and it's all up in the air. who knows where or when it's coming down? who cares?
    they've got it ready. they've got it mapped out and computed to the final decimal. ha! bullshit.  even their great computers with their miles and miles of files of our forefather's fruit and jisim and dada and such forth round it off somewhere. ha! new world order. keep track of everyone and everything as they tip-toe around the vortexes of the irrational. gaping holes in the web they weave. ha! turn it on. push all their buttons. fix it as they will.  we know where we stand in relation to all they hold to be true and absolute. ha! bullshit. they can't even count to 42.
    they're so big. they're so much bigger than life it self. they are life itself. ha! we see so much space and time where and when no one's heard their name.
    turn it all backwards and inside out. natas. ha! in their faces ugly dancing monsters from their hell. well, there goes the neighborhood. time to move out to that house we got out in the country. life will be mighty fine. fresh air to breath. no people making their god awful racket. yeah - a nice place to raise some kids up. nevermind the razor wire and guns we gotta have to keep everyone else out. and the man-eating dogs and infrared and the heat and motion detectors. nevermind. nevermind. nevermind.
    we got ours. why can't they get theirs. why are they trying to take ours away from us?
    what the fuck is wrong with everyone anyhow?
 
    the city. down in the city. looking out some hotel closet room window at a brick wall 4 feet away. a squeaky bed. a dresser minus a couple of drawers. a sink. a kitchen and shower down the hall. hey. we got ours. why can't they get theirs? why are they trying to take ours away from us?
    what the fuck is wrong with everyone anyhow?
 
    hey man, he slurred, look at this coat i found in the bushes by the bus stop there. perfectly good coat, man. nothing wrong with it - shit. leather - pockets. man, i was wearing this torn up windbreaker before, man. fucking colder than shit. had me a sleeping bag awhile ago, man. hey, i got it, you know, waited on line all day for it, you know? and somebody grabbed it at this shelter i was staying at, man. fuck, what's wrong with them anyway?

    and so it goes. and he watches the cops ride by. watching them trying to keep track of it all. he watches the clocks go around. counting down to the time the clocks don't go around no more. just the ocean waves and the wind in the trees and the sun by day and the moon and stars by night.
    he watches it all go by. and he laughs. it amuses him so very very much.
    no matter what brings him down.
    ok.
    yeah - hey, he's cruising here, dude. nothing bringing him down but himself. got it fixed now. got the deal made and he's coughing up blood from all the shit he's putting into himself but he'll live to dance on their fucking graves - whoever they are.
    is this a recurrent theme? variations on monotony - mediocrity. what is the fixation here? death and birth and life and sex and pricks and cunts and towers and graves and rockets red glare and voids of nothingness and what is all about but this dream he had once in awhile long ago?
    a dream.
    them and their god were gone. and what was he to do then but make up his own answers? his own god - if he wanted one. and monsters in the closet that would come out and eat him or something. he didn't know. something terrible or horrible. they told him so. they told him how afraid he should be and their god would protect him. but them and their god were gone. he was left alone.
    and it was kind of a drug while at the same time not. bring it back again. we are only kidding. we are only no one. we were in disguise then.
    and the rules this time as before there are no rules. time runs out and that's it.
    and who knows when time will run out?
    he is at a point of points of no return. but he supposes it is always that way.
    and then some.
    and some otherwise poem about how it works. blow it. we do what we want to.
    and he tries to understand. maybe he tries too much. wings. singing. oh boy.
    and people getting off hurting each other.
    yeah - that's the way it is. too bad. these people need it for some reason. find one's own way out. he doesn't know.
    how does it come down? the city forever. maximum dada. turn it all on and turn it all up. prisoners of love doing anything at all to keep it alive to understand it first of all.
    blues for tomorrow. tomorrow's blues today.
    having it once and having it twice and not having it at all - just paying for it all the time while it goes to someone else.
    and long ago when there was room to move and on like that. something more. run away. down on down the line. time. empty.
    no one bothers too much about nothing no more - or actually they never much did. they were always ready to cut one loose when the going gets tough and the tough get going and one doesn't happen to fit in with their plans.
    and something or the other. when it breaks again. when it becomes nothing. too bad. too bad for it all.
    the machine goes on. cranking it out over and over. too bad.
    and he's tired of these words that mean nothing that he can just throw around any which way. come on down. an option of time. calling.
    nowhere to fly to. so it's time to land.

