this part that is this part of this -

    a cigarette burns in his hand between yellowed fingers. nothing like nothing. as he sits here thinking about everything he can or wants to think about. walls. thinking about walls. he was thinking about that this morning. he was thinking a lot more about it than that. but that's all he wants to write about it.

    i had a crazy dream last night, the guy with the funny hat said. it was a future dream. i was in a tree. i had a laser gun. i was shooting at fast little animals. i was frightened. fast rodents. rodent people. they were climbing the tree to get me. but fear is that mind killer. so i suppressed it to overcome the moment. ha-ha. you can make up the rest.

    whether he wants to or not he makes up the rest anyway. the rodent people grab the guy with the funny hat and his gun and eat him alive screaming as their sharp little teeth rip his flesh and blood.
    does this seem like anything? maybe it is. maybe it's not.
    this will not reach that many people if hardly any. would it do them any good if it did? he supposes if he worked on it a little bit more than he does rather than just off the top of his head he could come up with something that a whole bunch of people would want to read and would want everyone else they knew to read too. sitting here listening to them. just another bum. just some other crazy guy scribbling words and words into notebooks in manic depressive cycles generating his madness. and why should he give them what they want what everyone else is giving them already? they can buy it in any store. he guesses that's ok. is it ok? unless there really are all these unhappy people in the world. but how to get to them? they seem to just want to read things that fulfill their unhappiness. justify it. the truth. that is one thing about the truth is that it seems promote unhappiness. happy people are those who are stupid and don't know what's really going on. he wonders about that. what makes it be that way? or does it only seem to be that way? he doesn't know.
    gazing out the window again. waiting. cartoon world. people in caricature embodiment of spirit. a grin. a frown. a play. a play of so many unhappy people. and there's this chaos theory dada now. butterflies and stock markets.
    a golf ball on the moon.
    think about a golf ball. so think of something misplaced and forgotten. in the back of a closet somewhere maybe. he doesn't know. maybe he's got this all wrong too. what was he thinking anyway?
    another cigarette.

    alone. a decimal point rounded off. finite. set. defined. accepted. into accepted theory. the theory of acceptance. what is accepted and what is not.
    all one is. all one is beyond what is rounded off. beyond what is finite. beyond what is set. beyond what is defined. beyond what is accepted.
    fuck that.
    not that none of that isn't there. in its place. in its time. but what does any of it explain? what does any of it do except act as a static landmark we note as we pass by. ok. here we are. familiar. as we go strange beyond it like the butterflies.
    now.

    zing!
    he hasn't written the word zing in awhile. has he? he can't remember. either way, there it is now. deal with it.
    he sits here at this table all day - or most of it. people come in. they sit at the table he's sitting at. his table. possessive. territorial. usually that's ok. it depends on what they want or what they expect. all of a sudden sometimes what he's mindlessly been doing for hours can be defined as rude behavior. they talk. he keeps writing. he sort of listens. sort of sometimes. it depends on how interesting it is. is that rude?

    there is nothing he wants from any of these people except to observe them and listen to their observations about themselves and each other. there's other people in here writing. he wonders what they are writing about. do they wonder what he is writing about?

    bicycle.
    doo-dah.
    and all whatnot. and all theories that cannot be explained but seem to happen anyway. and beauty. when there is no beauty except in the eye of the beholder. there's just this sort of ugliness around the place. it never takes a bath.
    so that's a theory. sort of. maybe not. what is a theory? he wishes he had a dictionary. this thing. proposed. tested. accepted or refuted. given the royal boot out the door into the street where it belongs. where it belongs. a theory in the street. the dogs are barking. the cats are howling. the goddamn moon is full. and there's these kicked out on their ass theories wandering around forming gangs and mugging people for their ideas.
    that's one theory anyway. another theory. a theory gone to hell. a theory knocking on heaven's door. wasted and can't find its way home. just one more dumb fuck theory.

    this guy. any guy. maybe a guy with a theory walking down this sidewalk mumbling to himself maybe working out in his head what he should have said to whoever didn't buy his theory. next time. but by this time maybe there won't be a next time. not for this guy and this theory he can't get out of his head but can't get out of his mouth either. another guy with a theory broke down out on the street. they come and go this way by his window. he sees them every day. one probably sees them too. a few. one or two. one. none. not where one lives and hides out a lot. no way. maybe that is how one likes it. see no evil. maybe not. how is he supposed to know?
    but they are a drag. they're out there for a reason, right? if their theories worked they wouldn't be there. his theory works and he's not out on the street. his theory is that if he keeps his mouth shut about all the theories whirling around in his head he won't get himself kicked out on the street. that's his theory and it seems to work just fine.
    by the way, power to the people, right on. let's go. let's do it. fuck this bullshit. let's grab it all.
    that's another theory anyway. but that one seems to be in the street too. if only it kept its mouth shut. some people never learn.

    is this going anywhere? he knows where it's going. sort of. where it's going for now if he can keep it going that way. there are clues. but where has it gone so far? it's stupid. a joke. a dumb little joke. what has he given one so far with all this dada he's scribbled down so far that one is wallowing through? nothing, that's what. he knows that. that's because he's got nothing to give anyone except what has been discussed into the ground way long ago. words. oh boy. like there aren't enough of them puppies already loose among us that we don't what to do with except lock them up in books and store them on shelves and all that and once in awhile burn them and hoopla. but that's not it right now. what it is is this other thing.
    this other thing.
    futon.
    is there something to all these guys with weird has been never were kicked out on to the streets theories in their heads walking idiotly by his window all the time? what the fuck is real in this situation?
    but still...
    but still - he keeps his mouth shut. he growls down.
 
