to which meaning mystery revels or upon what mystery is meaning yet as perhaps too soon the gods have been spoken of as being discarded as our mere own invention. this is not an argument. it is not an idea as ideas are born from ideas. ideal. a vision of life on this planet earth among the possible planets of the universe which may only be our reflection. just as these words have passed through his hand to many pages and he has described nothing - not even himself as he wonders while he sits in the cafe writing. and smokes another cigarette. posing. amateur. forgetting and forgotten. not knowing or realizing if there is any forgiveness. words. no more words. only now the shadow of words. television nonsense. politicians playing the part of savior asking for belief. and that has little to do with it. he attempts to perceive the reality of the illusion. is he the last who remembers? how many layers is it composed of over himself? within himself? and that has nothing to do with it. it is the emptiness that fills him excluding all else. and how has he brought himself to this weird fate? how was he born? and to what was he born into? abandoned. deserted. on this island he tries to find again only with words as they spill from him as he passes the time through days into weeks into months and years into a life that might as well not been except to bring him here to experience all that he cannot understand. here at the cafe now where we sit at our favorite table by the window where life goes on outside. he can be seen though often he is not. or those pretend they cannot see him. but how well does he see them? to him they are breathing and speaking images produced from a mind other than his own to confuse him and his knowing of reality. is he the first or the last? is he neither or both? old questions which still plague him while those act as though nothing was any different than this. an observation unobserved. a repeating random factor. just in time. just about time. fluid or static. movement to the dance of thieves. dancers of the moment. the stage of the burning theater. there will be no memory of this. but he cannot let go. he seeks the absence of the two-sided pain of pleasure and fear and desire. doubt. belief in doubt as opposed to doubt in belief.
    but none of this is of anything. speculation. entry into madness or sanity when the two parallel lines meet. a vanishing point. as though there ever was a difference except relative to one another regarding which has the upper hand. a pleasing smile with the knife in hand speaking a secret language that slips through the fingers of anyone foolish enough to try to grasp the definitions.
    is he that fool? lost to himself as many have tried to tell him. drowning in an ocean somewhere within himself. bell jar. mouths open and close from those who expect him to reply. he screams and none of them hear. those who suspect turn away as he turns away from them. as the beast charms beauty with disgust and betrayal. hype. words again.
    and to who does he leave this to? to who is it designed? promises left unfulfilled and also unbroken. flesh. the seduction of sensation. the cool or warm kiss. driving to the edge. words. words as words have been written before. believing. doubt.
    he is undone. he seeks his place alone among the others. he wants to be untouched and not to touch. he comes and goes to no one. maybe. a product of the mix of emotions he feels. and how can he ask of anyone of answers he cannot give himself?
    there is no love. there is only survival by any means. victory or surrender. to be rid of enemies.
    pliers. too much of anything. document. waiting while the garbage is picked up. a rat. flaws. flags. dreaming of a dream. living in this dream. waiting. and some people do this and some people do that and some people do something else. inter-spheric wisdom. incomplete. who owns this house withdrawing from the rapid display context with elements of serious confusion. we are very unknown to one another. we wear our faces well. and that is not a surprise. to end it. to begin it. either or neither or both. ha ha ha. to be nearly far away with a distant closeness. and this he recognizes from before where and when this thing poised lay before us unto even ourselves gaining defeat somehow doesn't cut it. be gone from him the blindness of light and also vision of darkness. he commands the demons and angels and gods and the awareness of the true one ever expansive contradiction notwithstanding forjunctive impelled digenative and possible breakthrough directional absorbing attacks on our feeble yet humble alternative sequence of events as they have to happen to be just as amazingly amused to overcast the objective division between ourselves as us and them. but between him and himself lies division instead that is of doubt based on reasoning straight ahead digging the groove meant on up and down too.
    and this is the ding dong fucking breakdown of it as he has had squawking too much of itself killing themselves jiving and tick-tock too.
    and what otherelsewise is involved in what?