    and always with the light now in a sleepy wakefulness.
    spies.
    and back into a dream. dot.
    and he's at many different points here. he doesn't know where he is. most of the time he doesn't care. but it comes and goes that he does sometimes.
    and a smile. to see someone smile just once. sometimes that's enough. sometimes.
    and he notices that the darkness is still lurking around. why does it seem to follow him everywhere he goes. what does it want?
    the mortal form of a god expressed in flesh. now. a game that is played. a joke.

    and where and when it translates. seeing it all now with x-ray vision. noise around and around.
    trying to think about where and when it breaks.
    he's hanging on here to nothing and watching it all go down. can't pick up his head. it gets dragged down again. can't even get outta his house too much. and he doesn't know. what is he complaining about? what's gone wrong?
    and in times of trouble here in times of trouble we seem to be pushing it as far as we can pushing against each other pushing each other down.
    and this ain't making it any way it goes. he doesn't feel too much like he belongs here at all. did he get off on the wrong planet or what?
    and some people come around who seem familiar in somehow way.
    who's to know what?
    slip into it again.
    take the time.
    psychoactive. activate psyche. psychic. psycho.
    dada.
    it ain't nothing but dada.
    the deliberate irrationality of it all. but wait a minute... who's being deliberate? who's being irrational?
    if one assumes that irrationality is that which doesn't make sense and nothing anyone does makes any sense - by their own admission - and they do what they do deliberately...
    or do they?
    or does it make sense?
    whatnot.
    he once looked rationality and reason up in the dictionary and each were used in the definition of the other. are they allowed to do that? doesn't it create some sort of logical/illogical loop-dee-loop or something?
    what does it do? what do we do with it?
    senseless killings. he doesn't know. most killings make sense to him that he's heard of. maybe too much sense. too logical.
    or does sense mean control? does control make sense? he doesn't know. he's getting paid to think, not to know anything.

    and this is his report. this is what he thinks. does it make sense? even if it's not what one thinks makes sense, does it make sense that he's thinking it? one doesn't have to agree or even disagree. he doesn't really care what one's answer is - or even if one has one.
    it comes and goes.
    it all flies by. he really shouldn't be here. he thinks he's dead. that's one way it would make sense.
    removed.
    gimme shelter.
    just a kiss away.
             kiss away.
             kiss away one's old dada dreams twisted inside out of one's own head, baby. come out and dance with him.
    he never let go of that dreamtime world. he wouldn't let them rob him of his simple pleasure. they tried to tell him the ghosts weren't really there or they were not of his concern or they were something to be frightened of if they were really there.
    not him. he knew better. no one else was there alone in the dark with him. no one saw how much dada all their explanations amounted to. no one but him alone. no one but oneself alone. has one been there? does one know? he sees the way one dances when one thinks no one is looking.
    he's got x-ray vision in his head. he can see through the walls people put up around themselves alone in the dark. he knows because he's been there with them. and they've been there with him.
    he's always wondered who they were. and does it matter who they are? we've all got to pretend we're someone. it's ok - he won't blow anyone's cover. but this is to state that he knows who they are so when we meet we don't have to pretend with phony baloney.
    let it go and dance with him awhile. the moon is full with light tonight. he's high enough. he's low enough. he's everything enough. let it go and dance with him tonight.
    the midnight hour. after midnight and on and on until the dawn light chases all our illusions away and burns us down.
    ain't nothing at all. ain't nothing to it at all, baby. so let it go. forget it.
    burn it down. burn it up. burn one's freak flag burning alive from one's own head. create it all. don't fake it, baby. let the real thing go as we come together somewhere even though we can't stand the sight of each other's ugly face in the broad daylight.
    here.
    now.
    it comes and goes.
    he sees it in one's eyes. all that one is holding back.
    let it go.
    scream.
    scream it all in his face as one dances with him. say what's never been said. what hasn't one put word to that haunts one's dreams? one's dreams of him, baby. one's worst nightmare of all is him and until one comes out and dances with him one will never be free.
    don't want no lover, he wants a dancer. keep one's love to oneself. one needs it the most of all. he's got his own burning his brain. burning him inside out like a crazy man.
    just come out and dance with him. forget the rest.
    and say what one wants. one's words can't hurt him. tell him all who one thinks he is. tell him the worst of all.
    just dance with him.
    as long as he sees one dancing anyway one can. that's all.
    let it go.