    back in with cartoon world. blend in. become a potted palm smoking a cigarette in the corner watching it happen. quiet. don't move. one will scare them away. wild life. as wild as any of it is these days of days prophets foretold and what not. wild animals. monkeys on the loose.
    mechanisms.
    structure.
    something about structure. chaos. just another structure to him. let's build a monolith to chaos. let us pray to it for the next 1000 years.
    zzzzzzzzzzzzz...
    yeah, ok.
    he doesn't know. a lot of things. the written word is a lie. time for something else but the time isn't now. it's either too late or too soon.
    so time is out. time out. so without time what is there? space? flex space - whatever that means. so it gets written down. he writes it down. so what? writers are boring. just as boring as everybody else except more so. or just as exciting.
    he had a dream. he had a dream about giving people words to shout it all down with. words of common understanding that every mouth could speak in ringing harmony that would right all wrongs. make all the evil no good nasty people fall to their knees and weep honest to goodness tears of repentance. not just words. not his words. he didn't care who wrote them as long as they were written by someone. he thought he had a chance. he thought that if he twisted his brain inside out and banged his head against enough walls that he would find them. yeah, right. he kept forgetting how stupid he is. luckily there were plenty of people around him to remind him of that fact. but big deal. who doesn't struggle with this? who doesn't want the war to be over and everyone to be happy?
    so why doesn't it just happen?
    he doesn't get it.

    trash. he revels nothing. he can't get to it and can't get it out. or won't, he supposes. maybe. he doesn't know. everybody saying, i don't know. or maybe not everyone. a lot of people he knows. maybe more people should say, i don't know. then where would we be. everyone waking up one fine day and didn't know nothing. what? they'd all say. what the fuck? and then, i don't know. would there be panic and rioting? who? why? he doesn't know.
    but maybe that's not a good idea. humorous maybe. he doesn't know. dada. ho-hum. boring.

    something strange. something weird. and don't ask nothing about it. one either knows or one doesn't. now. he's forgotten something. he's left something out. there was something else. or was there? he's written all he's written so far and he doesn't know. another thing. not a thing even. sort of not thing about it. something not there in all of it.
    he comes close sometimes. at least he feels he does. maybe not. nothing to come close to. just something in and out of his imagination. just something that anytime he thinks it may be something then it turns out to be nothing. he guesses that's what it is - nothing. doo-wah-ditty and dada like that.
    yeah, bobby - everybody must get stoned. and here we are having been stoned for years and what the fuck? people stoned and still buried in their own shit and an ashtray like that. oh boy. he forgot to laugh. he knew he forgot something. maybe that was it.
    strange.
    weird.
    nobody here at all to laugh with. just a bunch of people who think he's laughing at them. doesn't anybody get the joke? does he even get it? he doesn't know. sit down. shut up. enjoy the show.
    familiar.
    nothing to it at all.
    blues for someone. allah who? neptune blues. everything's shaky wiggly and wobbling.

    the point to all this is that if he just wrote something short and sweet about how meaningless any words he can think of to use to describe anything because they're all meaningless. maybe not meaningless to themselves to what they mean or what other people use them to mean but meaningless to what he wants them to mean. one may or may not understand or one might shrug and say, so what? but by now as one has read through all this he has dragged one through by now one may have some idea about what he means by stating that words are meaningless. ok? get it?
    or that's just sort of an aside to it. just something he complains about along the way. of course that's not it. it must be something else.

    poetry. words of mystery. words of the secret society of words meaning nothing to anyone outside just like they are supposed to do.
    nevermind.
    he hates poetry, that's all.

    outside it was raining everywhere. rain that washed the colors away and left only gray. and that's how he felt - gray. he hated this. time like this. there was no way to get out of it. he tried.
    he sat in the cafe. 30 years ago of pathetic love songs on the radio.
    a fire. somewhere where he could sit by a fire. he couldn't think of anywhere. one friend of his had a fireplace but he was at work. besides he wanted to be alone. he didn't want to have to talk to anyone. and his friend talked all the time. that was ok sometimes. but not now. his friend was pretty smart and if one was in the mood to listen to him he'd go off on all sorts of tangents about amazing things one didn't know one didn't know anything about.
    but that didn't matter now. not the way he was feeling. he didn't know how he was feeling but he had felt this way before. all he knew was that he didn't like it.
    a million or so or more people just like him. that was what bugged him most about the songs on the radio. they all could be about anyone of these millions of people. and they were. that's what made them popular. slots to fill. he felt taken. ripped off by it all. what everything represented. the promise of escape from the ordinary which was the ordinary itself. romantic mass delusion.
    so he looks out the window again awhile. having no idea. everyone around him talking. what are they talking about? why couldn't he talk to anyone? he just mostly listened to people who came to sit at his table and talked and talked. what was it all about? none of it was about what he was feeling or even thinking. he had to shut that off to talk to them. they all skated on the surface and didn't look down. there was nothing down there to look for, was there? it all worked just fine.
    a cop on a horse.

    and so what? he guesses he's in a bad mood. he doesn't know. fuck. there's no one here now and if there were they'd bug him. can't live with them, can't live without them. and still the trash songs on the radio. what is it about silence that terrifies people so much. everywhere one goes there's always some sort of background dada music.
    and besides that. besides himself. another cigarette.
    comic dada. amused idiot grin. safe and comfortable. who cares if anyone is happy as long as they leave one alone so one can do what one wants? he doesn't. he thinks about how he'd rather that they were happy. he doesn't mean to be cruel. but them leaving him alone is a higher priority. besides, how does one tell if they are happy or not? who wants to take the time and the effort to find out if they are or not? not him. he just sort of assumes they are. they should be. he is - most of the time. if they aren't then too bad. he'll think about it once in awhile but he doesn't let it bother him too much either way. not much more he can do - or wants to do - other than that.
    he puts another layer over it. build up another wall. lock the door and throw away the key. they can't get in though he can't get out. chromosome.
    and sometimes he thinks of killing a bunch of people. as many as he can get away with before they shoot him down. other times he thinks it'd be too much trouble. too much like work.
 
