the beast and the whore who dance together on the streets of babylon at long last. who meet in this time to bring about the end of human torment. how many have suffered and died in misery and loneliness to create this time to come?

    and when it feels ok and when it doesn't. and it hasn't felt ok in quite awhile. all the while? he doesn't know. something is missing. being home.
    this is not home. these people are strangers to him. he does not know them. they do not know him.
    he used to be very frightened of them and they seemed frightened of him which frightened him more because who knows what frightened people will do?
    but now he feels more comfortable. some have proved to be nice to him. he tries to be nice to them but he can only do that to a certain extent. they still remain strangers however long he knows them. a distance lies between.
    so where is it? when is it? far away and long time ago. yet it seems like here and now.

    and in what looks like a kitchen on stage of the burning theater is a table with two people sitting at it.  coffee and cigarettes. a 40 watt bulb. they are harold and zeke.
    zeke: i was just thinking that... uh... well, i don't know what i was thinking.
    harold: tell me.
    zeke: i'm trying to - but - it's difficult to explain. a lot has occurred to me or around me lately...
    harold: such as...
    zeke: well, there seems to be something going on - a project of some sort.
    harold: a project?
    zeke: well, that's what i call it. but i don't think that it's really called anything at all.
    harold: by who?
    zeke: well - i don't know.

    and it begins.
    though no one and nothing knows where or when it began. as though beginning had meaning in the grand overall scheme of whatnot. and perhaps it does. we begin it here. again. although we have begun it ourselves many places and many times before. we begin it everywhere at every moment - here and now.
    the here and now. where and when it begins. where and when else could it ever begin? and likewise, where and when could it ever end?
    no one knows. no one we know of knows. yet many claim theories and even truth. we do not know about that. it just amuses us to ponder it and write pointless words about it.
    we make the thing up as we go along. make it up with words. moment by moment. all one continuous moment.

    he sits at a kitchen table. he learns to forget. his heart is filled with pain that a lifetime will not be enough for him to understand.
    layer upon layer. before the old wounds are healed new ones are ripped open.
    ah - sweet life among the living. the everlasting pain and the temporary pleasure of our physical desires. this is it. there is no more or nothing else - except the wild and free imagination.
    that is the story we tell one here. a story of imagination. theories and speculations of imagination. the truth of imagination.
    love of imagination.
    love is an imaginary emotion. a mythological emotion as the dada-ananda is rumored to have said.
    he writes to whoever. he writes to all of whoever. some of whoever. one of whoever. none of whoever. take what one wants and/or needs. forget the rest. pass it on.
    he writes nothing that one does not already know or can't figure out for oneself. the rest is written out of ignorance.
    actually it's all written out of ignorance - his ignorance. he knows nothing.
    he is amusing himself and these are his musings. he tries to make it as interesting as he can but he really doesn't care about that. maybe with some humor? but who has a sense of humor anymore? he doesn't see too many people who do. it's all this end of the world seriousness business. busy busy busy. grumble grumble grumble. they haven't the time for petty nonsense like this.
    and he diddles around with vague statements. this is all he knows. this is usually as close as he can get. he can't stand the heat so he stays out of the kitchen.
    but isn't that where he stated that he was - the kitchen? yes, it is. hmmm...
    but really he's downtown in the cafe. doing nothing as par norm usual. nothing but amusing himself.
    but he's in the kitchen too. the imaginary kitchen. smoking cigarettes. drinking coffee. writing nonsense. that's what he is here to do. after all these years on this planet that much has become clear. it's his mission in life. but it's a complete mystery with clues and hints that point every which way running on wild goose chases of introspective dada that turns up more questions than answers. but it's his vocation. and once one gets used to it and accepts the fact that that's all it is it's rather quite fun. amusing. and what answers one does come with like panning for gold are so absurd it cracks him up.
    and that's what it is. it's all a joke. he laughs.
    just juggling it around until it means anything at all whatever he wants it to mean. whether anyone else understands what it means is irrelevant. he's not gonna push it. just babble out words of whatever nonsense that comes up or down or inside or outside or sideways.
    clear as mud.
    it's so simple.
    but he keeps writing about whatever dada to confuse the issue such that it appears that he's writing about something far more complicated and oh so mysterious. what's so mysterious about 2+2=5?
    he's not writing about anything at all. what is there to write about that isn't obvious? what has been written that isn't obvious? what do we know that we didn't already know?
    and he goes on and on for no reason than to just keep going on and on.
    to leave this behind for whoever wants it.

    just escapist dada-doo-wah.
    escape from what? this place that is not home. a place of strangers who have strange ways. and he is a stranger with strange ways among them. he goes where others of his kind have gone - home. he goes home. call it whatever one wants to. he doesn't care. it is all here and now.
    to spend one's life elsewhere in a dream where others cannot reach and one cannot reach them.
    to seek escape even from the escape he seeks.
    to amuse oneself. that is the best one can hope for. just find whatever one is amused by.
    such fun.
    common amusement. can we possibly find that?
    is anyone else amused? he hopes that at least he can amuse a few people.
    spoon. think of a spoon. why a spoon? why not? think of how amusing a spoon is. do people stop to think about how amusing a spoon is? think about it until one figures out what is amusing about a spoon.
    he doesn't really know what is so amusing about a spoon. he doesn't really think a spoon is amusing. it was just an example. actually spoons frighten him sort of. but then most things frighten him. especially people. mainly people.

    sometimes he amuses himself thinking he is a god who amuses itself with being mortal.
    ho-hum - it's so boring being immortal with an eternity to waste away trying to keep oneself amused.
    it's a game. he hopes it's not true. he doesn't know which way would be worse - being human or being a god.
    and which god should he be? none of them really appeal to him. they seem just as fucked up as we are. all petty jealousies and squabbles and such and such etc.
    he supposes he would be the i am that i am god. why not go for it all. amused by even the gods.
    and he lights another cigarette.
    one cannot escape from one's escape.

    and more or less a fluctuating dream state. he hovers on the edge of what passes for reality. he looks out. he looks in. he sees little difference either/or. amusing himself with anything at the drop of a hat. amused by a hat.