    and a quiet transformation. no one speaks. no one listens. no one.
    it happens somehow in a weird magical way for those who see it all that way. the rest are left with everything going straight to hell.
    and he remembers.
    and all he has forgotten.
    and he sees that all he is writing turning to dust. just words after all. words are cheap.

    flying with it as it comes. finding it where one finds it. so much flesh. so much weight.
    on a hot summer day or a cold rainy winter night it all comes out the same but very much different on the outside. on the outside, baby. wear it all on the outside. one can be as real as one wants to be on the outside. nevermind everything turning wild in one's head. there are no voices calling one. it's all ok on the outside.
    and with eyes opened we still see nothing but what there is to see. and what is that?
    a brand new dance. pick it up and lay it down. and most of them won't know what he means - refuse to know what he means.
    let's get back again. let's get it straight.
    turn away from it all. let it go its own way.

    and however many poems are written in the names of how many things there may be.
    he was awakened to this. he was somewhere here.
    and so he tells one now as he is sitting in the cafe drinking coffee with cigarette in one hand and pen in the other. this is one of the many moments it comes to. he may not remember what he's written before or why. he is writing in different moments of time. semi-pissed off and semi-depressed and semi-this and semi-that. it's all something else. and all feeling like he shouldn't be here. and -

    and nothing comes of anything. when we once knew. a long ago. someone once. time stops.
    he is far away from feeling he belongs anywhere. there are numerous explanations for feeling this way but none of them rids him of it. he supposes he will read this someday and laugh at what seems so difficult to him now having turned out to be very simple.
    and why go on this way? where does it go? it hasn't changed yet except he's gotten used to it and realizing he can do nothing. maybe only because he doesn't want to.
    being alone. no name and no one to call his name if he had one. it doesn't change.
 
    and the magick that he works. the magick that opened up the sky and called down the gods themselves to come speak to him. is that part of the facts? part of the fact that he is mentally ill? part of the facts or fiction he should relate?
    how many things do we see and experience that we do not dare speak of but stick to the facts. those facts of reality we share in common - the lowest common denominator - which is all well and good as it serves for a base of operations. a place to meet and share who we are. but to restrict all our experience to that and nothing but just because we can touch it or whatever...
    so how is the rest translated? how is the magick worked?
 
    9/7
    dream of dreams.
    waiting.
    what goes on and what doesn't. come back. memory. no one knows. everyone fighting without saying anything.
    actors on a stage.
    come dance away.
    the dreamer dreams. it's all the same. he goes into it and out of it. fly away. he's got his - as much as he needs right now. maybe he'll come back for more later.
    and something remains.
    and something reminding him of something.
    no one home.

    drown in it all.
    drown underneath the city dreaming. could we ever be here again?
    emotion. giving it away. lock it up. don't move. they are watching. our own cruelty becomes us. the funeral. our love reaching toward someplace else when we fall.
    now here it is with us.

    experiment. the last of us stands before the throne laughing without fear. this has all been a joke. we see through it now.

    and just all the dada. dada is not dada at all. who cares about dada?
    dead.
    onion.
    go on.
    the forests in flames while we are sleeping. he wishes...
    a lot has changed. moving.
    beer.
 
    and off into this as somewhere. more notes on his madness. and furthermore let him also explode...
    what a fool.
    and a rain falls out in the forest this fine autumn evening darkening quickly stirring his melancholy soul.
    take heart.
    take to the wings ever after some distant star away ever after. a goal unreached in a lifetime except as a possibility of being reached.
    it hurts.
    the pain deepens and the blood flows out from us in our footprints left behind. no time to stop now. we're almost there. we must keep convincing ourselves that we're almost there.
    a world of horizons.

    and somehow it's all here when and now and something or another. dreaming with the rain outside.
    people in wet clothing. umbrellas.
    the mundane thing of it. and one argument or another. something or another.
    and his thoughts rotate around pretty much around similar rotations all in awhile geared in with one another around their own that once so often mesh and groove together.
    network.
    and how it works and how it doesn't. now and then.