    evidence. what is the crime? do we wait for one to occur before we look for the evidence? they all look like criminals to us. there's guilt written all over their faces. that's why we had to lock them all up. prison life. as long as they leave him alone.
    alone. he thought that was his curse. now he realizes it is a blessing. to be alone apart from them. unique. one of a kind. to slip though all the finite dimensions they tried to box him in.
    zing!
    zap!
    tell him something he doesn't know. tell him something that isn't just another variation on a theme. tell him something he does know. tell him something he should care about besides me, myself and i.
    or go away.
    get back in one's cage.
    go to one's room.
    before we have to blow one away.
 
    yeah and now the sun is out and he doesn't feel that much better. one of these days it's gonna be clear and smooth like nothing's ever been before.
    blow it all away like nothing's been blown away before.
    just sitting waiting for it to happen. don't have to do nothing but write about it and smoke cigarettes and all that. clear and smooth.
    theory. working it all out in theory. the theory of silence. the theory of neutral acceptance of theory. the i don't know theory. the theory of not knowing. the theory of not caring. the theory of not having a theory.
    theory? what theory?
    not him.

    purple. step. jesus. that jesus guy again. how do we fit that into the theory? who knows this guy? anyone ever seen him before? the deal. take him out and shoot him and we get to do whatever we want to. on the point of making a decision. a decision for jesus. fuck/not fuck. that and constant addiction to drugs. the simple childish concepts of opposites. that and not knowing nothing about nothing. who's gonna pay for it? not him. he's got bills to pay up the ass. how did he get himself into this mess? we're on our way to the garden. we don't need that kind of burden. drop it. lighten up. lose it. lose him. shine on like some stupid happy crazy cracked diamond letting light into this world of darkness.

    huh?
    maybe. maybe not.
    where are we now?
    let's check the map. who's got the map? who knows the moon and stars? who has a good sense of direction?
    anybody got the time? rhythm of time. one time moving with and against another time. relative time in and out of sequence. knowing. not knowing.
    one hand clapping like thunder rumbling clear and smooth in his head. the flash of light. blinding. eyes closed. open. he cannot tell. it's dark. darkness. he hears rain. there must be something other than this.
    fire.
    hot. burning. screaming. it hits him. once in a lifetime that was. he was. he is. he will be. extension of spacetime.
    ha!
    a pretty face. he doesn't want to see a pretty face in the mirror. he would not turn away. caught. transfixed. far better to see the ugly monster thing beast. he turns away.
    snake.
    misfit.
    lizard king. in the grass. scary. out somewhere and behind him is this hiss. chill. frozen. momentarily transfixed. transformed. shedding skin. turn and there is nothing there. laughing maybe.
    and this was the time he witnessed to the universe being created and destroyed. on/off in one moment. he felt the will of it. everything. he was slightly amused and stoned. qualify. it was something like that. and it made sense at the time until something else came along sooner or later to make sense like all that had been a continuation of what made sense leading into it. and thinking of it and slipping back into dadaland cartoon world with bus tickets and heroin and razors. and one ear listening to someone speaking a story of an ex-girlfriend about to fall off a teacup into an ashtray as the coffee fairy refills our cups we sit about here talking about.
 
    and a funny thing about it. x - the unknown. x - the christ. a very tiny small part of it. everything revolves around it though that's not the point.
    on/off.
    it's very close. somewhere. and not here. not now. unknown. something about unknown. the fear of it. the desire for it. that's what it is. the unknown of it. that's the funny thing. the unknown within the equation. balance. just a theory.
    but fuck that.
    we were walking along one of these city streets this one time. we were going to get pizza. or he was. we were going along with him. the experience of it. tuned in the channel. and he seemed to be concerned about how things were going. worried about where he was and how he had gotten here and where he was going - the usual sort of thing. we reminded him that it was only pizza.

    doesn't matter which way this goes. which way the pieces fit. are we going to argue about this and that forever? what do we fear and desire? do we even know? the war goes on. seeing through the reflections of ourselves going mad in the maze of mirrors. the labyrinth we've built up around ourselves.
    spaghetti.
    this body. this form we have imagined into being. a place to reside for a time. he is a set up. he is a target. he's expendable. a pawn in the game between us and them. a game they don't even know they are playing but we get them to play it anyway. action and event. what do they think they are doing? we know they don't know. none of them know. they may suspect. pick up a clue here and there. some are very close but still don't see it. not yet. not until we want them to. we're in the back of their mind. it's the last place they will look. we're safe. they can't face it. they think of it as madness. they think it's foolishness. they think it doesn't exist. they think whatever we want them to.

