and everybody's got nothing but problems it seems as it seems everybody wants nothing but problems. that's what we seem to get off on. off. on. banging our star filled heads against whatever wall we come up against keeping going until we find one solid enough to stop us. pushing the limits. keeping ourselves to the maximum point of frustration. and for many of us this frustration becomes the thing itself. don't wanna go nowhere except always pushing against something that refuses to budge. something insurmountable. bigger than life. homo sisyphus sapien or whatever.

    and so there's this tree in the center - well, a little off center really - of this garden. the imagined garden as he imagines it as he imagines himself in it sitting beneath this tree. he imagined at first that there were two trees but it turned out that the two were actually one and what he had imagined before were really two aspects of the same tree differently perceived. or something like that.
    now this isn't anything new. it's very very old. people have talked and written about this tree in this garden for a very very long long time in many different similar ways. this is just the way he imagines seeing it. it might not even be the same thing at all. he doesn't much care about that. he's found this tree and this garden. at least he imagines that he has and he is quite content with that. as content as he is with anything that he has found or imagined that he has found. it all may be nothing.
    there is a story of a garden and in the midst of the garden were two trees. the one tree bore the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil. the other tree bore the fruit of life. and the story goes that we were forbidden to eat the fruit of the first tree. but it would seem that god, the caretaker of the garden, was perhaps using a bit of mystical reverse psychology as these humans it had given consciousness to would make a beeline for anything forbidden as it well knew and since it did not forbid the eating of the fruit of the tree of life. but that is perhaps besides the point.
    so anyway we ate the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil. and god comes by and we were acting all paranoid and weird so god knew right away what we had done. and it said to them that if they really wanted to know about good and evil to go out into the world and check it out first hand for ourselves and don't come back until we figured it out.
    and so out we went.
    and so that all goes.
    and so here we are.
 
    for in the garden there is no knowledge of good and evil. ain't no such animal nowhere. walk up to someone in the garden and ask them what good or evil is and they will say, huh?
    but it is the manna of the gods. what else do they do with themselves but enact dramas of good and evil for themselves? for them it's like watching tv. how boring it would be otherwise to be a god. for good and evil is experience. it is all the possibilities of experience. from the deepest despair to the highest joy. there could be no experience without both good and evil.
    or something like that.
 
    a fly.
    eyes designed to detect any movement and trigger flight.
    queerfish.
    a bottle. england's shores. a cigarette butt, dead leaves on the sidewalk. beauty.
    ouch!
    the delight of pain. threshold of experience. the moment in perfect clarity of awareness while all else is forgotten in the same instant. gone.
    bound and gagged. thirteen. testimony beheld and glorified. surrender of the mind. a calling. doves. eagle. coo coo.
    hair. eyes. foot. a cracked jaw and twisted pelvis. automobile.
    re-election.
    risk. death. hot air. a knife at her throat. pulsing fear. a question, yet knowing it will not be asked and that there is no answer. memory. mouth.
    this image.
    a gun pointed at his head. an ice calm descends freezing time. gold foil. shimmering.
 
    and we return to the cafe. he is here. he is always here. he is not thinking about coupons. head in hand. fingers in his matted strange hair. elbow on table. he looks down at his other hand scribbling words onto pages in a notebook. how strange. sporadic spasms moving the pen in patterns of curves and zigs and zags that supposedly mean something. programmed and automatic. learned behavior.
    interesting.
    the words appear as if cast by a spell.
 
    tough on crime. green neon light. tough on crime. a toothless grin. tough on crime.
    the people. convince the people. ask not. suicide. medication. open. closed.
    broken dance.
    later that night he steps into his own shadow. a night to remember. step back. move aside.

    the form. the degree of form. and why did he write that? huh? he's sure he's written that before. certain words occur to mind. form is one. degree is another. occur is another. mind is another. another is another.
    thinking following channels of given language. thinking is another. following is another. language is another.
    form degree occur mind another thinking following language.
    sub-secret space code from hellplanet x-9. calling all chameleons. come in chameleons.

    and the big deal of it is that there isn't much of a big deal about it but we ignore that because we all want to be in on something important and there aren't all that many things that people would consider important unless somebody finds someway of making a big deal about it enough that people will forget what they thought was important or at least interesting and, well, one knows how it goes from there.
    to discover.
    to be thinking maybe about killing somebody. that thought comes up once in awhile for some reason he hasn't quite figured out yet. it surfaces from somewhere beneath and behind everything else. motivation problems. when one can only think of things to do that are violent and destructive and then has to find someway of vegging themselves out so they don't actually do it. don't think about doing it. don't think about nothing.

    like a group of well-dressed and well-groomed women sitting around a table in a cloud of perfume eating desserts and giggling. licking their spoons a lot.
    and nothing is wrong. it's a matter of perception. always thinking that there is always something wrong.

    and there is the island too. out in the middle in the eye of a storm raging on an otherwise calm sea.
    he got there. he was always trying to get there. he was always dreaming or imagining himself waking up washed up on this beach. and that would be as far as he got. sometimes not even that. sometimes just drowning. that would be as far as he would allow himself to get.
    he imagined a forest. he imagined a house in the forest. he imagined a garden with a tree in its midst. it was different each time. in the house was the old man sitting by a fire who would welcome him and offer him a cigarette.
    a long time would pass.
 
