they'd break. they'd snap in two. splinter into a zillion pieces and go berserk. look at them. they can hardly keep hold of themselves as it is. they got a soft cushy life and they can't even hold themselves together doing that. look at them killing each other and themselves. they're working overtime and still can't pay the bills they've run up on whatever instant gratification trash they bought to keep themselves in line and under control.
    he's just watching them. he's watching them as they all go crazy without knowing they're going crazy and not being able to stop it if they did know.
    they're losing it big time especially those who hold on the tightest going around trying to convince themselves that there's nothing wrong with them except all the shit they gotta put up with from everyone else who are nuts and are constant obstacles and annoyances to their state of mind which is rapidly slipping off the edge and...
    and that's all he's doing is watching and waiting for them to kill one another off for him.
    the perfect crime.
    not a clue.
    not a shred of evidence.
    a chair.
    a horse.
    party. party time. let it all go. go away.
    he's gone away. he's quit the play and the show must go on.
    a ufo lands nearby.