    people ripping each other off everywhere with voices draining shouts. in the pocket. phone. calling numbers. really reaching no one. talking words. destroyed. symphony. flames singing along the river. and forget the images. sounds.
    he is apart from anyone and them. something is wrong. dream on. sinking into it. surrounded and surrounding. discouraged. poor. terminal. law. he is apart from himself watching himself write this. he waits. he doesn't know what he's waiting for. waiting for something to come on tv that he would want to watch. there's a football game on that he was watching for awhile. and the people who are paranoid psychotic wrecks who operate assuming he's trying to rip them off or scam them somehow. and he feels the same about them. he's tired of dealing with this. maybe he should go into the hospital or something. people. events. and he doesn't know what anymore. and he admits his ignorance. and he is evil and a criminal. he has no magick - or he doesn't know how to work it if he does. same difference. and he writes this pretending that someone reads it. but he knows better.
    he thought - used to think - he had something to write about. and maybe he did once. but he doesn't now. it's stupid. his make believe fantasies real or not of his madness real or not. it's just a habit now. passes the time. but he wishes he did have something to tell someone that would matter to them. but there's nothing.
    and well, he doesn't know. and well, should he care? arms and legs. experience.
    and but whatever these people want. and what they can get or don't get. and what he gets or doesn't get. and what he wants or not. and years. scratch. baseball trash. writing about nothing. nobody and nothing. and he's just wondering.

    back again another day at the cafe. what was he thinking? it smells like popcorn. a truck pulls up down on the street. piano on the radio. a double espresso mocha thingie. he was the only one here until two people came in. first a man and then a woman. and another woman who sits with the first one. business people dressed up nice. ready to begin making the world go around. muffins and bagels and cookies. the owner in the kitchen cooking. he takes his medication.
    and he's busy having to move into a new place. he's gotta finish that up so he can slip out of it again. this real world having to do stuff business sucks. he hates being in it having to deal with it.
    excessive authority.
    beaten down.
    and the island is gone. maybe it isn't. he just hasn't been able to get to it much lately. a lawn party. the yard behind the house before one enters the garden proper. if there was anyone there besides as he imagined them. if only there was someplace to be other than how he imagines it. the truck down on the street pulls away. what a wonderful imagination he had people would tell him. for all the good it did him. he could imagine people getting along with one another. being together and having a good time. comfortable. knowing and having what they wanted and needed. each other without all the impressive ego flash. no lost love. what a fool he was to think that was in any way shape or form possible. he didn't know the true nature of the real world which is based on greed and mistrust. though he did know it. he just didn't want to believe it.
    doubt.
    cream in his coffee. cigarette in hand. polite and reasoned. back stabbing with an excuse and alibi ready in time. his awakening. his disappointed realization. the rules being more important than life itself. and everybody broke the rules. bring it all down. animal. and words are nothing. everything is lost. begin again. what goes up doesn't always come back down. what goes in doesn't always came back out. void. what is there to complain about? is he complaining? he feels like he is merely observing. left in a world without form. left underground. never quite being born.
    he comes here to get away. pretends it doesn't exist. forget that he has to fight against everyone just to get scraps from the table where the feast is laid. too many people who don't even use what they have which is usually too much and not enough. and he is just as greedy and distrustful as the rest. what's his is his. jackets. bills to pay. money from the government. a state of mind. faces in the dark of dreams. dreams of light. the human condition. no justice. only revenge by those who have the power. and power is power. it's the same no matter whose hands it's in. yes - there is much he is not writing. what is there left to write about? feet. shoes. responsibility. death clowns dancing on the long shore. a fish. a messiah. a joker in the deck. shuffle. wild card. face down. pile it on higher and higher - deeper and deeper.

    just another cigarette. zero plus one. zero minus one. reflections. wave form of the prime vibration. but knowing or not knowing that won't feed one's face in the dark light of an awakening dream. and it seems so far away from him now. interest. wedding. eyes glazed. knowledge of how it is or isn't. the gods we employ. the meaning into non-meaning.
    and all he is doing is hanging out making up all this business. the tapes play around in repeating circles which don't really repeat because nothing is ever the same again. we live and die. the pharaoh chasing the sun. we sit in the shade with our lemonade laughing our fool heads off with each moment passing. to get where and when we laugh about it all.
    and jesus hangs around here too taking a good look around the scene into the trip long and strange as it is and has been. millionaire poverty. judgment by those who judge. get out of their way. the parade of armies along on the same path. to overcome all hardship. unto death. milk and honey over the next hill. around the next corner.
    and while he sits here writing. logical conclusion. conclusion of logic. let the games begin. let it all begin. the probability of nothing to begin with. and he understands and he doesn't understand. he remembers that these are just words. nothing too heavy.
    and there's this one bunny who hops up to this other bunny and asks what day it is. and the other bunny says that it's tuesday. and the first bunny hops away.
    that's all this is. maybe that's all it needs to be. he forgets. he always forgets. something and nothing being the same thing. the proof is in the pudding. don't forget that.
    and when he dies.
    while we remember who and what we are. while we try to sit this out. amused. idly writing. coffee and cigarettes. lost in a dream of dreaming this dream from beginning to end where and when something and nothing are the same thing.
    all the dear sweet children.
    all the heroes. and all the victims and villains who make the hero possible. and the casts of thousands who cheer. the theater that is always burning. on-stage is a cafe. at a table by the window a man is writing in a notebook. music plays. music we've all heard before. there is nothing new here. he lights a cigarette. he looks around at all the other people. people with their various lives to act out. and this may be the first or it may be the last. life on earth. life no words can describe but the words are written anyway. he tries not to worry about anything. he tries to convince himself that it will be ok. how many others have tried to do the same?
    and still dreaming of this dream. and still waking up to it day after day. trying to simplify it somehow. pressure. no longer pretending the fantasy of love and truth in a world where both are trampled while wars are fought in their honor. the dream where the flags are still waving. too cool to be true.