    cigarettes.
    a fine day for sitting about anywhere next to a window and smoking cigarettes. he rarely tired of this activity - or non-activity. it had a quality about it that held him as if caught in a spell. and maybe he was. a spell of time.
    he loved time. time fascinated him. he thought of little much else that didn't somehow involve or relate to time. he savored time like a fine wine. or how he imagined how someone would savor a fine wine. he himself probably couldn't tell fine wine from a jug wine. but it was all about time anyway.
    to him there could never be too much time or too little. there was always just enough for what he needed or wanted except when he got caught in their race track whirling sense of time. he tried to avoid that as much as possible. sometimes it wasn't possible. or their endlessly waiting for something to happen sense of boredom time. their scheduled sense of time he had to enter into once in awhile to be pushed and shoved and knocked around and then be told to wait and don't move.
    he hated it.
    he got out.
    whew.
 
    the nevermind.
    unthought of. unrealized. hopeless hope. faithless faith. god without need for god. god who?
    nevermind.
    the entering and exiting of it as what it is and is not. a type of disease or a type of cure depending upon where one is starting from. where is one starting from?
    nevermind.
    to the nevermind. it doesn't matter where any of us are starting from or trying to get to or end up. the nevermind doesn't care about any of that. the nevermind only cares about itself and it doesn't even care about that.
    whoever can get to it.
    we've gotten to it.
    nevermind.
    the birds and the bees and the flowers and the trees.
    nevermind.
    it's dust in the wind blowing through our hair.
    nevermind.

    yes. and the rain raining down outside. today, yesterday and tomorrow making it seem like it has been and will be raining forever. disconnected. warm dry sunshine reduced to a figment of our imagination. something in our memory we hope might come again.
    skating on the thin ice between shores.
    light another cigarette.

    the end of all the times we've known together and apart. the end of all that has come before and will be to follow the nevermind.

    a chain of events. the weakest link is the moment now realized. otherwise, forget it.
    huh?
    and let them wallow in and celebrate their decadence around them. let them think everything is falling apart all around them. let them panic. let them run for shelter. let them try to stop it. let them go out of their minds. let them worry. let them throw money at it. let them arm themselves against it. let them ignore it. let them deny it. let them sink into the depths of despair about it. let them do studies on it and report to committees. let these findings be published and televised. let all knowledge of it be kept hidden from public view. let those responsible for it act irresponsibly. let anyone who speaks of it be taken away and never heard from again.
    we know better.
    we know it's not happening that way at all. look around. don't be duped like the rest of them. look past all the bullshit dada everyone is going on and on about and figure out for oneself what is really going on.
    remember how to laugh.
    laughing at death itself.
    they are about to die as are we all. living in fear and dread of that moment to come. willing to do anything to avoid even thinking of it. these are those who will sacrifice anything and anyone to death as long as it not themselves.
    turn the page. let's see what's on the other side. change the channel. flip flip flop. the story continues.
    and the story here is... or was.... uh... what?
    as nothing ever ends. and nothing ever begins. as we are making this up as we go along.
    another cigarette.
    and someone else staggering out on the sidewalk. the spiders are busy busy busy. hmmm....

    a spoon?
    "bob" is a dope. jesus is a banana. come again? and everything scattered on the floor of the studio where he imagined he might have been now if he played his cards right. as it turned out, he didn't. he didn't play his cards at all. he let it pass.
    he was looking for the word. and the word was napkin - or rug - or ashtray - or spoon.
    or nevermind.
    so as the story may or may not be going. he watches himself get into a taxi and ride away. he wonders how that happened. he wonders where he is now.
    and there goes some guy down the sidewalk across the street like he's actually going someplace but maybe he doesn't know where that is. or maybe he does.
    nevermind.
    how? what? where?
    bones. crib. shoes.
    and now for something exactly the same.
    krypton.
    he looked up from his shoes and saw that everyone was still here. it happens that way a lot.
    a possibility.

    back on the island meanwhile the old man after awhile winked and said, i was waiting for you to show up.
    were you? he replied?
    i wouldn't say it if i wasn't.
    i don't know what you would say.
    yes you do.
    do i?
    yes. since i am only a figment of your imagination everything i say is what you want me to say.
    is that all you are?
    what else could i be?
    i don't know.
    what else were you expecting?
    i don't know that either. i've given up expecting anything.
    i don't think that's true.
    no? why not?
    why would you have come here if you weren't expecting something?
    i don't know why i came here, or how i got here, or where this is.
    here is a island in the middle of the sea. how you got here was through your imagination. why you came here may have more to do with your trying to get away from somewhere else. you just happened to end up here. but i still think you were expecting something.
    what?
    you tell me.
    i don't know.
    the old man shrugged and returned his gaze back to the fire.
    at the cafe it was becoming dark. cars had their headlights on. people still walked by out on the sidewalk.
 
    this may seem more complicated than it actually is. one needs to become used to it and realize that none of it is probably happening anyway.
    he's gotten used to it. he's learned to keep quiet. don't upset the tourists. they pay the bills.
    quiet. silent.
    wait to see what happens next. it comes as now a surprise but he is always amazed by each unfolding moment.
    it is happening.
    so what is happening anyway? what does one want us to tell one about what is happening that one might not already know or can imagine? there is so much happening everywhere at all time. here and now too. what is important to write about and report? what is actually happening and what is only happening in his head? can he tell the difference?
    nobody acts like there's anything happening at all. neither does he. we all sit around reading books, watching tv, going out on the town, making plans to change things, making plans to keep things the way they are. maybe there isn't anything happening. he's certainly not going to start acting like there is. he's been through that before. he's been told to shut up and quit bothering everybody. so that's what he does now. and he's getting paid to do just that.