    time together. time apart. time for talking. time for silence. nothing more and nothing less.
    well trained behavior.
    doggie style.
    arf.
    the good and the wicked. how do we divide this? why should we? why make trouble?
    he doesn't know.
    just stretches of mind. he doesn't mind. don't mind him.
    problem child.
    come around to the fundamental reason and cause. where does it begin? where does it end?
    and maybe not to even think of such things. how can we think of such things?
    why?
    how come?

    and still trying to come down to it. zero. is that what it comes down to? nothing?
    or infinity? does it come down to infinity first? no way out. surrounded by infinity no matter which way one turns or goes.
    he doesn't know.
    the meaning and purpose of these words is to perhaps to confuse anyone reading them. confuse one into thinking what? around and around we go.
    dance. in space. in time.
    however so cosmic.
    ha!
    he plays a game. a game to turn one onto the game and get the joke.

    everyone believing in who they think they are.
    breakdown.
    the dividing line between worlds forced apart by our thinking.
    we look at each other in a glance. who do we see?
 
    ideas. some ideas that work and some that don't. he has totally lost track of whatever he had been intending to write - if anything.
    mold that grows on a donut.
    history in the making.
    broken.
    he should explain. he doesn't need to explain. he can't explain.
    shave one's head.
    and this is how it works as it seems to work though he doesn't know much about that.

    and he sat back against the tree in the garden.
    he was tired.
    the mirrors speak and say nothing. the wonderful or dreadful images they reflect back mean nothing.
    what common ground do we stand on?
    the war rages on.
 
    9/10
    that can't be right.
    and something more or less the same as always to bring it around sometime or so. life on earth. where are we?
    and he had this dream where he was in a bathroom and he was looking into a mirror and saw some dead skin on his eyelid and started to rub it off but when he did his eyelid started coming off too. he kinda tried to push it back on again otherwise he wouldn't be able to close that eye. it was hanging on by just a few threads that if he just pulled it it would come off.
    then he was in an airport.
    then he woke up.
    it was dark.

    and so it follows.
    and the endless weeping.
    and the long waiting.
    he waits without knowing what he's waiting for. wasting time though he doesn't know what else the time could be used for.
    building a rocketship maybe.
    alone.
    he looks out the window and tries to decide what to make up next.

    and the blues. blue deep water that's actually green. just sitting around bobbing on the surface. once in awhile dive in.
    cold.
    lottsa laughs.
    lottsa laughs.
    and people talking about not much to talk about. just keep talking all the same. and some political some such about people marching on the street first one way and then the other.
    some way outta here.
    any way outta here.
    now.

    dream about it.
    follow it down.
    stand by.
    it moves so slowly. a crawl. pick it up. dance. noise.
    and he can't be bothered. he can't be troubled. sometime.
    he waits for the smoke to clear and the dust to settle.
    nevermore.
    nevermore.
    so he sits here leaning up against this tree in the shady garden drinking some lemonade or something. long time gone. what comes and goes. forever now.
    he doesn't have anything to write. what is he thinking of?
    vacuum.
 
    look through the blue.
    better than red. fire. always on. turning one way then the other. keep it moving.
    and someone inside him wants to cry.
    and someone inside him wants to laugh.
    there was some sort of revolution going on he kept hearing about off and on.
 
    and not much at all.
    destroy the evidence. a clue. a chance. what does it mean to any of them? they have their lives and one has one's own. one knows who one is and that's all one needs to know for now.
    wait.
    a time will come when there will be a clarity of action in a mass of confusion.
    wait.
    there is nothing else one needs to know.
    who.

    9/13
    flaming hearts and noise on the radio. old songs we used to dance to. now what?
    screaming. laughing.
    look into our eyes. what does one see? divide it out. be who one is.
    how expensive is it?
    and the point of this is not for it to make all that much sense - ok? so don't worry about it. let it go.
    break into it. open it up. his mind and everyone's mind. divided. ego dada.
    dance circles around one another. stars and galaxies of stars. shine on.
    open it up. break into it. stop the program. beat the drum. sing a song.
    how absurd does it need to be? nevermind the contradictions. they're part of the act. nevermind the primal gut. theory. predictions.
    and the next time one goes to work or school or the grocery store or wherever one might find oneself going - think about it. think about something. look into his eyes. come dance with him out in the moonlight of dreams.
    hello?
    anybody home?