    life in somebody's cartoon about life. either/or. and nothing.
    and what to do when one has lost it somewhere along the way? he's lost it. the blank expression in the mirror. and he doesn't know what to say to himself. get a life? he's got some sort of life. some minimal spark that doesn't go out but doesn't kindle anything. emptiness. too much trouble. too much confusion.
    and he doesn't care about what he doesn't care about.
    and the story is something about this other bunny who ran away from home and got killed and eaten by a fox.
    and time comes around to time again. no light and no darkness can penetrate this dirty gray world. no common sense either. nothing is shared with anyone. it's him against them against him. against. no development. no life nowhere. just talk about this and that with words that have no meaning.
    he is empty and run out. he has little left even for himself - nothing for anyone else. his ideas have evaporated. turned into smoke from his cigarettes. end up in an ashtray.
    and he says nothing to the others. when he speaks they quickly attempt to prove him wrong. no common sense. but even that statement they would deny or insist that's it's him instead doing it to them. and of course they're right. it can't possibly be thought otherwise.
    as exciting as everything might be when it breaks it breaks. no more. no less. and for him that break lies close by. and we understand that nothing can be understood. sweat. and it's no big deal. everything is fine. negative. isolation. he needs to isolate himself from them. the experience. the stale bitter taste in his mouth from the coffee and cigarettes. it is not friday afternoon though it is an afternoon. while he waits in this noise. always waiting.
    a normal number of things dance fevered creatures with transformed bone marrow. a million or so people eating lunch. maybe more. probably more. and swelling from multiforms of disease. let's pretend. sleep. make it up. from the belly of the beast itself. hell and high water. the spirit of the thing. the thing in spirit. lawnmower. wheels. the plan of not having a plan. something hidden.
    from some sort of fourth level. the heroes of horror stories. the long darkness. self-generated hell with creatures of various deformity alive and screaming with gripping suction clinging at one's face.
    and nothing like that at all. lay down in a golden field. the warmth of the sun. lay down in a boat on a river. ignore the obvious. ignore the garbage this world fills up with. people. hair. ignore those born into this disease. victory. clean and pure.
    as we sit again in the cafe with no meaning to our lives stuck together. people look at us and turn away. he remembers how cruel he is. he just doesn't care. as long as we're taken care of. our needs met. the only ones left. and our vision of change blurred. and something always incomplete.
    no one's home.
    splintered endless fragments of himself as he is a fragment of the self. what is insanity and what is not? is it only measured by how many people one can get to agree with oneself? what is intelligence and what is not? people killing each other. far away from here. but it may be getting closer.
    and our death. and our life. which is which? with the world destroyed and he is a machine remembering. reconstructing. calculating where and when it all went wrong. a ballet. and nothing went wrong. he does not believe in the fall from grace. this is what it is. this is as far as it goes. maybe.
    and the island is all that he has. the deserted island in the middle of it all. until they come to take him down. he has escaped it so far. the child. the child of evil as we have defined the world between this and that. the knife across the throat. blood. sacrifice. power. mix and match. lunchtime. another cigarette.