    and this was nowhere. it didn't happen. a dream. dreaming.
    an experiment gone bad.
    he votes for termination.
    like that matters.
    turtles.
    but there are others of us who feel that this can yet all be saved and turned into something worthwhile. he'll believe that when he sees it. it won't be easy they agree. but it's worth it. some sort of overhaul and realignment.
    scrap it all, he says. start over with something new. the things that are wrong with it now go all the way back to the original design. we've been fucking around with that long enough trying to fix the unfixable. forget it. give it up.
    but they won't give up. they want to keep messing with it and redoing this and redoing that. and they offer this theory and that theory. if this won't do it then that will. and on and on.
    if they do even finally get it working right it will be by pure stroke of luck.
    but it was all a joke anyway. so fuck it.
    it had to be. he laughed to himself. it didn't matter if it was or wasn't. until he knew better he was going to treat it as if it were. he was tired of being pissed off about things that were never going to change. who was really interested in it besides always constantly arguing about it one way and the other? things that didn't matter. surface symptoms of a disease that was deep and widespread.
    he watched and waited.
    nothing.
    and he thought of things to amuse himself thinking. la-dee-da.
    it all goes on by the window he gazes out of all day.
    the philosophy of vice versa. this very often worked since he reasoned what they were doing was fucked up and ass backward the most logical thing to come up with that was the right thing to do was the opposite of what they did since as far as he could tell was that everything they did only made things that much worse despite their protests that such was not the case and dada like that. they struggled against one another to get into positions of power that they thought that when they got there they would be able to fix everything but they spent all their time and energy in the struggle itself that there wasn't any left over for anything else. those who didn't have it trying to grab it and those who had it trying to defend it.
    so he leaves all that behind to sit in some cafe or another gazing out the window smoking cigarettes and such.
    and it bugs the shit outta them to see him sitting around doing nothing. they walk by and sneer. but he's got himself set up so there isn't a gosh darn thing they can do about it. so there.
    fuck 'em.
    dada.
    doo-wah-doo-doo.
    waiting for the bullet. that's what he was waiting for. him and winston both sitting in the cafe together. and everything is peaches and cream so far. no one can get us anymore. we are free and clear. what is anyone going to do? shoot us? that's exactly what we're expecting. ha!
    nothing else we need or want. and they won't face us when they do it. it will come from behind.
    one day.
    he hated them. he hated them all. and he hoped they knew it. he hoped they could tell. even when he smiled he hoped they could still feel the hatred he held behind it. fuckers.
    to him they are cowards unable to face themselves so they invent enemies outside themselves to attack instead. they gather in gangs and armies of gangs and nations of armies fighting against one another in the war the can never be won and that never ends.
    all against anyone who reminds them that they are no more than worthless dog shit until they have gone into the void of darkness inside themselves until one finds the source of light that shines through all images placed before it.
    but who among them does this? who among them even thinks of it? it takes knowing that there is something there to be found. who would guess such a thing? he had no choice since he was thrown into it against his will. until then one is afraid and one can only project that fear outward onto others. one is a shadow of oneself. they exist in the absence of light. they are nothing. they have always been nothing. they will always be nothing. their fate is oblivion.
    and he sees them . he sees them as such. he sees who and what they are. he sees who and what they are not. and the only way they can stop him from seeing them this way is to put a bullet through his head.
    he laughs.
    he doesn't really hate them. what is the purpose of that? it takes too much energy. he just pities them. a sad pity. but he still laughs. he sits all day in the cafe and laughs.
    or so he imagines all this together as it is or maybe is not. but let us not forget that he is very highly probably insane. or close enough to being insane to be considered insane.
    or else he's faking it to get out of having to work.
    either way one has nothing to worry about. he and others of his kind are harmless enough. they've been taught to sit quietly and stay out of the way and not bother anyone who know what they are doing and are trying to get things done.
    so pay him no mind. ignore him. go on with one's business as usual.
    think only good thoughts. be correct in thought, word and deed.
    don't talk with one's mouth full.
    sit up straight.
    then wait for the bullet.
    then wait for the one thing that makes sense.
    then laugh one's fool head off.
 
    12/1
    something funny about it. try to think of something funny about it. somebody getting theirs maybe. how delightful.
    he thought of many things. none of them were all that funny. people getting theirs? why? what was the point? gratification fix.
    so something else. but he looked around himself and that was all he saw. people getting theirs in one way or the other.
    one thread. he looked for one thread he could pick up and follow through it that would unravel it. was that stupid? impossible? there seemed to be so many. many more than he could follow at one time all tangled up with others going every which way and so on.
    so he just sat here writing this nonsense about nothing which was all he could think of to do.
    la-dee-dada-da?
    everything was so complicated. who would understand it? he didn't know if he understood it or not. and what was the purpose to it? he already knew one couldn't get others to think differently than they already did. it was like trying to reverse the orbits of the planets would be easier.
    so that wasn't the point to what he was writing.
 