    7/17
    the war song of the idiot children as they dance in circles describing their frustration.
    we amuse ourselves.
    we cannot escape from our escape.
    where the sky breaks above us. and something else that seems just as vaguely real. a heart broken. a human heart as all human hearts. everyone bleeds. images in a dream.
    naked.
    we are human.
    we have hearts.
    we bleed.
    one has to be strong in this crazy world. stand on one's own two feet. keep marching. keep up with the parade that goes around and around and around.
    because it's always just around the next corner the leaders of the parade promise.

    and he sits here and laughs. he watches it all go by. it's more bizarre each time it passes making so much noise looking for someplace to rest their weary bodies down.
    spin, baby, spin. leap into the air to touch the stars or the bellies of the clouds. and come back down again. maybe eat some dirt. get up and do it again.
    amuse.
    to amuse.
    to be amused.
    to turn around and around again to see it all in a glance. undescribed by words we amuse ourselves with.

    and he feels himself here. and he feels himself where he's been and where he's going. one moment. the thread weaving through and around other threads. he watches the patterns develop and mix living now.
    as this life goes on. as it changes. as it moves swiftly while standing still. the wind in his hair. his heart beats faster. it's too much to be at once. he steadies with the tide. he moves in the current. he laughs again. sometimes he remembers how beautiful it is without having to know anything more. just being with it is enough. the dance. the way of the dance. sometimes he can't even stand up and he sits as waves wash over him. he must close his eyes or go blind.
    and it's there all the time. nothing new except each moment. he just remembers, that's all. remembering.
    amazed.
    amazing.
    to be amazed with amazement of all that is to be amazed with. look.

    amused with amazement. here we are. here we stand on the final ground. the wars are almost finished. who are we now?

    and elmer said, we are the last of the dinosaurs who adapted into animals never seen on earth before.
    and he thought, who the fuck is elmer?

    he watched the world going by. amused. the whirling visions he could not keep out away from his mind worn thin. pure thought like light clear reflecting off waves. and now what he saw brought a feeling he couldn't possibly describe. he could barely imagine. it was nothing and everything at once. all possibility impossibly happened. he was the witness to it all.
    more than more.
    he was dancing while sitting perfectly still. no one would know to see him. dancing on the graves of all living on earth.
    he was jolted by the simultaneous firing of every neuron in his brain. at least that's what he figured it was. what else would feel that way. for one nano-instant he saw everything.
    these flashes would come every once in awhile. there wasn't anything else like it.

    and to see it all perish. to turn to dust in his hand. he imagines.
    it's not his own death that brings him sorrow - fear. it is the death of those around him.. the death of moments passing into shadow from the light.
    to see life. to see laughter in another's eyes. so few look that way. so few can laugh without that laughter being empty and bitter.
    the joke. the joke that astonishes with endless wonder. not the joke that reminds one of their hopelessness against fate. fuck that.
    and why should he care? why should he trouble himself for another? is he here for that?
    let them all take care of themselves. let them be miserable if that is what they choose.
    he can do nothing. he cannot take them up with him. he goes alone and waits for whoever finds the way. and to those who remain, how is he supposed to feel? how does he rid himself of the sadness he now feels?
    does he just forget?
    he can only hope they get through.

    he loses track of where he is. he finds himself in moments that make uncommon sense though he could never describe what that sense is or what it is composed of as it is.
    he forgets.
    and he centers there and holds himself with it for while it lasts. and it is gone and he goes through days and days of senselessness putting this together with that not knowing why or how.
    then it comes back. he feels himself gliding. there he is again as who he is. yes - he remembers and he feels so stupid that he was thinking of something else when this is what it is. but what is this?
    when he can imagine. the moments of imagination that need no fulfillment in reality. let reality do what it wants. blow itself up if it cares to. he doesn't care. he'd just laugh. amused. amazed.
    the others can say what they will. try to call him down with the names they call him. he knows who he is.
    he is nothing more than who he is. he needs to be no one else. all the roles they want him to play for them. what are they?
    and how does he ever bring anyone here with him? what words can he use that have not been used before?
    he cannot instruct anyone. he can only maybe try to let them know that there is something there - here. something that can be gotten to without having to go through all the tricks they play on each other and themselves.
    it lies at the heart of all that. and the more one piles on top of it and expect that to do it for one the less it will happen until it doesn't happen at all.
    and he writes to himself most of all. he forgets his own words. he is a fool at last.
    and he cannot deal with their pain. the pain that screams at him from all those around him as they sit quietly and act like nothing is happening at all. the screaming that drowns out their laughter.
    can't they hear it? how can they remain deaf to it while they make their plans about their lives that do nothing to stop it.
    he doesn't understand. he's never understood this. it's maddening. and they gloss it over and pretend that what they do makes sense.
    is he alone with this? is he alone with the despair that comes at him from all sides about him?
    this is his despair that is their despair. he has nothing more he needs than to find a place that is silent of this.
    there is nowhere in this world or the reality of this world. he flies out of his mind into imagination. the pain - away from the pain. not his pain - what pain does he have? - but the pain that he receives from the others pain they broadcast.
    their lives are a thin pretense held together with band-aids over gaping wounds.
    he never wanted to be here. and he gets away every chance he gets. he closes himself off from their misery - their terrible lives screaming. to lose track of this world and find another. to imagine another.
    he lies in a field and watches the clouds slowly moving overhead.
    does anyone else come? he imagines that they can. maybe not. has anyone found him? has he led them here at last? have they lost their faith as much as he has lost his? have they taken that good long look around and seen it all? all as nothing more than this. to go out of our minds and see what happens next.
    and it does. it does happen next. if anyone is here with him then they know. they know what it is these backward words cannot describe.
    we laugh at last as we could not laugh before. no more has to be said or explained.
    and we are fools among the rest of them. they laugh at us but what does that leave them with?
    dream on. the screaming of their imprisoned souls drowns out the laughter of themselves who guard the door.
    and all we want them to do is to come out. come out and lay in a field and watch the clouds move slowly by.
    we are waiting.
    or is it a dream? a delusion of his twisted mind.