    operations.
    we are among them somewhere - anywhere - everywhere.
    and so the drama begins. a word. the word goes out. we interact. love/hate relationships abound. twisting and turning.
    cartoons.
    low down and dirty.
    and he always wanted to smack somebody in the face with a frying pan and have their face be round and flattened so they had to shake their head to make it pop back to normal or run them over with a steamroller and fold them up like an airplane and make them fly away or whatever.

    and time from time.
    time after time.
    it divides apart again. the fine edge tightwire we walk on sometimes. fun and adventure.
 
    9/15
    so where does it begin?
    where does it end?
    always looking to stay.
    always looking to go.
    he can't put 2+2 together and come up with the same answer twice.
    and for all of this maybe it's just that he wants to get laid.
    is it that simple?
    maybe so.
    so where does that come from and why does it go that way? and how is it disconnected? would we come to a stand still? stop? cease to exist?
    he can't allow himself to feel anything at all.
    he's charged with and confesses to all the crimes of being human. yet that does nothing to alter the fact that he is human.
    this way.
    that way.
    the other way.
 
    and are they happy now? looking like they stepped out of some visa card commercial. the look that gets the looks. young and beautiful with money to spend. just like on tv. just like being in the movies on the big screen.
    there they are.
    he's sorry he couldn't give that to them. he's sorry he failed.
    all of them chasing after everything money can buy. fit the slot one needs to fill and push the button that gets the pellet.
 
    and does he have anything he wants?
    which is?
    which is - he doesn't know.
    just sitting in the cafe fighting off the blues.
    is that what he really wants?
    no pain.
    no pain that comes in a package deal with pleasure. round trip deal. a dream vacation to paradise and then back to hell again.
    dreams.
    madness.

    when it comes down.
    when it's time to leave this world that hasn't turned out like one expected. when one has gathered enough information.
    how much more does one need? where does one see any of this going?
    one either sees it or one doesn't.
    who can explain it?
    and one doesn't seem to care.
 
    now he waits.
    now we wait.
    we wait to see who will join us. who will take the chance. who will step over the line. exodus.
    one either sees it or one doesn't. see where the path leads to. the path one must take when all the roads are blocked.
    and he laughs. he sees them all running away from themselves. far far away. running around in circles until they turn into the dust they kick up faster and faster.
    they all look the same. they're all trying to look the same - even when they try to look different.
    everyone trying to be someone else. be someplace else. everything money can buy.
    all we can do now is wait. see what happens when the clocks they run themselves on run down. when the war no one can win is over and there's no one to fight anymore but themselves.
 
    and he tries not to feel it. he tries not to feel the pain. but that means not feeling anything at all which causes pain in and of itself. the pain of feeling no pain.
    no way out.
    no birth.
    no death.
    no sex.
    no one.
    nothing.
    no god.
    no sin.
    no forgiveness.
    no heaven.
    no hell.
    no pain.
    no gain.
    ha!
    just a stupid joke is all it is and he's waiting to see who laughs last so he can laugh in their face because he knows the joke is really on them.

    left alone laughing at his own face in the mirror gone for real totally completely outta his mind.
    ain't feeling no pain at all, baby. no pain at all.
    just all the pain in the world and he's standing here laughing at himself because there ain't no one to blame.
    and zero.
    and one.
    and the infinity between the two.
    and two.
    and he's only human after all. just this human kinda guy sitting here in this cafe writing and gazing out the window wondering how sometimes one cannot trust one's own brain.
    leaping from one fantasy dream to another. never lets his feet touch the ground.
    who him?
    earth?
    never heard of the place.

    and when the gods walk the earth. when they bleed like all of us. when they see that their ideals turn to shit among us mere mortals.
    and when we walk as gods through the garden surrounding us. when we see how ideal it could be if we could only leave the shit behind.
    when we rise above.
    when we swim to the surface.
    when we fly away.
    when it happens. when we wait to see it happen. set it up and watch it fall into place.
    how much time has gone by? how much longer?
 