    12/2
    and the ghosts that were everywhere. the layers of ghost images moving in and out of whatever reality this was. he couldn't get them to go away and leave him alone as well as not being able to get them to come out and speak with him. they just hung out hovering between here and there not quite real but not quite just in his head.
    and this was the reason and the nature of the experiment he was attempting to undertake. a beginning to depart from. to enter into the world of ghosts, spirits, demons, angels, gods or whatever the fuck. to reach into it and come out with something. goo-goo-ga-ga.
    or nothing.
    he was pretty much dead wrong about everything and not much of that mattered. it wasn't anything too many people were interested in to begin with. it was their theory that it was all due to his mental illness and he would have to just deal with that which he was sort of already though what that meant for him would be that any remaining interest he had in anything going on in the world would evaporate and he would finally close the door on all of it as being totally pointless for him having anything more to do with it.
    he was tired. nothing but bullshit. he came up with nothing no one else could come up with. and he wondered if he cared about that or not. he cared. he thought he cared. he tried to believe that he cared but he really didn't. he should be taken out and shot. social parasite. he had no solutions to any problems and so didn't that make him part of the problem? him and his kind who did nothing for anybody, not even themselves.
    but he could get away with it. there was always a loophole. no one stopped him. they closed their eyes to it.
    and he laughed. it was the only thing that could make him laugh. the irony of it all. all the designs put into place and put into action. all that everyone fought so hard against. all of which is part of the design. no one trusts one another. everyone fighting with one another. and none of it has to be real as long as it is believed. fuck reality. since when has that ever been a factor in anything? those inside and outside the system both helped keep the system in place. one side motivated by the fear that they will lose it and the other side motivated by the hope that they will gain it. perfect. allow each side alternately some small victory so as to keep it all within the realm of possibility. but never enough that they get everything they want. and both sides come away with nothing. frustration. keep them at the maximum point of frustration.
    meanwhile we sit around and laugh at it all. divide and conquer. what a scam. they do all the work while we sit in the shade and sip our lemonade looking down from cloud minds amused by it all.
    he imagines this though it is probably not true. he just comes here to hide from them and even from himself. but it comes back to him. the ghosts who watch and follow him. he doesn't know why. do they suspect?
 
    a giraffe. he hadn't thought of a giraffe in awhile. and he doesn't have much reason to think of one now. voice over. beer. cut out this weird shit. don't want no weird shit, man. lock it down. the place is a mess. music. don't need to be thinking of nothing he don't wanna think about. got it all down the way he wants it. no weird shit, man. no no no - keep that weird shit away from him.
    something for everybody. and he doesn't know what the fuck what.
 
    and zero to zero. imagination. and fuzzbuckets. and whatever else he feels like scribbling out here. the neon flickering beside him. he was here again. forced liberation. not only was he in a position of not having to do anything but he was in a position of not being allowed to do anything. because he's crazy.
    sort of.
    maybe.
    let's hope so.
    symptoms.
    medication.
    but that's not it really.
    transmission.

    and a peaceful rumored child. at home. a resting wakefulness. the sky, the earth and the ocean dancing accordingly. one transmission of many. gold. food. rhythmed voices singing conversation of psychorandom poetic improvisational verse.
    the claw breaks the ice. stolen mind echoing calling. arrival with the enemy. the chosen place and time. repeat.
    crazy, man, crazy.
    flunky monkeys. flip/flop. zap!
    dig.
    liquid tender moments on tongue desiring.
 
    freakdom arise. demand our stupidity of genius. become. stars of eyes in our eyes. wipe away a tear as all turn fondly remembering what it is.
    jungle.
    heartbeat.
    city.
    footsteps.
    remain posted. 3rd degree alert. the torn flag of yesterday's news. twisting. torture. pants down and liking it. waist up spasmed jerks. teeth chattering. fingers pulling triggers. crying out loud.
    yes.
    quiet quick moments between the moments. pause. breathe. dream.

    and push it out.
    and pull it in.
    the ol' in out. one-two.
    down we go and up we go.
    this is it.
    here.
    now.
    ready or not. let's go.
    what else are we waiting for? tomorrow? a future of tomorrows that turns into a past of tomorrows.
    without a care in our hair. to the wind. windows. opening. leaping out into the furious storm and flying for dear life itself. not as we knew it. not as we have forgotten it was. not as we remember. not as we are.
    silent souls whispering together in screaming shouts of the anguished joy of our becoming. jubilant cacophony.
    and laughter away from it all. and down on easy street the gangs gather in circles. flocks of many more than we had imagined. individual mass. arriving alone together in a fate cast apart. on the beaches everywhere. everyone.
    this is it.
    rapid.
    zero.
    heat.
    round.
    developmental.
    lucky.
    pink.
    formulation. upon the mark. upon the sign. upon the option of possibility.
    the hatred.
    the teeth.
    the quick response.
    the fatal mistake.
    the death.
    the hero.
    parade.
    carnival.
    circus.
    invention.
    across.
    beyond.
    stars in our eyes toward electric understanding pulsing gift.

    vulgar. obsolete. conjunction. here we are now. ripped open. hearts bleeding onto the ashes and the dust to give life to it again. again. remember living. remember laughing. child children in their own minds again. again. no mere words describe. look at it oneself. oneself. again. what was not seen with the first quick glance.
    shelter. the storm rages on. how do we find one among the many lost? give us some indication that one just hasn't given up and fallen behind and following those who give one strength. more than strength is needed here. wisdom of knowing where and when to use it. and knowing where and when to hold it to oneself and let things be even if it means the suffering continues. there are times we must turn away. there are times we must admit defeat. victory at all cost is suicide. with everybody trying to grab everything they can there are times when it's best just to move on. leave the city of justice in flames. breathe the cold clear air of the night in the wilderness. losing everything but oneself and finding what one needs to survive. living the life of luxury - the luxury of being alone and apart from the rest still fighting with everyone else and themselves. if they stopped to check it out they'd realize that they already have it and more than enough to go around when enough people are willing to let go of some of it without one having to pull it our of their hands screaming and kicking.
    when one becomes willing to lose it all in order to remain oneself. not when one is just one more demanding asshole on a planet overpopulated with more of the same. who cares if one is right or wrong? who cares if one has been fucked over and ripped off? who hasn't been? who isn't always right? one is on the end of a very long line of those seeking justice or revenge, whichever comes first. one is just another face in the crowd. another fool on a fool's mission. tough shit if one doesn't like it. who asked for one's opinion? deal with it or get out.
    we couldn't deal with it so we got out. out into our minds. the wilderness. into ourselves away from all everyone wanted us to be and who we had to be to fight them off. all identities are illusions. all but one. the identity of ourselves. the identity of all of us together. our hatred for them is no different than their hatred for us. or our love. or our indifference. let's get off it. we've been on this ride long enough. do we really need for others to bend over in order for us to feel alive?
    we're gone. we've had enough of the history of their futures. don't wait up. don't set a place for us at one's table. one can have all that we've left behind. delete our name from one's list of those one can rely on. we're out.
 