    i am your enemy, the dada-ananda spake thusly once in a park that used to be a landfill. i am your enemy because i have no enemies. something you cannot abide. your world is filled with hatred toward one another and enemies abound. everyone is an enemy to someone. but you say you love others. but that is easy to love those who agree with you and please you. all others you feel must be eliminated. no other possibilities for you exist. to you i do not exist. i am ugly and deranged. i do not agree with you nor please you. i am sick and diseased. you blindly pass me by. but i do this to myself as i reject images that would reflect my perfection among you. this is why i became imaginary to you. this is why i had to cease to exist in any other form but the imaginary. i would have destroyed you. i am destroying you. i am the cause for all that goes wrong in your futile lives. i have been sacrificed by you and your particular tribes for generations following generations. this is my service to you. this is my cause. i have become the universal villain so you would have heroes to worship the ground they walk on. so you would have stories to tell one another. so you yourselves would not be sacrificed.
    and with another breath the dada-ananda continued, this is the ancient time. you gloss over everything we have tried to show you . you confuse the issue with your wild thoughts of rationality. your science builds walls around you so you can say this is this and that is that. so you can hate one another. so you can keep your simple minds intact. i am alone among you. i am make believe. i am doubt. i look at you and all you do and i am sick. your highest art makes me puke. and you will never find me. you don't know how to look. you read the books written and published by those drowning in ignorance that passes itself off as philosophy. words. nothing but words. only the silent among you are wise. only the frightened know the truth. the defeated are strong. something like light.
    and we came upon the dada-ananda and asked the dada-ananda, who are you?
    the dada-ananda looked at us without looking because the dada-ananda is free from the illusion of perception as the dada-ananda spake thusly, without me there is love and compassion. i lie to you because it is easy to do so. i speak to leaders and followers both to make them believe and act. i stir it up. i create clouds that block out the light. am i wrong to do so? who can ask a question like that? who is there to ask a question like that to? not me. i will not answer. i am only as you imagine me in your nightmares where there is the only truth if there is truth. yet i am beyond your imagination.
    and we saw something else. a blue shape that was not a shape. ugly music played bringing us down into the depths of ourselves. everyone has given up. we have given up. let the machine take over.
 
    8/8
    something about the lies. something about the truth. something about what exists between the two. something about coming to the cafe here everyday. something about living a life alone. something about a god being driven mad by the void it is surrounded by even within itself that is void of even space and time. the void aware of itself. then something like chaos. but not even that ordered. the first awareness. the first formulation of something. all possibility at once. and this god chooses between what is and what is not. the god pretends the universe. or something like that.
    as though it were something he was imagining while he's sitting here writing this while people live whatever lives they live around him. lives he has little or no part in except to observe what is happening. the possibility of what is happening. while the void surrounds him also. while the void knows and calls his name. while he pretends not to hear or know who and what he is and the how and the why of what the fuck he is doing in this weird cartoon world.
    he hears of people being beaten to death. he hears of people starving. he goes home and watches tv and the electronic images of people he's never met otherwise tell him it's happening right now as they speak. and he tries to feel concern. he tries to feel what it must feel like to feel concern. the only concern is that the same may happen to him someday and no one will care anymore than he does now. he feels he should be feeling guilty for not feeling anything more than he does. he tries to feel what it would feel like to feel guilt. but he didn't invent this suffering, did he? is he the cruel god who is blamed for such things? or blamed for not preventing them from happening? not that he knows of. but why should this god be any different from us? we are created in its image after all, so they say and it is written. it created our image out of itself. but we created its image out of ourselves. the chicken and the egg. the paradox. the conclusion of contradiction. the truth and the lies.
    and he wonders about being a truckdriver. to travel the interstate freeways. or a computer operator. or a desk clerk at a hotel. or a garbage collector. or who he is sitting here day after day with nothing to do but think of things without really thinking about anything at all and then writing it down.
    to go where he hears the voices. the network of minds linked together through various means that he imagines might be a possibility. or maybe not. no proof. but faith and/or doubt need no proof. they are what they are. proof is for those who lack imagination and envision nothing but this reality which has yet to be proven is real.
    a madman driven mad by this unproven reality and its refusal to do what he wants it to do. but what does he want it to do besides what it is doing? he's alive. he has food to eat and a place to sleep. what more does he want?
    the others. those he doesn't understand yet understands too well. he understands what joy could be felt beating someone to death - the joy of rage fulfilled. or the pleasure felt in the determined hatred strong enough to cause and allow people to starve.
    he knows this inside himself to be caught up in events one must survive through. he blames no one. he blames everyone - especially those most distant and comfortably removed who imagine themselves not to be part of the whole machine of it.
    he watches it happening. he knows who and what he is. he knows he is the spark that ignites the flames. to him something is better than nothing even if it is this. though something is always a fantasy. nothing is reality.
    there is no way out.
 