    all time forgotten.
    the forest of the original world that surrounds us still if we let it grow. to play.
    all time remembered.
    all time as it is in a moment now and forever more.
    find it anywhere one can.
    and the war goes on.
    and the light shines through it all for those who care to look to where it otherwise cannot be seen.
    what?
    simple.
    simple mind.
    all that money can't buy.
    priceless.
    look again.
    take a good long hard look, baby. tell us what one sees. better yet, tell oneself.
    confusion.
    simple confusion.
    did one expect anything more?

    welcome to the real world. the world beyond the world most people allow themselves to see.
    the layers unfold themselves in one's mind.
    self-inflicted brain salad surgery. breaking eggs to make an omelet.
    riddle us this. riddle us that. riddle us anything one wants to. the only one looking for answers is oneself. we've settled for and have grown quite accustomed to all that confuses the others and their kind.
    spin, baby, spin.
    it comes and goes.

    and who's the winner and who's the loser here?
    the war that cannot be won.
    he sees it and doesn't see it at the same time.
    he wants the world and he wants it now. he's got the world and he's got it now. it spins on the head of a pin.
    he gets up from the kitchen table and goes outside in the garden. he pretends he is a tree.
    we are all the christ.
    we are all the bride.
    we are all the beast.
    we are all the whore.
    and we fight this war between the kettle and the pot calling each other black.
    and go on in this artificial fantasy world trying to make things as they are not. buying it all and filling our houses with nothing we will be able to count on when it all comes down.
    one either sees it or one doesn't.
    sometimes he sees it and sometimes he doesn't.

    9/18
    and so there is talk of another useless revolution and some such whatever.
    and it is most important to be able to hold oneself together while it all falls apart. to know what one may be expected to live without. to roll with the punches. to know when to stand and when to run.
    there is no hope. we're doomed. we're fucked.
    maybe.
    maybe not.
    he doesn't know. does anyone else?

    as it falls where it may. not knowing which way is up except being down so long and so on and on.
    the stars. filled with stars. gone.
    and it becomes something else - or maybe not. jesus fucking christ. where do we come from and where do we go? and where are we now? ha! that's a good one. so much for yesterday's news. get with it. time for wondering is over. one either knows it or not. see what is to be seen. now one sees it and now one doesn't. it comes and goes. blowing with the winds in one's hair. dancing.
    and so we come upon nothing more here. we have been deserted. left for dead outside the walls they've built around themselves. the empire that has always been the empire and always will be.
    who belongs to who? who wears the brand and the mark? it's the rage. it's the latest thing. it's all some sort of joke that isn't funny at all.
    and so it broke over the edge. he's come this far. there's no sense in going back now. something else. again. mars. rising. into the moon.
    a poem now for the common folk however uncommon they may be. raise a glass. throw another log on the fire. sing a song or two. a moment of silence.
 
    as he returns back once more to the island and walks around the house. thing finds him out in the garden.
    the old man is dead, thing says.
    what?
    the old man is dead.
    what do you mean - dead?
    dead. it can only mean one thing.
    but i... take me to him.
    we go upstairs and enter a bedroom and on a canopied bed the old man lies pale and still. sleep. death.
    i found him this morning, thing says.
    this is a strange development.
    can you bring him back?
    no - not this time.
    are you sure?
    well, i suppose if i wanted to i could.
    you don't want to?
    no.
    why not?
    we all gotta go sometime. he was in the way.
    in the way of what?
    i don't know - something.
    what should we do with him?
    leave him here and seal up the room. are there any masons around?
    i suppose.
    good. find one and have it done.
    me? why me?
    well, i have no idea where they are.
    neither do i.
    hmm - well, fuck it. we'll just avoid this part of the house until the smell goes away. it shouldn't take that long.
    he opened the bedroom windows and closed the door as we left and went back downstairs.  we sat by the fire in the living room. well, he sat. thing just hovered as usual.
    why did the old man die? asked thing.
    i don't know. he wasn't needed anymore, i suppose.
    you mean you didn't need him.
    i'd rather not get into that. he's gone. that's it.
    sorry.
    there's nothing to be sorry for. that's how it is. i don't know any more about it than you do - or anyone else.
    he lit a cigarette.
    we were silent for awhile.
    he got up and threw another log onto the fire.
    where does the wood for the fire come from? he asked.
    i don't know. it's just here.
    and the cigarettes?
    the same.
    they're just here. nobody brings them or goes out for them. they're here and they never run out?
    as far as i know. why?
    well, the world i come from things don't happen that way.
    they don't?
    no - you gotta either do things yourself or do something to make money and pay somebody else to do it for you.
    that sounds interesting.
    well, i suppose it is but it's actually very boring and frustrating.
    how so?
    well, you end up doing things you don't want to do to pay for somebody else to do things for you that they wouldn't rather be doing either and it gets all mixed up.