    to dream on dreaming out the window with head of doubt whistling in the dark.
    the trees out in the forest sing to him with their shimmering in the sunlight leaves. all else is so much noise. and their eyes are dull and see nothing. their face ugly and twisted. and all their world has to offer him is nothing. people robbed of the souls. empty apathetic shells only outwardly somewhat resembling something human, but not quite.
    dream on dreaming. give him a dream instead of their whole world full of anger and pain any time.
 
    and so now what? jesus h. fucking goddamn christ. what a mess this has become. and we've left it with them to figure out what's what. is this something new to them? this isn't kansas anymore. it hasn't been kansas for us for as long as we can remember. we're all freaks now, baby. get used to it. ain't been nobody like us before. ain't ever gonna be anyone like us ever again. take the time now to dig it.
    just drop the act and one has it.
    let the others hold on tight and bring themselves down. we aren't like them and they ain't like us.
    and so on.

    another day. without much to feel inspired about he returns to the cafe. a suicide night passed. photographs hung on the wall. bills to pay and that sort of thing. he imagined himself gone. water returned to the sea. as if it never happened.
 
    zero.
    as each word is put down on the page he sees more and more how none of it communicates anything to anyone. maybe not much more than he is alive.
    kicking.
    weary.
    and the people around him unkowning about any of it. it's been years. and he's not sure he would want any of them to know any of it.
    to know he's alive?
    to know he exists?
    and what's the big deal about that? the same is true with anyone. anybody is alive. anybody exists. too many anybodys. just another anybody. and he wouldn't mind that so much except for all these anybodys going around acting like they're somebody when they are nobody. he'd be ok if everybody was just anybody. but these somebodys taking it all to themselves and treating anybody like they're nobody who might as well not even exist.
    and maybe this is something close to it. that feeling that anybody has when as far as anybody else is concerned they're nobody because they're not somebody.
    and since day one he was told that he should become somebody. he was told he had potential to become somebody. he wasn't sure if he wanted to be somebody. what about all the anybodys who weren't somebody? was he supposed to be better than them? why?
    and he could have walked into the spotlight anytime he wanted to. but he stayed with those in the dark.
    and now here he is in the dark scribbling away. he's a junkie to it. can't stop himself. doesn't want to stop himself. and it's not directed toward anything. it's just become automatic. it is inspired by nothing. there is nothing to be inspired about. it's just a job in a factory or might as well be. no time for nothing else. just another anybody who is nobody.
    and who checks it out? who unmasks the somebodys to see if they really are somebody or not? who looks around at all the nobody anybodys to see if maybe they might actually be somebody or not?
    it's a game. moving pieces into positions of power. it's win or lose. no other option. and if one plays it right then one can be somebody too. that's the lure of the promise. take a chance. spin the wheel. who will one be this time around?
    and if one loses nobody cares any more than one would care if one had won. boo fucking hoo.
    that's what it's all about. everybody trying to get into a position where they don't have to care about anyone else. is that what one wants too?
    go for it.
 
    meanwhile on the mind shift/ship hovering everywhere at once, he sits in the cabin. everything is ready to go when we go. he's just waiting for further instructions while at the same time feeling like the world's biggest idiot for believing in any of this. he doesn't even know exactly what it is. just some other guy who took a wrong turn somewhere.
    he's perfectly willing to give this up. fuck it. it certainly isn't doing him any good. but what does he do with it? it won't go away no matter how much he explains to himself that it isn't really gonna happen. he knows it's not. but it still won't go away.
    oh well. maybe there is something to it. maybe it is something that will be needed when this whole reality structure cracks apart wide open and everything gets washed away.
    maybe not. he doesn't know. it is the most stupid and absurd thing to him as he imagines it would be to anyone else so he's hardly gonna go out and try to convince somebody about it if he can't even convince himself.
    and he stopped again at the point at where it all goes nowhere.
    zapadoolah gazorbnix.
    noah. he decided to call the mind shift/ship, noah. if that is there is or was or will be anything of the sort to name. that's the thing, it doesn't come into existence until it is needed.
    bongo.
    he knew how noah felt - if there was a noah, which he doubted. but there were plenty of other noahs around about. the world certainly didn't have any shortage of guys - and gals - with some harebrained idea in their head that wouldn't let them alone until they had to do something about it at the same time as knowing how harebrained it was and having absolutely nothing to explain what they were doing or why except for god or something equally harebrained as that.
    and one can laugh at them all one wants to but just be glad it's not oneself who's one of them. be glad that one was spared this fool's curse. and remember that as many who were dead wrong about what they were doing that there was a few who were fucking right on.
 