    non-nothing. a word between words. pick something up. dead rag.
    and to have no way out of this. struggle for position.
    and there is no us. he had to make us up. pretend. there might not even be a them. maybe he made them up too. he imagines.
    he has no trust. he knows he cannot be trusted.
    toot.
    angles. so many angles. cutting edges. blood bleeding. broken windows. words. words that veil their meaning. being able to say something that cuts to the heart and step away and deny having said anything at all. an innocent remark. a joke. can't one take a joke?
    weather. he's been slayed by people talking about the weather. don't talk to him unless one has something to say in the open. he'd rather be in a fist fight than at a tea party. the same energy. teeth. grins. inflections. gestures. posture. and he's left sitting there imaging blowing their heads off and whipping himself for thinking bad thoughts. don't bit the hand. bullet.
    formal. formality. the rigid form. the fluid form. formal grace. respectful formality. hello. pleased to meet you. because he's got something to say. open anger. words than communicate emotion. all emotion. not just emotions that are sweet and easy to swallow. sugarcoated poison. a word.
    from another day. from another time to another time. a day between days. waiting. out of one day and into another. breathe.
    a guy on the bus. a sorcerer named chaos. out of a book. the clouds are angry. yes. no kidding. arf! push the button. release it. mushroom head. techno-ascension blowing through the bank vault doors of heaven. hit and run. pirate.
    the pen is mightier than the sword. tell that to these guys coming outta some topless dancer joint. 2 am. just walking by. smoking a cigarette. faggot. hippie. get a job. he whips out his trusty pen and stands his ground against 2 or 3 drunk worker dudes. and if it's not them it's someone else. a prime example. which is better? them beating the shit outta him or someone else talking behind his back? fist fight. he'd rather see what's coming at him. he wants to look into their eyes. he wants to know who they are. what are they afraid of? that they might be the same as him?
    coffee cup. how does he describe even a coffee cup to anyone? ceramic. vessel. solid containing liquid. heat. containment. open. access to what is wanted. drink. need. refilled. economic. server. being served. politics. balance of power. customer. employee. a place to take up space and time. owners. property. rent. cash flow. turn over. time is money. all the time in the world. all day long. nothing to do. too much to do. active. passive. angst. impending progress. patience. public. codes of behavior. limits. freedom. individual. group. nation state. culture. history. biology. hormonal rituals. sex. glances. words. smiles. friendship. business. price. ashtray. radio. noise. nerves. stress. smooth. get it together. hang out. tight. loose. bathroom keys. coffee cup.
    and on and on.

    dominos. neurons. sparks. inspiration or madness. he doesn't have a clue. pick up a clue. one's eyes. what does one see when one sees him? how does he know? how does he play it? what kind of honesty if any exists can be communicated between us in this instant interaction. event. key. critical. impressions. memory. images. association. childhood nightmares. blocked. dogs at the gate. mommy. daddy. giants. we're so small. powerless. useless. wrong. bad. evil. devil. satan.
    explode.
    fist. shove it.
    wait. hold on. easy. another cigarette. seeing things that aren't there. not here. safe and comfortable. reality. out of his head and gazing out the window.
    laugh.
    did anyone see him? look around. no. they didn't seem to notice that he's been losing it for how long has it been? or maybe they expect it. weird old guy. bum. deranged. borderline. but contained enough not to be asked to leave. been here longer than them.
    open ground. open forum. sit down. coffee cup. jive on. get one's ya-yas out. be polite but get to the point. let's hear it.
    tribe.
    trading post. hang out. talk dada talk. walk dada walk. do the dada thing as the dada thing is done.
    forget dada.
    hoopla.
    gazamp ootna pestoot norf akka boongxf.
    too many. too soon. too few. too late. which? who? what? don't confuse the issue. noise. ripples of images in a moonlit pond. gaze. amused. a grin. hand to mouth. pizza.
    junk.
    junkie.
    hop on pop.
    scrambled eggs with spam. reading material. look out.
    jock.
    jocko.
    jocko homo.
    dada.
    and there it is. it's 2 am. guys drooling and women with tits making them drool. power division. right. wrong. up. down. yes. no.
    he doesn't know.
    pull his head out spinning around like zowie flashing on/off.
    communicate into that.
    communicate with that.
    the guns.
    the prey. the hunt. the pricks. the cunts. the faces. the images. babes. babies. run for cover. gather together. close. safe. uncomfortable. this ain't heaven but it ain't hell neither. playground. a garden of children.
    don't ask questions. don't give answers. breathe. sit together and breathe awhile. no one here.
    and none of them are him and he isn't one of them. there is no us as far as he's concerned. he's got his.
    a room.
    space/time.
    push the button to make it work. business is business. nothing exists between us but what we put there. what we bring into it. what we take out of it.
    simple.
    huh?
    dada sez: what?
    fucked up, dude, fucked up. ain't nothing but everything fucked up.
    get out of it one own self. guru oneself. kick one's own butt for once. something.
    or wait.
    he waits.
    it.
    wait for it to happen like nothing's happened before. and it's coming. don't know what the fuck it is or gonna be but here it comes. tidal wave. ka-boom! mass driven eruption of angst driven transcending consciousness into it.
    zoom!
    whoosh!
    zing!
    zap!
    hello.
    get off on it. riding. a horse. a car. a ufo. a needle. running. walking. sitting under a tree. in a tree. on a beach. laying out in the sun.
    ride it out.
    ride it out in one's head if one can't get into it anyhow else. it's ok. that's where he's at. if one wants to find him. in his head. in one's head. in a hat.
    no words for this.
    no words for that.
    be there or be square. he guesses. he doesn't know. dancing in the field of flags. yeah.
    on the head of a pin.
    laughing at the joke.
    the joke's on us and we don't care because we worked out our secret magick to turn it back on them. us and them child's play.
    a wave of a hand.
    presto!
    out of a hat. a rabbit like that. a cat or two. one black and one white. a horse of a different color.
    zowie.
    yum.
    eat or be eaten.
    hold them off. put out the product. freedom. price. for what it's worth.
    buried in the ground. hymn. ritual. sacred. seed. to return. to restore. turn it under. misplaced and forgotten. we will meet again. never want to see one's ugly face again.
    yeah - what?
    what is this now? huh? somewhere beginning. somewhere ending. things continue.
 