    a fart. actually, spoke the cloud, i don't know what happens next. a trick of the cards. dice. stargates altering the altars. he lit another cigarette. a ball. in the nick of time.
    we have come to get you, he wrote. was this the predicted message? he had no idea. a cup of coffee. the timeless time in the cafe. was this the beginning of it or the end? now or never. a easy prize. forgotten. he kept on writing though he had long ago run out of things to write about. ideas. no progression.
    he tried to think back to what this had all meant to him awhile ago. now it was just another story. what was wrong? why didn't he believe anymore? did he ever believe anything? he believed the world owed him a living and he had gotten them to do just that by acting crazy. and it was just an act, wasn't it? how was he supposed to know? he wasn't out on the street talking to himself. not yet. but he talked to no one. couldn't talk to anyone much anymore. not that he ever talked to anyone much before. not much to talk about.
 
    space invaders. dogs from hell. except what truth that may or may not be expected. as the business lunch time crowd starts coming in. money is money. back to the original point. another cigarette. not normal. back to work. slaves in the free world. a joke. the man down the street with a straw hat he's wearing. and with what information is available. and without remembering. too late or too soon.
    and waves kept coming up on the beach of the island where he and thing were talking about random nonsense again as usual as always. he lit yet another cigarette and gazed out the window. how long could this last? and people around him ate their lunch and left.
    it was all a mistake. he abandoned his simple life as husband and father for the most part - mostly the husband part. he still considered himself a father for what it was worth in these enlightened times. he thought he was doing something but couldn't remember now what it was. nothing. webs of chaos. the multidimensional altar of the artchurch. his doubtful following of the dada-ananda. acid. always acid. end of the world paranoia. the trick of fate. demons and angels. voices in the dark land. and all that is left to him now is the void. him and the void. fbi.
    and the webs of chaos reach across all lines. active and dormant. alive or dead. forbidden virtue. rules changed. development of insight.
    and their world will fall in on itself with everyone shouting about how something should be done with lucifer bringing the light and prometheus burning down the house and all that jazz and groove thing. when prophets are a dime a dozen. obscure. and still life goes on. wondering what the fuck is happening. a blind eye turned toward a deaf ear. and forget responsibility. and forget the name they gave us to keep us silent.
    and if he could write something other than this he would. maybe yes. maybe no. yes/no. both answers are the same to him but he is trying to communicate with those who feel that they are different. practical application. but who mentioned anything practical?
    of writing of not remembering nor not forgetting exactly what's what. how does one consider this as an account of which is undermined by itself again? how does one think of one thing or the other? waking up to and from an endless sleep of dreaming action and event. still within and without it as we spin forth from ourselves laughing and crying. driving as if in distant traveling ships lost in a great space of wilderness it takes us several thousand generations to begin to have a clue of even how ignorant we are. still in the ice however much it's thawed. we remember and forget nothing. it is our soul core. stars inside and out and backwards upside down sideways. as everything comes and goes except what is left behind to haunt itself as existing memory of what is lost with doubt beyond belief beyond doubt.
    and something like that.
    and another cigarette. another joke told by an idiot stupid babbling squat ignorant baboon.
    let him sleep in peace.
    nothing is real.
    how important can it be?