    to break away from that. to not fear how insane it seems not to be himself - or himself as he was told who he was supposed to be.
    how is he still seeing this world he no longer belongs in?
    he laughs. all he can do now is laugh. all the tears for the pain have fallen and are gone. he has been tricked by this world. he has been lied to from the beginning. how long have the lies been in place announced as truth?
    there is no revenge for this. there is no forgiveness. he is past the two. he hopes. he can only hope.
    he quit. far too late. but better late than never.
    he watches the human parade marching in the grand sweep of circles. around and around they go pushing and shoving, being dragged, falling and being trampled.
    he sits in a grove of trees in the shade sipping lemonade while this goes on out in the dust and heat and rain and cold through the seasons and the years forever.
    he used to worry about being left behind. he tried to hold onto anything and anyone so he could to keep going.
    not now. not here and now as he rests his weary body down. plops his arse beneath this old old tree he found in a garden. this is where it is. this is where it's always been. this is where it will always be. where else?
    and we are here and we are now. we are laughing.
    and those who pass us by each time around. they look at us and wonder that it cannot be that easy. and they continue on. they must continue on.
    a few stop and take a step toward us. someone else knocks them aside hurrying along their way. they stumble a take another step. we wait. we let them decide.
    sometimes they turn back once more to join the moving crowd. or maybe without looking back they break into a run to us - toward welcoming hugs and kisses and a glass of lemonade.
    he remembers his life. the constant fear of it. and there seems to be those who live with this fear who thrive on it. it motivates them. it becomes the essence of life itself. without the fear they have no purpose. and the anger that rises from that fear. they know no peace. they do not want to know it. they only catch a few panting breaths in their constant struggling.
    we breathe. we breathe long breaths. slowly in. slowly out. while we watch all this activity of madness around us.

    and so. and so what? another place and another time far away in his mind that is always here and now where and when he no longer needs to be annoyed by others and their world nor they by him.
    he waits while they run off and chase dreams that were put into their heads. off to the tomorrows always promised.
    today is today. and when they remember that and forget tomorrow and forget yesterday and join us here and now where we are waiting for them forever.
    and meanwhile here and there on earth as so many things that cannot be explained continue on.
    the project.
    the project forever.
    to play now as in the roles of gods who assume mortality to enact their will. they do not appear in clouds with thundering voices. they live and bleed as we do.
    the machine that has been built over time bent on its own self-destruction in sacrifice for us to live on as nothing else before seen on earth. no longer human as human is no longer ape and ape is no longer dinosaur as we are no longer anything at all but who we are and who we are becoming.
    and to dream...

    as we smile ever so politely to one another as not to upset the ambiance of our social denial that we are actually mercilessly killing off one another as easy as putting money into a savings account. such pretty pictures of a dream vacation, a new car, putting the kids through college, or just that rainy day.
    that rainy day is coming over the horizon. that a hard rain's gonna fall day we're all investing our time and energy to make sure it happens and doesn't get away although no one will ever admit to it. our hearts are ever so pure and innocent. who me? we ask astonished that anyone would think of accusing us as being a partner to the crime.
    what crime? what crime is it to live our goddamn lives the best we can or with as little as we can get away with or nevermind it at all?
    we've heard all that crap before. words are cheap. this is the final revolution of the ongoing revolution that's been rolling on since the year zero - whenever that was. and maybe there wasn't a beginning but this is sure looking more and more like the end.
    so what do we do? write and sing words of despair and lamentation? crank up our guitars in one final feedback scream into oblivion? should we destroy it all in our rage against the very machine we built to save us because it's all useless bullshit and should all just be put out of its misery?
    maybe them, but not us.
    we'll sit back and watch them go over the edge. let it all disintegrate before our eyes in a blinding white flash echoing into the forever darkness. bzzapt! that's it.
    put it out of its misery for god's sake. for someone's sake. for our sake.
    sleep. sleep and dream no more. forget everything known and unknown. forget knowing.
    dream no more because our dreams come true and are realized as nightmares we live through day after day.
    but he wants to dream. to dream of a world somewhere, somehow...
    is it just a dream and all we are left with are the horrors erupting from the churning burning core of our souls?
    he hopes not.
    he hopes.
    he dreams of hope that the dream he has is the same dream as another's and we can put these dreams together in a new reality.
    it is a dream.
    we are the dreamers.
    this is it.

    the war is over.
    take down the walls. walk out among ourselves unafraid. where did we go? where do we go but where we are? where else is there?
    so he calls the names. what few he knows at this point. what few he remembers off hand.
    he calls his own. if he can remember what he came here for. what was it? it was something, wasn't it?
    to stop the war. please stop the war. how can we help them to stop the war? we cannot make them stop. what words can we use to them that they haven't already spit back in our face?
    megabucks, baby. we're in the money now. gonna ride this till the end. no stopping us now.
    till the end.
    the end.
    good night, folks.
    that's all she wrote.
     - or does she only lift her pen in hesitation a moment and then begin again? try it again. it's worth it. something is worth it, isn't it?
    what's worth going on for besides some idiot mad dream hope that there's something worth going on for?
    day after day that give us nothing but loneliness and pain. kill it. stop the war that divides us so. divides us whatever way we are divided.
    or we hold onto what divides us and tear ourselves apart and blow up the whole planet because of it? great. sounds like fun. let's do it. nothing makes more sense than that. go - go - go...
    dance on our own graves.