    another day continues. too much to think about and there ain't nothing to think about. what is there to think about that hasn't already been thought about too much already and nothing new to come up with about it?
    that's where he's at.
    and we try to talk to him as he shrugs us off. if we press him about it he just gets pissed and yells at us to leave him alone.
    there's something in his head he can't get out. it's obviously driving him nuts. it paralyzes him into a mental state that borders catatonia. he seems only remotely aware of what is happening around him. a spoon is a spoon.
    fine and dandy. the world keeps going around even though we might argue about what makes it go around. what's he all bugged about then? life passes him by. he seems to see this whole complex thing that whether it is actually there or isn't or not maybe is irrelevant to the fact that things continue either any way.
    and he won't let go of it. to us it seems like just an excuse to cop out and do nothing. to just conjure all this dada in his head that doesn't make any sense to anyone so he can walk out of it saying we don't understand anything about what's really going on.
    what is there to understand about what's going on that we don't already know and are already taking care of as best as we are able which in some cases isn't good enough but at least we try and we're fairly confident that in time we'll figure it out. so we're not perfect. we never said we were, did we? but try telling that to him. he just thinks we all got our heads stuck up our ass and we're fucking everything up and on and on like that.
    so what the fuck is he doing that is any different? we tried asking him that but he just said that we don't understand and we never will understand. but he won't tell us what it is.
    but at least he is more or less harmless.
    forget it.
    forget him.
    nevermind.

    and the last laugh. speed it up. in the out door. he doesn't care. leave them wondering. leave them with their heads spinning around in circles they are trapped in. loops upon loops upon loops.
    whistling in the dark of voidness. dead echoless psychic space and time of still reflection. a flower? and what god is this that offers us everything anything something nothing all at once to pick and choose as we will or won't? to save it for a rainy day. who cares? who was even paying attention?
 
    and now another night. and it seems a dream all the people he has seen today. if anybody saw him. there will always be people. he was tired of people saying to him that his pain wasn't real - just all in his head. think other thoughts and it will go away.
    funny money. paper bags. re-education. exercise.
    beer. no wonder he couldn't fit in. he didn't drink beer. all his life wasted because he didn't drink beer.
    he hated beer - except with pizza.
 
    12/6
    and something about calling it out. and nothing about calling it out. just this ape reflex that gives us this sense of power. an identity other than ape.
    not animal. not us. not we ourselves. them. they are the animal. they need to control the animal in themselves. we will have nothing to do with them if they do not.
 
    and he was good. he sat and did nothing. he behaved himself. he no longer disrupted what others were doing. they were free to do what they wanted. and because they knew exactly what they wanted they knew exactly what they were supposed to do. they knew exactly what was right and wrong.
    he became and was no man. he attempted in every way he could to cease to exist. but not entirely. he left part of himself to remain clearly visible to show how good he was being. so they could then breathe easier knowing they were that much more free. free to do what they knew exactly what they were supposed to do.
    maybe.
    because maybe that wasn't it either. who could tell. he couldn't. he didn't too much care anymore. as long as they left him alone and didn't question what he was doing. that was the main thing. for them to keep doing exactly what they knew they were supposed to be doing. without a question. without asking him any questions anyway. if they wanted to question everyone and everything else that was fine. as long as they didn't question him. he knew exactly what he was supposed to be doing.
    maybe.
    and that wasn't it either.
    dream on. back and forth in and out of different stages and phases of the dream. the unholy holy dream. the dream of god. the dream of not god. the dream of being and not being. the dream of it and not it.
 
    and something else. somewhere else. sometime else. he was thinking of something. what?
    the doctor.
    the doctor was in.
    the doctor was out.
    he ran through their fingers like gravy, oh boy. ho-hum. was this the life, or what?
 
    and clearly this is a disease of some sort or another. the yellow flashing lights. people up at the counter talking. baby shaking. nonsense.
    and there will always be people starving. and there will always people arguing and fighting over reasons why. he saw no end to it. history is history. the past is history. the present is history. the future is history.
    let us remember.
    let us forget.
    the idiot god.
    the god that just doesn't know any better. the god who should have just said no.
    yes.
    the inspiration.
    the idea.
    drumbeat something or another looking out the window. the flame of the night now with all the workday people hurrying home. the soft vibrant glow of the tv screen. the identity. someone else is there waiting. an embrace against the cold cruel world. talking to hear the sound of one talking. comfort. pleasing. the words of it disintegrate once they are heard. settle down the mind into a groove. relax. surrounded in the warm belly of the beast.
    and scream. blood splattering from ripped warm flesh and the sharp crack of breaking bone.
    yes.
    it's just a dream. nothing seen and nothing heard. the needle enters the vein. the smooth drug liquid is released. sensation modified to predetermined specifications.
    leave it here. now and forever more. don't think twice and don't look back. flying saucer. broomstick.
    just imagine.
    gaze into the fire.
 
    the island. how long was it he was here? he looked over at the old man who after a moment or two looked over at him. something familiar about his face. a face he probably imagined as he imagined everything. everything familiar. a familiar ring.
    where am i? he asked.
    didn't you ask me that already? the old man replied.
    i can't remember.
    neither can i. you are wherever you want to be. where do you want to be?
    i remember washing up on a beach. or i remember waking up on a beach.
    yes.
    yes?
    the beach. you woke up washed up on the beach.
    yes. and then i found my way to this house. this happened many times before i could get to it. before i was able to get in.
    yes.
    yes. and then i saw the fire and the chairs. and then i saw you.
    yes.
    you. and here i am. that is all i know. i feel that it is very far away from anywhere else.
    it is.
    it is?
    yes. it is a far away from anywhere else as you want it to be. an island in the middle of a sea. a sea on another world if you want.
    yes, i suppose. but what about you?
    what about me?
    where do you fit into it? who are you?
    i am who i am and who i am is whoever you want me to be. whatever you want to imagine.
    so all of this is just my imagination?
    yes and no. if you want to be imagining this then that is up to you.
    what else would it be?
    that is up to you.
    and you too? are you imagining this as well?
    yes and no. do you imagine that i am?
    i don't know. how do i tell?
    only you can decide that.
    then i imagine that you are.
    then i am.
    what do you imagine this to be?
    what do you imagine that i imagine this to be?
    i don't know.
    well then, i can't tell you.
    how long have you been here?
    i imagine that i have been here for several years. but i have probably only been here since you first saw me.
    how did you get here?
    same as you.
    you washed ashore?
    if that is what you imagine, yes.
    so you are only my imagination?
    if that is what you imagine.
    quit saying that.
    what?
    that it is what i imagine.
    but that is what it is.
    so you're not really here?
    if you want me to be, i am.
    are there others here?
    if i need there to be, yes.
    like me?
    no. not like you. the others are only my imagination. and though i imagine you being here you are more than my imagination.
    but are you more than my imagination?
    do you imagine that i am?
    i don't know. somehow that thought frightens me.
    it does for me as well.
 