    voodoo.
    dada.
    what comes and goes.
    and here it is and here he is. and it's all down again. it's going to be a long fucking winter. shit. nothing but shit from people - and himself. this place is a mess. there's not too many more ways he's finding on how to deal with it.
    he doesn't deal with it. he doesn't want to. why was he brought here to deal with shit for?
    he's tired of always ending up here. now here it is again. dada. emotional bullshit. the only way is to just stay away from people.

    9/20
    and the long time away.
    the island.
    cheap thrills.
    the kitchen table.
    the garden.
    and it's not his own as they're only in his head and what's in his head is not his own but has been invaded by those around him.
    a cop with a haircut.
    he doesn't belong anywhere. he is temporarily allowed to be there as long as he follows certain rules of behavior. maybe. or is that in his head too?
    bike with a basket.
    he's just tooling around with alotta nothing much going on in his head. thoughts about this and thoughts about that.
    stars.
    quiz.
    whipped cream.
    take a chance. big brother. and happy rainbows for a brave new world. dance on.
    and the moods come and go. he's this way and that way with any given situation. he doesn't know.
    a different language. make it up.
    fill it up. don't stop. something's missing and he thinks it's him - or not him - or where was one last night?
    and the dreamers awaken. they rise from their beds. an old child's prayer is forgotten. there is no death. not yet.
    we are somewhere. there is this different place in a forest up on the side of a mountain.

    9/21
    he's tired.
    everyone seems to be tired today.
    trying to find some acid. got a couple of leads. it's a drag looking. who's selling bunk? oh well.

    miles and miles of files.
    all the files.
    and no one believes anything else.
    the computers run. open our minds. nothing changes. the operation. the detection. the defection. the rearrangement of information.
    where is anyone anymore? living in some hell.
    and maybe he's gone by the time anyone reads this. does anyone know where he could be? maybe dead. maybe the prison camps. maybe anywhere. maybe on some island in his head.
    maybe no one knew where he was at all.

    a memory of a moment.
    sometimes it makes him sad.
    sometimes it makes him laugh.
    and when the cry and the call is heard. when we scream out our names and the names of the gods. who are we all together? where and when does this merging of the minds occur?
    grandmother.
    grandfather.
    everything changes.
    a smile again. a memory. a memory of someone dancing. was it so long ago?
    dancing. dancing through the revolution. he could feel them dancing as part of the revolution. somewhere. sometime.
    we were dancing.
    dance.
    dancing.
    siva dancing on the head of a pin. call out the names.

    and don't think twice about thinking twice about how it feels to be this alive now.
    dance with it.
    see it for whatever. we need to see it to be in order to see it.
    it is the object of our desires. it is the object - the objective. the absolute passive thing that we animate with the purpose of our being as creator.
    the blank canvas. the blank sheet of paper. the forest. the desert. the wilderness. the mind. the imaginary city. go to it. come to us. let us welcome one home again. one has been gone away much too long.
    dance with us.
    dance with our revolution.

    9/25
    listening on about the politics of an age.
    and he's far off from anyone. he slips outside looking in. shopping carts. now and then.
    he tries to talk with these people and he doesn't know about it at all still. they're all whatever they are. he doesn't know.
    dreaming on. leaving it behind and going nowhere.
 
    9/28
    toward an unknown beginning. and this is where we lose it because we realize there is no more to be found that we don't already have.
    day to day.
    and he felt that he had lost something. maybe.
    illusion.
    he lay down.
    maybe this time it was somewhere around by a stream. was he up in the mountains for some reason?
    he didn't know where any of his thoughts came from. thin air. but his thoughts were even thinner than air. momentary micro-sparks in his brain firing in patterns.
    in patterns.
    all he was was a pattern. an unpatterned pattern but a pattern nonetheless.
    he picked his nose and gazed out the window.