    and in our shallow memory. again. notwithstanding every person on earth is a greedy glutton maggot power pig fiend. so there. except for the good people of course. ideal.
    subtle layers of nowhere. just a joke. remember that. in some sort of confinement. he is home now. he tries to take an afternoon nap. awake yet tired. pot. nothing on tv until star trek in the afternoon early evening. what a life. locks on doors. noises go bump. ageless fear. anxious energy pent up frustration. dada mind thinking dada thoughts. a blessing and a curse. no place like utopia. dreaming on in the dream that might even be real. copy. random nonsense. give it up, he thinks.
    everything is his wild imagination. with doubt and belief both occurring at once. laughing in dead seriousness. one more trick to pull off. actually two more. an installation piece that is disintegrating rapidly as time continues running out of time. oh well. ho-hum. ding dong. tick-tock. buzz. and sort of like that. mind blown off the tracks. it happens. so long as it doesn't happen to the others as it has happened to us. whatever it was. nevermind. a clue. a disguise of madness. each description does not describe it as realization is forgotten as the task fails. personality altering. personality altaring. which? are the two the same? whatever is the same and whatever isn't. out of communication except with whoever might be reading this dada raga.
    baptize the love unshared. feel allowed glory. agonize not. sacrifice the holiness. duck. soup. later the helmsman - helmsperson - shouts to foresee an acknowledged wink. a nod. words. another cigarette. stop on a dime. mistaken identity mistaken again this time on the secret wheel no one knows of except us. please avow rejecting impulse now and forever more. nevermind the occurring distant island with waves on the warm sand standing staring out the window or toward a television. joined meadows as sweet as spring and sacred as fall enveloped the scene while we end up in the village inn. blind observation. decay. village idiot. babble bopping stream of limbo bar none. gods alive with wicked thoughts. free dogs. free freedom. national belief totem system.
    dig and groove brother sister aunt and uncle and ships at sea in the gulf of everything. shepherds. cowards. flinging symbolic theater antics. victory at final cost. the threatened territory on all sides. minimal participation except to observe and amuse oneself inside/outside. stimulation. subvert. witness the stress of loveless solid structured awareness that has thus far into our forgiven report into a future without knowing.
    happening now for one and for all of us together apart to behold the word at once never. does one understand that? and whatever other nonsense we do not believe the limits of our doubts as our case here demonstrates.
    so groove on diplomats. don thy lengthy hats.
 
    alaska. another space/time thing here we are writing whatever and whatever even after the whole thing blew up. distrust. anger. the whole trip without outside support begins to unfold. the pointlessness of it. x-mas lights. food. another cigarette. don't need no one but they all get in his way pushing and shoving each other. greedy selfish pigs. and who is he? someone special? and meaning without meaning. people talking one long poem. one long story. fat people. people in wheelchairs. people in the street. conversation. going nowhere. just words. make this up. make that up. make up something else. nevermind any of it. just a cheap fuck. just a grunt in the dark. to be other than human. to be more than human. to be able to see something else. drunk. rock and roll. time goes around the clock. agreed upon logic system.
    and hanging out in a different cafe except they are all one and the same. these aren't the right words but there are no wrong words except these because these are written and nothing changes. just more of the same old jive dada. and he does nothing about any of it except smoke another cigarette and put up with it. nothing matters. just get to the point where one is as far from it as one can get and so one doesn't have to give a shit about any of it. unreachable. silent and silence. nothing no more. give it up. shove it up their collective ass. these people going by going nowhere but their own destruction. gone. just put up with it. resist as long as one can. put up with it as long as it remains being something one has to put up with. from all sides. from all angles. angels.
    just a groove away. stick around until the time it comes to go. before faith. post doubt. the nevermind slips and slides down the street doo-dah fuzzy buzzy humming in his head. midwest. thunderstorm. any day now. yeah, right.

    another place and time. think of another place and time. everybody with their boots on. tinny tiny. cards. and nobody says a thing about nothing. and nobody's here at all. pretending they're real.
    to deny everything. to withhold. another cup of coffee. another cigarette. to deny even the luxury of fantasy. and what is fantasy here and what isn't? to just survive as it is in the way that one can while the others war for power. desire. the power of their desire. the power of their fear. the belief in all they dare not doubt. frightened and huddled together unknowing of their ignorance. and as one side fights all the others for victory and glory. for the raising of the flags over the dead bodies of the enemy. how simple a life they lead.
    bring it down. the crown belongs on no one's head. so it goes. the long dark night of our humanity. our cruelty against one another. our constant battles. our unending war with ourselves. and what comes of it? who but a few gain anything from it? and yet this our normal behavior.
    we sit in the cafe. we smoke our cigarettes. and we make these words appear on the page.
    and to seek power. to seek the magick that will bring others to their knees begging for their lives that they will eventually lose.
    doom.
    and what passes as happiness somewhere and sometime like the old days when everything was different and like the day that it will all be different again. but how many pasts have been forgotten and how many futures hoped for?
    this is the end of promises. this is the end of truth and lies. ha-ho-hee-hee.
    twisted in pain and rage. coldly burning. and what we can and cannot hope for. we worship heroes and hope that will forestall our destruction.
    they can go back to their lives. go back to what they need to believe in. go back to what will save them from this loneliness. few can survive here long. none who cling to one another no matter how much they are abused thinking it is in the name of love.
    in the name of love he lights up another cigarette. in the name of love he forgets their names and their faces. all who have misled him toward his destruction saying it was for his own good.
    ha!
 