    12/8
    and forget it.
    and let's get something somewhat together about this mess. he is he because his little dog knows him. but he has no little dog.
    and because it is pleasing. and because it is something about what it is. and he feels sick. and because this is him as however he imagines himself as being along the way and now as it ends as it begins as maybe there was a lot about what he didn't know to start with.
    toward this beginning again. without beginning it again. as each moment of our lives is beginning always.
    as what is it we are trying to state here now? what should we revel about ourselves to anyone? what do others revel about themselves to anyone? what do we leave to be mysterious about us?
    and it smells like an old shoe.
 
    all that is living must die.
    there is no justification. there is no cause. to search for meaning in what is lost is to cast our hope to nothing.
    when the walls fell.
    when fates are thrown together by the winds. when the ocean our souls are drawn from recalls the memory of it.
    some poetic imagined recognition drawn from the well of dreams. to keep this understanding of ourselves alive and passed on wherever all else may lead us.
    the future always arriving out of nowhere as it is always sought. beginning as it ends. as what is forgotten leads to what is remembered.
 
    now as our lives seem as nothing. and there are those who have that nothingness overcome us. to drive us out.
    it is nothing against our existence. and to us that seems absurd. and to us as we laugh about the worry and concern about it.
    there is ourselves and this god of ourselves. the many images before us.
 
    and the marriage without vows. the crossing between what is and what is not. waxing and waning. swinging this way and that way. fear and desire, the positive and negative aspects of motivation. slowly moving. drawn quickly and tightly.
    yes.
    no.

    promote and negate.
    laugh and cry.
    all this and that at once and more and more.
    the celebration of mourning.
    the victory of defeat.
 
    and he is pronounced the king of fools. he has gained and lost all and nothing.
    he sits alone with everyone.
    he lights another cigarette.
    the bullet. unconsciousness in the wake behind him as he gazes amazed by what he is aware of before him.
    this clever disguise. this life we have created for him to live among them unseen that we may see through him to the other side of this life.
    the dada.
    dada is nothing. dada is not magick.
    the system of actions and events. the man on the radio. the songs sung. listening. a structure. a memory. looking. naked. moscow.
    the ruins of everything built upon ruins of something else. the foundation of death. an easy surprise. a hat.
    it all comes down to a hat, doesn't it? and a spoon. and a rug and an ashtray. don't ask us why. how are we supposed to know?
    one is confused by the mystery surrounding everything when there is no mystery besides the mystery one for whatever reason refuses to understand. we have told one everything and still one professes ignorance.
    and our god. our god which is not god. not their god. not anyone's god. and it is not supreme being nor does it seek supreme being. it is being and being only. what else is needed other than that? supremacy is what everyone else strives for and constantly fails to achieve. one would think they'd pick up a clue by now.
 
    and he sits still at the cafe by the window. all as before. he continues the undergoing process of reinventing himself as himself. he is here and not here. he sees everything passing around him. he takes from it what momentarily interests him or amuses him and throws the rest back. back to the noise and confusion the others are swimming in.
    follow the thread out of the labyrinth. only one never gets out. only out of one and into another. one gets used to it. blinded by the passing light. sing about it. dance to it. dream on.

    he stood on the beach with the crashing surf and all that he tried remembering what he was doing here. what did this mean to him? emptiness. liquid. quick.
    these images and the words to describe them came and went. the drama. the burning theater. what?
    repeating.
    laughing.
    crying.
    dada.
    dogma.
    breath.
    breathe.
    something that is needed to give us a reason for continuing on through it. something even imaginary perhaps.
    and something besides boredom as motivation.
    so make it up. that's all we did. and we've managed to keep ourselves and anyone else following this jazz chasing ourselves around in circles with what is nothing but what we pulled out of our imagination. and all the modern thinking about this and that ain't nothing new. no one has broken out of it yet. breaking free of one's burden and casting off chains and one falls down on one's face.
    and we watch them now as we watched them before. we wait for what they are going to do next. and they do nothing. they've grown too used to their captivity that without it they feel frightened. the ultimate responsibility and possibility of their freedom overwhelms them. they are not prepared for their thinking to be limitless. they go into a state of shock and become paralyzed.
    we've seen it before.
    we yawn.
    we take them by the hand and guide them back. when they see the walls again they begin to respond. and again they begin another struggle to get out while forgetting that it led them to nowhere before.
    so what are we to do with them when they once more start making noise clambering for freedom? when none of the doors to their cages are locked except in their own minds. when this has been repeated over and over for thousands of years.
    how absurd can it get?
    as it comes and goes. as it is passed from one generation to another. old and new.
 
    and the being of being. and it goes on and on. nowhere but here and now. or somewhere that ends up being not so much different as before. dig?
    the war is over. we lost. we couldn't get it to end so we gave up. we threw our hands into the air and waited for someone to take us prisoner.
    the war around us has gone on and will go on forever. house to house. mind to mind. no one is interested in stopping it. not so long as they think they have something to gain for themselves from it. to the victors go the spoils. everybody thinks they deserve it.
    how many thousands more years are we going to operate like this?
    wave the flag.