    but here he is conceiving ideas that will they ever be born? should they? born into what? what is there for anything to be born into? a war? and endless stupid war?
    no thanks. he's had about enough of that as he can stand. leave him alone with that noise. all the screaming.
    dance.
    dance on these streets of babylon. dance in their face. dance around the watchtowers. dance beneath their super-scope satellites in full glorious view.
    or something.
    or nothing.
    but how long can we dance? how long do we keep shaking our groove thing? not dancing in time - not with a standard beat no matter how scientifically researched to be what the doctor ordered. doctor? who's sick?
    we dance in the rhythm we find within ourselves together.
    ebb and flow flux.
    all life and death. this is the place and this is the time. here and now.
    and here and now he wonders how much here and now there is left.
    he's seen it end too many times. the screaming end headlong into oblivion.
    and somehow he held on through it and saw past it. when everything was gone and he saw a light and the darkness begin to gray and then take on blue and the sun coming up like nothing else before.
    and that day is today and it ain't any day at all. the day we welcome the dawn with blessed sighs and shouts instead of curses for the end of darkness in which we have hidden ourselves and do to one another what should never be done. what wouldn't be done by the light of day.
    today.
    and tonight? do we enter that long darkness again? or have we had enough? how many more times?
    and how much shit do we carry from one side to the other? how much do we hold onto to weigh us down dragging it around? when do we let go? how are our hands pried loose from our burden?
    life or death?

    it was all something else as he remembers. he finishes the dream. he awakens and remembers all the disappointments.
    waiting in through the shadows. no one survives at last.
    maybe.
    what he sees and doesn't see. he doesn't know how it ever comes to be. he just sees it as the dawn brings light upon it. over the horizon day after day. lonesome desire and need unknown through the darkness as we make our way.
    dance with us in the streets of babylon. call it by name. who else can we be?
    there is no manifesto except for our alibi. there is nothing more. could we know anything more? he knows nothing.
    we shadow ourselves against the wall.

    stop the war.
    cut it short. stop the film. walk out now. remove ourselves from this.
    yet it is with us. our hunger for all things exalted above us. it's all downhill from here. easy ride.
    the formulation of ourselves. disguise. disease. sing and play. we write our sorrows down on burning pieces of paper.
    the pain.
    the pain that time both causes and comforts. it is time now. we must leave.
    the terrible storms we enter into now. he's not sure when this occurs in our time.
    the gay boys. flags.
    and it was the year zero. we were adrift for whenever. a tombstone. patch it up. we will survive this although we shouldn't if there was a god above.
    dancing. alive. whisper the names of our shadows to gently awaken.
    he hates this. it's nuts.
    he tries to remember.
    he kills and kills again.
    he speeds it up and slows it down.
    reverse.
    drop a card.
    drop a hat.
    make it up.
    no fun at all.
    oh well...

    and so here he is away from them and keeping it that way. maybe they'll learn and maybe they won't. he of course has it all figured out. ha!
    he just can't stand seeing people unhappy and getting hurt. and it's all of them top to bottom. from the drunks in the doorway to the business people in the suits even though they may keep functioning doesn't matter.
    and he keeps functioning more or less. he powers up his shields to go outside and plow through it and not feel nothing. get outta his way.
    it's not the pain he feels but the pain transmitted from all of them. behind his shields he's doing just fine.
    just dig it.
    dig it all the way to china.
    for the most part he digs it. the stuff he gets off on by himself. to see finer threads of the twisted tangled world web. all what amuses him at any one moment being all one moment eternal now. but other people don't put up with that - don't put up with him. but that's ok because he can't put up with them especially their yakking about this and that usually complaining about one thing or the other.
    oh well.
    and so he writes. and it's nothing because sometimes he has something to write about and most times not. and it's whatever. and it's dada. following some sort of thread or not because they get too tangled and on about how the discovery of a 10th planet would affect shoe styles or something dada-doo-wah-ditty.
    zap!
    he writes in mind with maybe someone might read it but he has no idea of what or how they think or what might make sense to them or not or if they can follow the threads he does at random or what they might arrive at when it's obvious to us that they forgot to carry the dog.

    drive away. go on, leave. forget us as we keep the party going through as much of this forever as we can singing and dancing in the rain doing whatever it takes because we ain't going down because others have their heads stuck up their ass. we tried to help them pull it out but we got pushed away. they expect it to be all more than this as it is. this is it. we're happy with it. too bad for them.
    go on - work and slave until one has gone insane trying to get to what one will never be satisfied with. keep beating one's pretty head against the wall. keep blaming us for one's life being so miserable. lock us up in one's prisons and hospitals and death camps. we'll still leave one in the dust, baby. we are still gonna dance on one's grave. puke up all that's been crammed down our throat and then fly away light as a silver shining cloud shining through one's dark world.
    we don't know exactly what their trip is. they want us to play jesus for them or something. die for the forgiveness of their sins. why can't they let that go? because no one is dying for them but themselves.
    but then they pretend not to know us when the time comes.
    we will never forget who they are. we will never close the door on them and turn them away though we will never have much to offer that they would want. all we can say is that it's ok. because they're the one's who have it all. they grab up more than they could ever use then look down their nose and sneer at us because we got nothing. nothing is all we have and nothing is all we expect. we're tired of fighting about it. they can have it all and good fucking luck. because we're doing fine and dandy. we may be cold. we may be hungry. but at least we're not kissing their ass for nothing.
    they can go chasing after their heaven and leave us in their hell. if that's our fate, then that's our fate. it could be worse. we could be one of them.
    and in the end they may be surprised about how many of us there actually are. when it comes down and they make up the list of people they can count on and they call up the names and no one's home.
    when their world breaks down and they don't know how to fix it. when it turns to dust. when it's nobody but them and now they call our name. where will we be? what prison have they locked us up in? what mass grave are we buried in? what hell have we been cast into from their greed so they could buy their way into heaven. kiss their way into heaven. whatever they needed to do to get in no matter who else had to go down.
    they have made sure there was nothing left of us in their perfect world. so how are we supposed to help them now? it's too late. there is nothing left of us to come back to save them. and would we even bother if there was?
    yes/no.
    and now they remember us. and now they call our name. they maybe wonder if they might have been wrong. now all the promises made to them have been broken and their armies are scattered. when it all comes down and it's all gone our name crosses their mind again.
    he lights another cigarette.