    and from some start of it. and from some end of it. and from somewhere between the two. and always something else. please forgive and forget his errors against their declared sense of justice that has replaced that of god's now that god has been banished from their world and they have pronounced themselves inheritors to the throne. and he has fallen from their higher grace. he has fallen from their recognized favor.
    and now what is he left with? they are as hidden and unknowable as god was. their rules and laws are just as much a labyrinth with punishment and reward just as arbitrary. they are fools with their wisdom. he stands back and laughs. he knows exactly who and what they are. he knows what their faith leads to. he knows their doubts and fears. he was once among them.
 
    so what do we do with it?
    what is it?
    a cave full of memory.
    a cathedral full of hope.
    a continuation from one to the other in a scrambled half this half that half something else sort of thing going which way idealized in a way realized stopped but not stopping unbegun and beginning again repeated and new and more of the same old thing.
    a groove. how does one - or many - represent a groove? dig it or not. this is it.
    an another attempt. an assault against the senses and the convention of confusion.

    we sit in a cafe and drink coffee and smoke cigarettes. we make mistakes though mistakes are as much a part of the the process of the whole as any other part that is not a mistake until it becomes clear that what is a mistake or not is not necessarily relevant. it depends upon what is expected. we expect mistakes and are quite surprised when there aren't any.
    what this is is just a babble of writing by this guy who pretty much has nothing better to do with his time on earth. this may or may not have been part of some plan or not. there is no argument from us either way.
    he fills up notebooks with his writing. some of these notebooks still exist and some do not.
 
    he is mad.

    8/18
    as time is here and now forever and eternal. in a certain stream appearing and reappearing along with something else - whatever that means.
    and the words unwritten. anyone anywhere at anytime as the moon turns the tides. he sits and waits for the final fatal blow. downtime. big screen. a scream silenced. the dead poet. a painter who never painted.
 
    8/21
    and coming up to whatever. hunting and fishing. time to tell with the seasons of this life and death with it removed from where we're at anyhow. nonjudgement. money in pocket. catholic. sugar. pissed off. dreaming. and people going to school. a number of different things. busted. and no pity or mercy. the glaring eyes. madness of the population. another cigarette. do nothing all day. sometime or another. no way to explain nothing. trucks that drive by. election year. and he doesn't understand how or why anybody does anything. lay down and die. go out and meet people. except he hates them all. get used to it. these days are long gone. hook into the system and ride it through to the end. can't think. don't want to think. don't want to feel nothing. just let it go into the white noise. give him more drugs. sleep. keep waking up into this same dog eat dog mess we're in. ain't no life nowhere. to fuck or not to fuck. all they got going on in their brains. lifted legs. fuck it. he's got his. another cigarette. from one cigarette to another. coffee. food mostly makes him puke.

    9/10
    what words remain unwritten? what disclosure needs to be written of? his doctor says he's a depressive psychotic. ha! lucky guess. who the fuck isn't? who the fuck is? who the fuck? look around.
    the most and the least. shouting and whispering. and a million or so other notebooks like this one being written right now.
    he wakes up. gets up and brushes his teeth and pisses and feeds the cat and goes down to the cafe in the building where he's now living to get breakfast - eggs over easy, sourdough, hash browns, bacon, coffee. the usual. everything as usual. as usual as he can make it. maybe he fears change. old fashioned. virgo. and the usual regular people here. another cigarette.
    and he moves on to another cafe. more coffee. more cigarettes. more words to write. what was he thinking of once?
    what magick he once believed in once is gone. something's been broken. and he thought that with enough time and contemplation he would arrive at some sort of enlightenment. there is no enlightenment. life and death. and which is the worst of the two? he only knows about one.
    as for this world there is nothing. he is exhausted. to the march of the dance beat long hair flowing down to kiss the earth from which we are risen awhile to forget again who we are and our endless wandering walking and so very tired to just want to sleep forever even in the devil's arms. and here he is now in this and that though he doesn't know where the fuck that is. speaking people. and these words go on. his hand jerks letters on the page. and a song about being in love. earth and sky. theories about a moon. more coffee. another cigarette. something to do with nothing to do. and he's just sitting around thinking about nothing much. fingers in his hair. enough money to keep him off the street. purple shirt. just dreaming this dream. this and that . the this and that of this and that. out of alternative possibilities. or some sort of jazz like that.