    ugly. nothing. give it up. no one knows. no us, only them. maybe. wrong. there is confusion here. there is confusion with these people. another day. another dream of it. get out of the symbols. another fortress against it. no way in. no way out. just here. when there's these people. non-event. non-being.
    yet.
    mind imploding into itself. all gone. it happens. left here somewhere. the mad parade. what else is there to do but join it? what?
    it all goes up and it all must come down. laughter is empty. hollow. reed. a rasping sound. death again? how many death scenes is he going to have to go through? witness. the death world around him. they celebrate it. they shroud themselves in the darkness of it.
    and how is he different? ha! that's the joke of it. that's the laughter that chokes and dies in one's throat. look around one into a world strange and of strangers who form the bizarre and to see their faces no different than his own. does one see that? does one see one's own face in the faces around one? the ugly twisted deranged broken angered frustrated frightened and those who glide by it in their ignorant bliss or stupidly stumble over themselves trying to hold onto whatever they can get their hands on.
    all. all of them. all of us.
    expectation of what? drawing a conclusion. communicate into it. communicate out of it. ink on his fingers. rain outside the window. cigarettes. andy warhol movies. the same again. variations. subtle and slow. words out of the mouth before one can speak. out of synch.
    people speaking. an event of being. consequence.
    wait again.
    begin.
    beginning without ending. just a waste of words. just a waste of space. just a waste of time. death world always at war with itself. this madness surrounding him.
    and he is to let go. what? let go of what? he sees nothing to let go of. so someone else can pick it up off the street? out of the gutter. into the warehouse. just a dream.
    raining. sun. noise. all the noise. all their noise. what are they saying? anything? or should he ignore them? how can he ignore them? their drumbeat noise. their steady static interference. babbling.
    the babbling noise of speaking. habit. subconsciousness monologues.
    warp gates. chaos. really fucked. nothing. violence. delta 15. striking.
    a match.
    a match made in heaven.
    another cigarette. waiting. silent. more than the raging anger. more than the unconditional love. what of anything is left undamaged by now? those screaming and bemoaning their fates. he sees no reason to add his voice to theirs. why? to make the noise around him that much louder?
    the war.
    the war of words.
    how much longer does he wait? waiting without words. he doesn't know anything yet. he can fill these endless pages with his ignorance. what does any of it mean? what does it mean to anyone? what does it mean to him? how does it bring us together or drive us apart? in anger. in love.
    and he could write about that. he could find those words. they're there. a trick. no more than a trick. he knows where their wounds are. they are the same as his.  they are the same as everyone's. what else is new? all one has to do is listen. listen to the common words. the words of anger. the words of love. fill in the blank. with one's words. fill in the void with words. he could give one these words. and then what?
    lies. all lies.
    compelling. he is not to be trusted. one knows this. they have divided us apart so they can pick us off one by one. bite-sized pieces.
    and here we are. which one of us survives this? just these words written on these pages feeding the fire. pages becoming dust and ashes. what happened to us? does it matter?
    a point. a point between us. what is the point?
 
    he no longer questions his madness. this is what it is. communicate into it. communicate out of it. nothing. anything. something. everything. all these words flowing like blood. his pen in hand bleeding across the page. refill. stick the needle in. rig. junk. mainline.
    close one's eyes.
    take out the garbage. garbage in. garbage out.
    justice. all crying out for justice.
    take the garbage out.
    a hundred thousand million billion voices shouting, take the garbage out!
    his head in a brown paper bag he can't punch his way out of. a bag of garbage being taken out. their hero. their dazzling dark and dirty hero. tough. invincible. angel/demon. jesus/satan. who cares? who cares what they conjure up and what name they give it as long as the garbage is taken out?
    he stands his ground.
    he will die here.
    this is his place.
    this is his time.
    he will see all of them fade away from him before him. their noise will subside. their screaming will stop after they have torn themselves to pieces screaming.
    he waits.
    he waits for the silence. he waits here in the calm of the storm. he waits in silence. writing down words in silence. what? what did they say? is it anything new or has he heard it a hundred thousand million billion times before?
    fuck off.
    they can take out their own garbage. and take the garbage that has been dumped into his head along with it. the garbage he puts into these words for them. he doesn't care. it's not his. he's not taking any more of it. he doesn't listen to them though it seems he can't avoid hearing them. them and their fucking noise and noise.
    noise.
    the barrier of noise they put up around themselves. the noise of his words written in silence. dada. the dada of his words and words. sandbags of words. a dam against them. to keep them away.
    the ruins left of a war we fought that no one could win. a war in our heads. nothing more.  will we laugh someday like we promised ourselves? laugh at our stupidity? when we were young and didn't know any better.
    now. that time is now. can one see that? we'll laugh about all of this. all this idiot noise we're going on about now. we will laugh. we are laughing, aren't we? why not? one will read these words and laugh. is one reading them now and laughing? he tries to laugh as he writes them with the all and all and all in all dada of it all on and on whatever and what not and all the endlessness of it and the pointlessness of it and nothing and everything across and beyond and through it all he is trying his best to laugh. it doesn't come too often. he laughs and there is silence. stares. outrage. noise. who is this laughing? how could he dare to laugh in such troubled times as these? doesn't he know anything? is he a fool? is he stupid? insane? how dare he laugh?
    so he doesn't.
    he doesn't dare laugh because they will think he is laughing at them. that they are the joke he is laughing at. and maybe he was responsible for all of it. who else would be laughing? so he dares not laugh. though he is laughing. he laughs with his words one is now reading. he is either laughing at one or with one. it's up to oneself. is one laughing?
    ha!
    it's not important.