    and this becomes confusing but it gives him such a thrill. and it doesn't make much sense but that seems to be the point. point? bunnies.
    and wouldn't it be nice if we could just sit around and tell nice little stories to one another. isn't that what we used to do?
    but the real world intrudes. there's all this nasty awful business going on that no one seems to know what to do about it. except for us. not that we're promising anything but if what we have in mind works out... well, one knows about that. one knows what this world is capable of being, right?
    the machine.
    radiation.
    as for ourselves we haven't seen anything else that makes any lick of sense in the long run. so we sat around and thunk and thunk and thunked until we were just about thunked out of our minds. we'd build something up and it would come crashing down again. and we'd do that over and over until we felt we were about to snap for sure big time out of it and lose it forever and maybe it seems from reading this mess we're putting down that to some it may seem that that is what exactly happened. maybe so. maybe it did. we happen not to think so and/or we happen to think that it doesn't matter. look at all the others. how sane are they? eh? but we take the chance that by some slim margin of remote possibility that what we're babbling on about here is more or less dead on to what will do it.
    do what?
    anything one wants it to. what does one want it to do? it'll even make one lottsa money if that's what one wants it to do. we ourselves don't give a toot on a horn about that part of it so it's all for someone else whoever. if making money hand over fist is what gets one off then this is it. one only has to figure it out first and what it is.
    but not really. we lied. this won't make anyone any money at all. if anything it will do the opposite. look at him and all the good it's done for him. he's gone insane and broke for gosh sakes. one doesn't want that to happen to oneself, eh? no way. the life one is living already is worth more than that, that's for sure. even if it's at the bottom of the pile.
    this is just something he's writing to amuse himself to keep himself from going over the edge - if that hasn't happened by now already. who's to know? if he doesn't keep writing this his brain will split wide open and who knows what would happen then?
    kill. kill. kill.
    maybe.
    maybe not.
    he thinks about it.

    and there is maybe something else in here amongst the rest of it if one can find it. he's not sure what it is or if he could come out and write it down if he was. he may be wrong about it too. he is supposed to be mentally ill after all and it's probably nothing more than that. don't worry about it. if it really is something then one should be able to figure out what it is. those who need and want to anyway.
    yeah, sure - he's nutz. maybe. is one so sure? is one so convinced of one's own perceptions of reality that one can think about it one way or another? he doesn't know. maybe that's how it is. maybe not. he doesn't care one way or another.
    he can't explain how or why any of this might make sense or what frame of mind or not it would take for it to make sense. it either does or it doesn't. to most it won't. he would rather not have to deal with them at all but he has to. he has to take them into consideration writing this out.
    writing on a wall.
    the project. calling all gods.
    what?

    the word.
    the words.
    speak to one another. keep it going. he doesn't know what it is one might be doing but he just wants to write something to encourage one to keep doing it. follow one's true heart. one knows what's right and what is wrong. no one else can judge. he trusts one to know the difference. he knows one can do it. we can all end this endless struggle between ourselves and bring this world around to what it is supposed to be. he doesn't know what that is but he sees it happening. it is happening. we can do it. we are doing it. he just knows that he's not part of it. he always manages to screw things up somehow. so go on without him. we've got him taken care of. so he sits back out of the way. he gives everyone else the space they need, what little of it he can. if anyone is going to do something it will be them. maybe.
    he sees walls coming down. he sees people dancing in the streets. he knows these things. he's been there - at least in his head. he's gone out and taken a good look around and he knows. he knows he knows. he's seen the destruction of a world gone mad. and he's seen it break through the darkness of that into the light. he can't explain how. it just does, that's all. magick or something.
    there comes a time when logic and reason break down and something else moves beyond that. it rises to the surface when there is nothing left to explain it away. it is alive and becoming. and it seems as though it is only the mad who can perceive it. but then, they are mad.

    screaming in the mirror until it shatters into itself and revels...
    revels what?
    revels himself as who he is.
    someone he cannot see anymore. someone left talking to himself about everything and nothing. someone trying to believe in something real that isn't. no one else sees it but him and me, myself and i. but then we are supposed to be insane. as if sanity matters.
    the others laugh.
    then why can't he give it up? he has given up on everything else and let his life turn into next to nothing. what is this madness?
    why can't he believe in their logic and reason, their answers?
    why can't he just watch tv and forget?
    why not anything but this?

    all he can ask and all he can do is to be ok. he's ok. he has to trust that others are ok too. though he finds it hard to believe that they are seeing all these people around looking so miserable and complaining about this and that and the other thing and/or struggling hard to keep it up and grin through all the pain they feel. it makes his skin crawl to think of it.

    but what does one do? what does it? what's the missing part to all this?
    it comes and goes. is he missing something here? this seems to all make sense to everyone else. they're happy, aren't they?
    when one breaks through the light at the point of no return. when one divides from oneself as it becomes obvious that one will not survive any other way.
    as we turn and walk away from the wreckage of our lives.
    if we were meant to fly god would have given us wings, says the i told you so man who stands with both feet firmly on the ground poised like a statue of some unknown founding father ever-thankful to a god who never blinks and who never seems to much of anything except to say, i told you so.

    and the dada-ananda attracted to the site of a fatal plane crash. the dada-ananda blinks. a bee lands on the dada-ananda's nose. the dada-ananda turned to an attentive nearby dog tied to a tree and spake thusly, i have tried to understand such things that sort of just happen to happen but then sometimes it doesn't happen, you  know?
    the dada-ananda sneezes and vanishes much to the bee's surprise. the dog remains attentive.

    so who becomes what now? what happens to our grand schemes of world conquest and domination?
    he hasn't heard from the dada-ananda for months now. he's on his own. he's gotta figure it out for himself. or maybe it was him all along.
    he looks into the mirror and turns away. not very pretty at all. not much more than a quick glance to be sure he is still here.