    in his imagined dream as he walks through the rain gloom of the world he has been cast into. this darkness he is forced to face. this darkness that has become his companion now. the monster who comes up and walks beside him.
 
    a fool dancing in the dark of darkness with no light to be guided by but his own imagined light radiating from about him as he makes his way wherever he wants to go unguided. the only place there is to go. no place. and laughing all the way. stepping over the bodies of the fallen angels.
    and further nonsense than that we even suppose. taken lightly upon ourselves as if to make it appear as though we have no interest in any of this at all.
    but we have. we have indeed. take a guess.
    but we are counting on the others not to notice. we rely on the fact that no one more often than not notices anything that does not support what they already presently believe in even if it's smack in the face. and all that. and not even that. and that and much much more than that.
    what the fuck are we writing about anyway? tell us that.
    one will never know. not for another thousand years or so. by then it will be too late. we'll be gone.
    2000 years ago.
    what worked once will probably work again.
    maybe.

    by moons and stars. by sun and clouds. we move. locate.
    computers. reality merging. connect.
    the ongoing drama of it and not it between this and that and the other thing. and even more.
    madness. self-created and nurtured for its own sake.
    junior detectives.
    he gazes out the window and laughs again. the madness weaving cartoonlike spells of images inside his skull. dream on.
    he didn't care. as long as it kept happening. as long as it kept him alive - if this life he was living was being alive which he had some doubts about. as long as it kept him wild and free. as long as it kept him from going insane regardless of how deeply into the madness of it he was drawn into.
    yes.
    and this wasn't it either. nothing was it. none of it was it. it was it. it is it. it will be it.
    yes.
    whatever. none of this meant anything to him even as much as it meant everything to him. momentarily moment by moment. each moment being one moment elastic and stretching from forever to forever. this moment. that moment.
    he'll laugh and deny it all even as he screams in one's face in a pathetic and futile attempt to somehow defend it despite the absurdity of it.
    such is such and as such it is such. he wears it well as ill-fitting as it may be.
    as he creates layers of illusions that are constantly blossoming anew and falling away withered and old. as he thinks thoughts that contradict thoughts he thinks. as he plays it safe by keeping himself in danger.
    as he leaves it up to whoever comes along and reads this dada-doo-wah-ditty-doo-doo-sha-la-la.
    as his life is death.
    as his death is life.
    as he's never quite sure whether he is dead or alive.
    gosh darn.
    hoopla.
    dig it. groove on. spaceships and fields of daisies. spaghetti.
    a chair.
    sit. relax. this won't hurt a bit...

    fascism is the best policy for all political bents, he thought humorously to himself playing with a bundle of sticks. it keeps the riff raff at a distance. the bothersome mob of wanna-bes who will never be. the idiot noise of those who do nothing but complain about everything.
    the kingdom of god is within.
    as he shakes his head in bewilderment.
    the struggle against oppression.
    the struggle to be free.
    and that's not it either.
    nevermind.
    just more blah blah blah dada ongoing got nothing much else to do with his time's a-wasting life he trapped himself in.
    but he could get out anytime he wanted. he knows the game. ruthless. bingo.
    as he laughed at himself.
    as those around him seemed more confused than he was.
 
    the crash. going down. down in glorious flames. fuck them all. wave one's dirty worn out ragged goddamn freak flag for all it's worth which isn't as much as shit to a tree.
    remember that.
    then forget it.
    light another cigarette in celebration of our arrival to the nevermind itself.
    dig it.
    freeform conspiracy of the ancient wisdom pissing into the wind while our heads remain unalterably stuck in the clouds of smoke from the phoenix flames. we cough prophetic dogmatic phlegm in the faces of all these geeks a-gawking at us.
 
    and he sits back and thinks to himself. and he doesn't know what the fuck to think.
    die.
    fuck off and die.
    what is one expecting to read here as we go around again one more time to see who else we can lose.
    as we are lost ourselves and if one is following this then...
    welcome to the club. the club of those who have lost everything and everyone to the wayside except themselves. losing it. losing them. they try to fake it but they can't take it when there ain't nothing in it for them and their what's in it for me mentality they don't seem to be able to shake.
    shake it.
    shake them down and take them for all they're worth though there's nothing in it for us except just making them lose it.
    dig?
    dig it.
    shock the monkey.
    doomsday and counting our blessings down to it.
    all gone.
    oh well.
    better luck next time on the spinning wheel.

    crash! bang!
    synopsis of the incredible broken down into bite-sized ordinary perception. angel flags. not much to it. nosepickers. the vultures swirling. everybody has their part to play. tigers and turtles. corporate business and communal tribes. shell shock. a slap in the face and a kick in the pants. and everything looking good as can be on paper bags stacked in the kitchen corner one at a time is money sort of trip thing as we keep one eye open and one eye closed.
    an i for an i. it's all been thought before. interstellar overdrive. but how much has actually been tried and true? up in the air. see if anyone salutes it. the name of the game. not to have to look past the tip of one's nose to see the absurdity of it.
    come on.
    who are we kidding?
    who are they kidding?
    he's come through it all. he's still alive somehow.
    pen in hand he looks over the pages of the contract. he doesn't understand a word of it but he's trying to make a show of it. and he's pointed to the line on the bottom. he tries to decide which name he should use this time.
 
    some afternoon as he lay in a meadow in the forest in the sun enjoying the last day of his life he tried to remember how it all went. or was he remembering it the other way around? was he remembering anything?
    every time he shut his eyes he remembered to open them again. one time he would forget. his memory would be replaced by something quite different. perhaps nothing at all.
    at all.
    at all it seemed to him to be happening anyway.