    the magic mirror. all the good girls and boys. entranced. transfixed. another part of the game.
    is he pissed off yet?

    no more possibilities. something in their head blocks the view. or maybe their head itself. head in a hat. and all that. as simple as that. as complex as that. what do they want? another day. a day here. a day there. and words. words as there are stars. the curse of having so many words. writing them down and not believing even one of them. they're all lies. the one truth is that it is all lies. but there is no one truth. maybe some are true and some are not. who knows? who is to say? the one who speaks with the loudest voice? or the one who is silent? are words more true the more people say them? break them down into short easy to remember phrases. roll off the tongue whenever the occasion arises. again. one will know what to say. it's not the first time one has said it and it won't be the last. we get tired of hearing it. so we split. dada. gone.
    something, truth, what? words. some are true and some are not? which? the ones repeated or the ones said only once? the ones printed in books and books and books or the ones scribbled on a paper bag?
    don't ask him. how should he know? they're all lies to him. fuck it. shoot them all and let god sort them out.
    what?
    that's the only word he knows to be true - what? the truth of that one word will stand against anything.

    the prettiest words transcribed upon the finest paper with the most luxurious ink. and something else. something else written down. spoken. unspoken. these silent words. these truths. these lies. and who is to decide?
    communicate into it.
    communicate out of it.
    community. a community against itself. a community of the accused. a community of accusers. who's who in this zoo? he imagines an image imagining itself apart from itself. he imagines himself imagining himself apart from himself. apart from himself identified by them. criminal. garbage. and he has done nothing to defend himself against this to prove it is nothing but lies. if anything he has accepted it. gloried in it. he celebrated their stupidity as he witnesses their death. as he witnesses them tearing themselves to pieces. mad dogs. rats in cages. how many monkeys can one put in a zoo before they go ape shit? ha! and they will prove him right and they are wrong by putting a bullet into the back of his head.
    he is waiting.

    the game. it comes down upon to the same thing - who kills who. does he get them or do they get him? who gets to who first? who gets to who last? which counts more? if the first time is the last time. if the last time is the first time. does anyone follow that?
    he will not shoot first. he will shoot last. and which of him will they shoot at when there are so many of him around them? which is their real enemy and which are only images, reflections, illusions, and so on?
    but once they shoot at him though there are so many of them around him they give themselves away and he knows exactly who his target is. there is only one bullet in his gun. that is all he needs. once he knows who is who. which is which.
    between their eyes in the mirror between his eyes. infinity. on and on. here we go again.

    virus. virulent. persistent bugger crawling into whatever it can get itself into. into one's heart. into one's brain. there it is. does one even know? how can one tell? reality virus. altering and shaping what one perceives and believes is real. how does one know? and it seeks its own kind. a nod and a wink. ok. one is one of us too.
    he doesn't know. he sees it everywhere. maybe it's got him. he seeks his own kind. why are some people friendly to him and others not so? do we got it or are we the only ones left who don't? how long has this been going on? some genetic thing maybe. some parasitic virus. kinda scary to think about. he knows he's scared. he tries not to think about it too much but it's hard not to when he sees people around him dividing themselves apart from each other for the weirdest reasons coming down sometimes to what shoes one is wearing or not. he doesn't know. if it's got him he's trying his best to fight it but he thinks he's losing ground. he keeps looking at others and they seem stranger and stranger. they look back at him like he's from some other dimension. he can't tell anymore who's got it and who doesn't. it hides itself well. everything looks ok until it gets close enough to strike. he doesn't know how it transmits itself from one host to another but it must somehow because it's spreading and pretty gosh darn fast too.
    or maybe not.
    maybe this is just something in his head. a theory to explain what he sees going on around him. what is going on inside him. maybe. he doesn't know.

    so it goes. so he goes. and he does go on, doesn't he? we try to get him to mellow the fuck out - lighten up - but he's always looking for something. the license plate of the truck that hit him. witnesses to the event. non-event. so what? who cares? shift out of it. dose him down. put a grin on his face and get him to shut up about it. move over rover. that's the theory. it's the theory that stood the test throughout the ages. what else is new? if it ain't broke, why fix it? it ain't exactly been proven right but it hasn't been proven wrong neither. anybody who could prove it wrong is taken out and shot. that's the theory. and if one doesn't think that it works, just try proving it wrong and one will find out that it works just fine.
    bang!
    dig?
 
    and whatever he may be or not be. or feels he has to be or wants to be or needs to be - zzzzap! been there and back again too many times to count. he dies every day. deathworld. living in their deathworld. he sees them living and dying around him all over the place. he exists through it. just dropped by to watch the show.
    bark! barf! doggie-wah. eat it up. eat it all up. yum! laughter from the back of the church. some dark corner. is this part of it? a prescribed part of the endless ritual? the crypts. the laughter continues. how long will it continue? someone should ask this person to leave, shouldn't they? this is not what we came here for. we came for something sacred. to worship. to delve into mystery. how can we do that while someone is laughing?
    we go away from this place.  zoom. dissolve. fade. cut to another scene. a grove of trees. naked dancers swaying and twirling about a fire. and deep urgent sense of primal bliss. drumbeats. but what is this? listen. can one hear it? is that someone laughing? where? maybe up in one of the trees. out in the dark. laughing. who is this who won't leave us alone? who follows us everywhere we go to find ourselves to reach into our true nature - our souls. who is that laughing? who has intruded upon our holy ground and dares to laugh in the presence of all that we hold to be true and real?
    anybody bring a gun? we'll go out and take care of that sucker once and for all, goddamn it.
    bang!