    an island. he sits on the beach. build a fire. he is here now.
    maybe it'll work itself out. maybe it's for a reason though he must be ready for it to come to nothing.
    he can expect nothing. he moves through the movements of his life following patterns that seem to be the way he should go. he learns which ones to avoid, which ones lead to pain. he's a good pavlov dog. he's a bit slow but he does get it eventually. pain and pleasure. though what is pleasure but the mere avoidance of pain. he doesn't know. from here they are both the same. on the line. the edge between.
    tightwire.
    balance.
    expect nothing.

    sit this one out.
    neither bite nor kiss the hand that feeds him. survive to survive another day to survive another.
    keep it together. don't lose it. don't spill it. keep one's balance and keep moving.
    one gets used to it. that's all one can expect - to get used to it. ride the waves of hope and disappointment. keep one's head above water. look for an island somewhere. or learn to live and breathe underwater.
    it is what it is.

    and so sometime and how does he feel now? he gives up and begins it again.
    a prime primal thought becoming something else. and where the wild things are. and it's broken down and free out from itself maybe as it once was long long ago that is still now yet the wasness of it got lost along the way in constant rearrangement of itself changing its mind of minds discovering much to its surprise itself again again long long ago and far away now speeding through itself away and toward itself as it remembers and forgets each instant laughing at itself all itself.
    and how does he feel now? how does he ever feel now? he remembers and forgets the same thing always as it is now.
    he feels nothing as to feel everything and everything as to feel nothing.
    time was.
    time is.
    time will be.
    now.
    and this clock on the wall counting the moments left before the future arrives. where the line is drawn and drawn again trailing itself forever into and away from itself.
    and it is not him. who becomes him in moments he becomes someone else? quickly get out one's markers and draw a line around him and tell him to stay within that boundary and be who he is.
    he plays with words. the words play with him. he must remember as he uses them to forget what they mean into other realms of meaning or meaninglessness as it will.
    and what is this of words as he writes and writes more of them? as he slips them past the perceiving knowing eye meaning something quite else. forget what he is writing and not writing. the words are misleading into describing something else entirely. maybe. maybe not.
    wait here a moment. pause. don't think anything. as we look around us and try to discover what words cannot describe what we are beyond anything that means this or that.
    how far does that go? how far are we willing to take it?
    who?
    hello?
    one's name. remember that one has forgotten one's name. who?
    and this is nonsense. love it or leave it. or come back for more.
    we are dancers. come dance with him. come dance with us. one does know how to dance, yes?
    and we can sing. dance and sing.
    a clumsy ballet and an off key opera. how amusing can amusing be?
    and to be and not to be.

    information about information. who knows what in this information age transmission of information in whatever obscure twisted way one can find out information about information?
    we are dead the information said. we are dead. the information we receive informs us that the only way for us to survive is to overcome all information that says we are dead.
    the only way.
    what do they know?
    we ain't dead yet, fuckers. ain't gonna kick over because all their information says we're dead.
    our information states otherwise. the project. the machine. all information contrary to that which states that we are going to survive is dada. we are the body. they are they virus. remember that.
    we will survive their death. ok? got that? it's gonna be hell itself meanwhile but we will survive their death contrary to all information otherwise.
    all that information is bunk. they got it in our brain and it seems true and real but look through it. deny it. deny their death to oneself. don't take it on. one doesn't need to. don't die for nobody. live for oneself.
    everybody needs to get outta this alive. everyone we can get. everyone who can do it themselves. we'll help if we can. we smile as we pass each other on the street. we know who we are. going opposite directions to the same destinations.
    we know what we know. we don't quite know where it is but sometimes it feels real close. here and now. we'll know it when we get there. we can feel it vibrating in the air.
    the voices. the voices tell us we're gonna survive through this. all other information says we're history - toast. which would one choose to believe even if one was wrong?
    we're tired of promises that are thousands of years overdue on delivery. so we make up our own. it's the only way. the only way out.
    we can paint our own pretty pictures about how it's all gonna be. we have our own visions.
    come to it for oneself as oneself.
    limitless and free.
    remember that it is up to oneself. no one else can lead one anywhere one cannot get to on one's own.
    that's what this is about - sort of.
    or one can listen to someone coming down off some mountain or another - moses - zarathustra - whoever. but where have they led us so far?
    we are here now and we don't see no one close to it at all.
    to bring it all down.
    we wait and become tired of waiting. but we don't know what else to do.
    to bring it all down to nothing at all. to break through all their walls they try to surround us with to keep us under control. to break on free to the other side.
    break it down. break it up. begin and end it again.
    it is nothing more than this, here and now.
    it is not someplace else.
    it is not in some other time.
    here and now.
 
    he loses it.
    he begins it again.
    he will begin it and begin it again and again until one understands that we understand this together and until the war is over as the war begins.
    nothing else matters.
    he forgets everything.

    and it comes too soon. and it comes too late. and it doesn't come at all.
    and dreams were broken. his life was over before it began. he gave it up for this to follow the winding narrow path that leads to here and now. he laughs. the joke of it all is so clear. why hasn't he seen it all this time? why doesn't he see it all the time?
    it comes and goes.
    a dream of space and time. to get out of here alive. we dream of it all the time.
    he expected something else to have happened by now. a lot of us did. nothing.
    all the songs we sung turned to dust and ashes. what was the point? it all comes out the same.
    he sees it. and sometimes it's a blessing and sometimes it's a curse.
    why should he bother? who else wants any of this that he's on about? yet they complain on and on about this and about that without realizing how easy it all could be.
 
    it's so very far away now. everyone is so very far away. he cannot see them at all. he just sees images of them passing by in their death ghost world. none of it touches him. illusion.
    and it's now when it gets like this he wonders what the fuck he is doing. he wonders if it all is the way they say it is. how depressing. how can they go on day after day seeing it all the way they do - the way they describe it as being? seeing it all solidly real and unbending. nothing moves. nothing changes. oppressive. it remains the same forever.
    but here they are having set it up to blow up at any moment. and they seem happy with that. he doesn't understand.
    they don't see anything at all. they just talk with words about all it should be but is not.
    none of them believe in any of it or anything at all. only what they simply perceive as being what it is. they don't reach past that to anywhere.
    they don't seem to know what is out of their minds and all it can be.
    they don't think beyond what they do and have done everyday.
    the path of least resistance.
    why?
    he doesn't understand.
    don't they see what it could be if we all dreamed it that way together?
    yeah, right...

    let go of what one believes for a moment. let go of what seems to be real. follow another path. follow another course. forget this and that for awhile. follow another idea.
    but one has been told and one has been shown what is and what is not.

    and not to begin. not to begin it anymore. that's what he will do one of these times. leave it behind and go home. leave everyone behind and go home.
    but for now he still tries to see if he can get it right. he begins again.
    what is so difficult here? what is so impossible? why can't we just be done with this? why won't we just be done with this? who wants it? anyone? who is happy? who is satisfied? who is getting what they want or even need?
    no more.

    and no thought occurs to him now. he cannot reach it. he writes what has been written before. he echoes the cries of those who have fallen from all grace.
    and no one cares. no one even knows. cover it over. layer upon layer. this is the foundation of their cathedrals that reach for heavens above.
    what has one failed to see?
    what has one failed to understand?
    he gets as close to it as he can. as close as these words will allow being that they are merely words. he has to leave it there - here. he leaves one here with it. he cannot tell one anymore than this. one can only do that for oneself. he can only hint at what is missing.
    break it down. break it up. pick up the pieces and begin again. turn the walls into bridges. aren't we tired of complaining about it yet?
    he is.
    what is there to complain about except our own constant complaining?
    he goes back to the island and basks in the sun.

    joining all the hands singing about how it all goes. dance around with it and try to feel like it feels. try to attain the height one needs to forget that one needs salvation. one was born as one was born and one was given a name and one tried to do what one was supposed to do with that - with that given burden.
    and he writes down what maybe no one understands. and maybe he doesn't either any more than anyone else. as it comes down and around us. as we are not the ones who have decided our fate but we must move against it as we can caught up in the events of someone else's war fought for someone else's reasons and for someone else's gain and everyone else's loss including our own.
    and we are told that we can take hold of our lives and make them what we want them to be. and he saw how many people he would have to push out of his way in order to do that.
    how many dreams are shattered to make one dream come true? how many lives are sacrificed for every person who succeeds? and it all ends up on its face anyway in the end.
    and what small matter is this to be writing about along in the grand theory of things?
    what he was writing about before was about what he saw happening with what he saw happening as he saw it all breaking apart.
    he sees into it. he sees into the bottom line and the fine print. that's what it is. he doesn't know how to describe that without using some meaningless metaphor that can mean anything. what it is is what it is. it is what is happening or what makes things happen. and he wants to do more than just react to it as it happens. he wants to absorb into the core of it - into the mind of it happening. he wants to see it inside out.
    and as it breaks down. we laugh.
    wake up.
    so as much as we've been able to put together that's going on that there's all sorts of undercurrents of forces that are what's the deal. and it's all in our heads. we are what is happening.
    needles in haystacks.
    it's something that he figured out awhile ago when he was going crazy. as he saw the light breaking around him and he couldn't stand up or think straight. he fell along a crooked path until he came upon a crooked house put together from this and that and the other thing. he just came out of the forest and there it was. somewhere where the music plays and the songs are sung that we remember from very long ago. all about remembering what we've forgotten.
    but here and now.
    and back in this world we are so far away from whatever it could possibly be. we struggle with understanding and accept finally that we are not meant to get it because we are these worthless pitiful humans who have fallen into the depths of existence.
 
    and today he was told by his caseworker that he was going to get social security checks from the state. he hung up the phone and jumped up and down and yahooed awhile before he realized he was crying. strange.
    it was all over. it took most of a year to get here. and now he was bought off. here, take this money and go over and sit on the bench and let us run things and just stay out of our way. ok. that's cool. that's what he wanted, right? and it's just now that everything that came before has come to nothing. it's gone.
    so that's it. he's officially discharged from active duty. for him the war is over. he just feels for all those still in it. but it's no longer his concern however concerned he may be. he gave it a shot. maybe not a very good one but the best he was able to come up with.
    as happy as he is and as he has become since he let it all go there's still a sadness to it. there's a certain amount of feeling like death involved. all he was. all he tried to become. gone.
    oh well.
    nevermore.

    zap!
    here and gone. in through the out door or vice versa and doo-wah like whatever like that. free and stoned as he can keep himself without losing it altogether. just keep it as a steady smooth humming in his head now that there's room to move around the place where all the walls have come down. whoosh...
    all until it catches up with him. but not yet. maybe not for awhile yet. maybe not ever.
    just him and his shadow dancing down the streets of babylon while everyone else is biting each other's heads off. funniest thing in the world. can't keep from laughing.
    and maybe he's not gonna make it to the end. but he's gonna dig it while he can. he doesn't have much to make it with. he lost it all in the war. except what's still in his head.
    light another cigarette.
    hang on, here it comes.
    whoosh!

    he flies flies flies away. out of sight. out of mind. out of space. out of time. no room at the inn so he crosses over to the other side of town to where everyone else is trying to get out of. nobody here but us chickens. walking along the street getting a nod and a smile from the used up people he meets. all away from where the action is.
    big tuna.
 
    and as it flies in the face. waiting forever for nothing. all that is here and now.
    out the door. out the window. out of one's mind turning crazy circles everywhere one goes. leaves one talking to oneself in the shadows.
    hanging out in the cafe. waiting for it all.
    it all breaks somewhere sometime. it breaks through the center of one's brain.
    and he thinks he's broken. he finds himself laughing at more things going on around him every day. it never seemed so funny to him before. he used to go down way down below the ground.
    used to burn with it.
 