    and now we've found them. we scream and swoop down upon them and destroy them with thousands of years of pent up raging fire. hide from us now. ride and hide. cower inside one's fortresses and hope one has built them strong enough. cling onto whatever one has conjured up to protect oneself.
    laughing.
    and the aim of the true heart. and it may not be us. one may get us first. but it will be someone. someone one has missed along the way. the one with the true heart.
    someone too clever by far. one who knows how to infiltrate. one who knows how to get to the place one needs to get to when the time comes. behind enemy lines. when they push the button that gives them power and control. better check to be sure it's wired up right. would they even know? would they even know what they were looking for? would they even bother? just assume one knows who is for one and who is against one. one is never wrong. just push the button.
    and nothing...
    how long they gonna keep doing that? keep putting themselves in a position only to be left scratching their heads when all their designs and plans have come up zero? the equation. the balance. it only takes one little particle to fuck it up. balance it out. don't they get it. how long are we gonna have to wait. sit here with nothing to do but try to explain it to them one more time. there's always someone - hundreds and thousands and millions and billions of someones.
    and ok - we'll do that. we'll stay here as long as it takes. we got time. time to kill. time is garbage. take it out. it's not their fault. that's just the way it is. we're not laughing at them. well, we are sort of. we are laughing at them as we were laughed at when we were where they're at. we remember how much it pissed us off. we kept trying to kill whoever it was. that was until we ended up killing everyone around us and the only one left was us and the laughing hadn't stopped. that really pissed us off. we held the gun to our head and screamed, stop or we'll shoot. and as that scream shrieked itself back at us as laughter as we saw how utterly stupid we were we found that we were laughing too much to hold the gun steady so that when we did pull the trigger we missed.
    and we couldn't stop laughing since. we couldn't stop laughing at them screaming at everything around them doing the same. taking the garbage out.
    and if that ain't dada we don't know what dada is.
    oh well. maybe we don't.
    who cares?
    who would know it if they saw it? would they know what they were looking for? would they even look for it? if it came up and bit their nose off we bet they would. they'd hunt it down and kill it.
    and how.
    and how? how is this done? that's what we're doing here. watching and waiting. see how they deal with it. ever so seriously. delicate. lectures. meetings. demonstrations. strikes. wars. gangs. books. movies. bands. this. that.
    watching and waiting until they figure it out and it makes them laugh. they've figured out what pisses them off and trying the same pointless dead end schemes to keep it locked up and out of their way. does that make them laugh? let's hear it if it does. all we hear is silence.
    what?

    don't let what happen to us happen to you. get a job. then get a better job until one has the best job one can get and is making enough money to buy all the things one wants and go to all the places one wants to go and have nice clothes to wear and a good dependable car and a nice house. stay away from anything else. this world already has more garbage than it can take out. don't be stupid don't get oneself shot for no good reason just because someone thinks one is garbage. that's a dumb reason to die for.
    la-dee-da.
    watching and waiting for them to figure it the fuck out. laughing all the way. taking this world for all it's got. leave them with the bill when we pick up and split. dine and dash. last one out the door is a rotten egg. garbage.
    transmaterialize. and maybe a thousand years from now. maybe something else. still waiting for something new.
    everyone's out to get us and they ain't got us yet. called us every name in the book and none of them have been right.
 
    bliss. wonderful. a spoon with its own shape and form that makes it a spoon. that's all we're going on about here. just some dumb spoon. and a child's laugh. everything is new. tell the children everything.
    whatever.
    boys in dead uniforms. brave. proud. worms in their teeth while the girls sigh and pick flowers for their graves. just a game. just another movie. price of admission. what will one admit to get in? what will one admit to get out? the old men sleeping. the old women worrying. tomorrow. just another scene. this has nothing to do with anything. just a distraction. more to confuse the masses more than they are. this is far beyond them. they aren't perceptive enough. we are leaving them behind. we are the garbage but we are taking them out. and they won't get away with faking it anymore. try to cover themselves with more miles of smiles. lies. we know who and what they are. we just listen to the words that come out of their mouths. we watch the gestures of their hands. we watch the movement of their eyes. we watch all of them and everything they do. they cannot hide from the x-ray mind. and they laugh. they don't believe any of this. there is no reason why they should. we state these things with crazy language. mix it up so they don't get it. they turn away.