    and the flames.
    and the heat.
    and from whatever we do at all.
    and from the past to the future with no one knowing much about any of it. just going along for the ride because what else is there to do? just killing time.
    and from whatever is real or not.
    and nothing much more here than words. no plan of action except to state that the plan of action is already set in motion. it lies hidden everywhere one might care to look. all until the time comes. to infiltrate the structures of power and order. when the time comes to turn it all on.
    this is the project. this has always been the project. to bring it all down to the ground again into the hands of those who need it the most. be prepared to land on one's feet and run like hell. when it comes it comes, baby. what is one gonna do when it's gone?
    eat it.
    chew the back of one's head until there's nothing left and one has consumed and been consumed.
    wait. it looks for those who wait. waiting.
    seduction.
    recruitment.
    here on a mission that must be kept secret that even he doesn't know exactly quite what it is except what it might possibly be. what does one imagine it could be? what would one want it to be? and maybe it is just that.
    suspension of doubt.
    because he cannot tell anyone what it is. he is not allowed to. he isn't given that high a clearance.
    information.
    disinformation.
    whatever.
    he's still trying to figure out what's going on - if anything.
    it is it.
    it may not be anything but he feels that it is. he senses it. he's also just making this up. he's also insane. he's not like the others. so sure. so positive. so convinced that they are right and everybody else is wrong.
    but so is he. he's so convinced that he is right and they are wrong that he left them. he let them exile him from themselves. just so he could stand back and laugh.
    he is convinced that he will be the one who laughs last. though it saddens him that it might be because he is all alone and they are gone.
    count backwards from 100 by 7 until one arrives at 42.
    don't forget to carry the dog.
    identity crisis.
    and he doesn't know what the fuck he's writing anymore - if he ever did. he's just seeing these angels all over the place.
    losing it.
    and maybe it's something that needs to be lost.
    where does it break between us? what line is drawn that cannot be crossed? and who's who? and who's on who's side when it comes down to it?
    everybody's in on this war together and alone.
    and don't pull him into it. he's had enough. and if one does he probably won't be on one's side. don't count on that. anyone who pulls him out of his hazy crazy bubble is gonna have one pissed off crazed screaming motherfucker coming at them. oh yeah.
    light another cigarette.

    flip side.
    flip out.
    oreos and lsd.
    laugh all one wants to. he doesn't care anymore.
    wild card freak of nature that pops out of the mix once in awhile dancing on the streets of babylon.
    dig it.
    fixed up and doped out and government financed.
    crazy.
    goddamn crazy.
    goddamn fucking crazy.
    trembling with fear and snarling with rage and not worried about a thing.
    all in his head.
    spin the wheel again.
    it comes and goes. he comes and goes. he's in and out.
 
    born.
    and it kinda breaks. explode. broken. out of one shape and into another. transforming. mystery.
    golf or survival.
    a joke. he must remember that it is a joke and keep laughing no matter what the fuck. it comes too close.
    pretend one is someone. doing something. not needing anything from anyone. undefined. leave it to the imagination. they don't know what they want. just a steady state of wanting. a void they fill with trinkets and gizmos.
    promise them anything, then get outta town.
 
    so gottok was out among his people finding them here and there as he wandered the streets and through the parks as they slept under bridges or laying in doorways or sitting at home paralyzed in front of the tv. he didn't say much to them. there wasn't much to say. they understood as they saw him. that was enough. to know each other was there.
    while kottog met with her leaders and discussed many plans she had for the new world order she envisioned and would have them create for her. nothing was too grand. nothing too difficult to accomplish. except those who opposed her. those who worked against her. she didn't understand this. she wanted what was best for them. why wouldn't they co-operate? she had to keep after them always watching making sure they did what they were told. otherwise they listened to that damned brother of hers and sat around and did nothing or sought their own pleasure. gottok's people knew nothing of sacrifice for a greater cause. they thought themselves important to themselves each to themselves instead of working together as parts of a greater whole. they must be given things to do - anything - otherwise they got used to the idea that they could be lazy.
    gottok filled their minds with visions. he filled their hearts with hope that would overcome despair they saw in the world around them. he thought of kottog and how much she demanded of those who would follow her struggling against the odds to gain what they already possessed - a place to rest.
    this she promised but was too busy to deliver. she kept them going as much of the time as she could. everything organized into a system that took most of their energy to keep it organized and having little left to do the things it was organized to do. gottok laughed to himself at that. couldn't she see it? couldn't she let go? could she do anything that wasn't planned? anything not in her plans was considered to be against her.
    gottok stepped into a shadow. he waited there wondering just letting thoughts pass taking them all in and seeing how they connected and interacted. this was how he saw things. he saw them working in and of themselves and best left alone. each part was designed to fit into its place where it was. no more needed to be done.
    it saddened him to see how his sister's plans blocked and dammed this flow and connections of actions and events. he saw his people with little or nothing to do but wait. wait for an opening into it. though even then they couldn't go too far before they hit a wall of some sort, broke rules, did things the "wrong" way and found themselves out of it again.
    he felt their pain rising out of frustration. and he also saw kottog's followers in pain as well with their expectations that their hard work would bring them a reward - which it did but it was never enough. it was never as good as they imagined it. they imagined it perfect. they didn't realize that imperfection was part of nature and life.
    kottog worked hard, she could change anything. that's what she was here to show her followers. anything can be done. anything can be realized if one worked hard at it. nothing was impossible if one worked at it. keep at it until it was right.
    and it was so close. she had the world almost organized together as a whole. this had taken such a long time. there had been so many failures and still were. too many. one failure was too many.
    many of those who followed her lost the vision and gave up or saw what they thought was a better way to do things and went against her plan. she was dealing with humans after all. they had their limits. sometimes she thought too many limits. she thought at times of letting them go. let her brother have them. see how far he'd take them. he wouldn't take them anywhere. he demanded nothing of his people. they could do any damn thing they wanted.

    and who is this fool who appears now and then in places no one expects. who is this fool who dances in and out of it all boldly laughing where no one has laughed before.
    maybe swinging a dead cat by its tail and flinging it at a legless man in a wheelchair. or maybe not.
    what does it matter?