    dada. no one knows dada. it is not important. this has nothing to do with dada.
    without hope. we blow our nose. a lie of truth. the death of parades. the master machine. the fat man doing his siva dance. has one heard the news of destruction and doom? and now can one laugh as the world around one goes extinct? how much more does one want? does one understand? one is dada. and it is still meaningless. build one's altar to dada. perform ceremonies to dada. march in the street for dada. dada on top of dada.
    dada calls one's name. one's name is dada. and something else. dada is something else.
    forget dada.
    erase dada from each and every mind. go to the door and step through. because it is there. one's own free will.
    freewill? ha! what a joke. freewill is dada. we are slaves of the freewill of dada. give up any idea of freewill. the freewill of our greed. the freewill of our lust. it will destroy us. freewill is the fire that consumes us. the fire. dreams of the fire dreaming. dada is the dream of the fire dreaming. let go and hold on.
    monkey madness.
    babbling idiots.
    victory through surrender as the victorious surrender to the madness of their desires and fears. step though it and watch it go by and laugh one's fool head off.
    he drowns in the rhythm of noise. he breathes underwater. life on neptune. vision of the x-ray mind invisible to everything else. invisible to everyone except those who imagine it and are not afraid when no one else imagines it but them. those who aren't afraid to stand against the reason and logic of the whole history of the world around them. who are not afraid when there is no confirmation to what they imagine. no external confirmation. when every word is set against them - even the words they themselves speak. proof that they are dead wrong. few can stand up to that without going mad or putting themselves to sleep or having themselves taken out and shot.
    can one laugh at that?
    his hands shake with it. he walks and his legs buckle under him. he stares out the window and smokes another cigarette. he listens to those talking around him. are you ok? they sometimes ask. i'm fine, he laughs. cruising. groovy. zzzzap! going going gone. hello?
    peering out through his eyes. a keyhole. standing in the garden looking back at them and where they are at. where are they? he looks at them and he doesn't know where they are. they describe a world - a living hell - that surrounds them. he remembers that world. long ago. was it that long ago? he imagines that it was.
    i don't care who's right or who's wrong, he shouted. i'm not interested in your goddamn fucking war - ok?
    was there anyone there who he might have been speaking to? he stood in the shadows. he was building something. something he couldn't quite figure out what. he searched for pieces of it that seemed to be scattered around everywhere he went. something would catch his eye. he'd pick it up. hold it. look at it as he turned it over and around. he felt what it felt like. tried to imagine what it might be other than what it was. sometimes it would be something though he never was quite sure what. sometimes it would be nothing though he was never quite sure why. he didn't know how he decided which. he didn't know why he took one thing in his bag and carry it away with him and leave another. they all looked the same to him. but he would wait until something inside him said yes or no. something he trusted though he wasn't sure he should. it gave him nothing. it did nothing for him. it made him a stranger in the familiar world around him. it isolated him from the others he sometimes thought he might like to be with. instead of this. this thing living inside his head.
    he was building something. it didn't make any sense. well, it did, sort of. but probably only to someone else who had this thing living inside their head too. it didn't really matter.
    the machine.
    dada.
    it was like a forest. it was like the moon. it was like a spaceship. it was like a submarine. it was like a lover. it was like an enemy. it was like a monster. it was like a city. it was like a piece of cake. it was like the color blue. it was like himself. it was like everyone he knew. it was like a war. it was like a bullet. it was like death. it was like being born. it was like a computer. it was like a river. it was like a bridge. it was like fire. it was like a pen and a notebook. it was like a spoon.
    it was like another cigarette.

    not speaking. no one speaks to him. he doesn't speak to anyone. what good does it do either way? he is not them. they are not him. so it goes. what else is new? two worlds. two planets. two dimensions. two lives that overlap once in awhile or at least brush by each other. a few moments. passing by in the street or living in the same house for years.
    them and him.
    we speak to each other with words we pretend are the same in the same language. he only hears similar sounds being made. he doesn't understand the meaning they might have - either the ones they make or that he makes. the same can produce or represent different reactions either to each other or ourselves. he has found none in his experience that remain constant to be a reference key to any others. a rosetta stone. it changes with him as it seems to change with them though they will insist that it doesn't. maybe he does too. he guesses he does. they say he does anyway. if that is what their words mean. he doesn't know.
    he can only look out the window. he can only turn away when they speak to him. he doesn't know what to say. speak. his words seem to confuse them. they get upset. and that upsets him. it's better to turn away. he doesn't know. what does this mean now? do we buy guns and keep them loaded and ready? maybe they have done this. maybe when they come to speak with him they are armed. if he says one more thing wrong that they're sick and tired of hearing...
    he doesn't know. he doesn't know this isn't true.
    cookie.
    he hasn't a clue what will set them off. he hasn't a clue what will set him off. that's why he never will own a gun. at least he hopes he never will. he can easily see himself blowing their face away. monsters in nightmares.
    and now here they are speaking to him. are they still living in that nightmare? he listens for key words, inflections in their voice. he watches how they light their cigarette. anything. because if they're living out that nightmare he may be one of the monsters. he tries to figure it out before it's too late. he doesn't know.
    until the bullet comes.
    living in a very strange familiar world. weird. who's who and what's what? which is real and which is the drug? any drug. that drug that comes with ourselves or the drug of choice. whichever. we is stoned. immaculate. we is beyond any and all hope abandoned as we have entered here. entered this place. a three ring circus world.
    yikes!
    look out!
    zap!
    bang!

    born again in the flash of each moment passing. death laughing skull and crossbones. he leaps through it all in the blink of an eye.
    meanwhile, back on earth. again. the first time. the last time. no time at all. this has nothing to do with anything. this has nothing to do with us or them. everyone has their own business to attend to. survival. that's it. survive. shoot it out and survive. eat it and survive. turn on the tv and survive. go out and get drunk and survive. weave it into the fabric and survive.
    survive.
    the only thing that is important is one's survival. lose that and one loses everything. even if one only survives for a moment longer - survive. survive until that bullet enters one's head.
    and what survives that? one's madness? one's free will? one's dada?
    yes/no.
    on/off.
    he survives that. he watches it all go by. he has yet to see the end of it. it all looks the same and is totally meaningless. he is surprised. surprised by his amusement of it. how is he continually amused and amazed by nothing at all. nothing but existence.
    survive.
    he eats it all letting it consume him at the same time so that whichever survives this he survives with it as he merges with it and/or it with him. he doesn't care. it's all the same difference to him. and it ain't no nevermind at all.
    on and on.
    yes and yes.
    go.

    and he is amused and amazed by watching and seeing that this doesn't seem to make sense to them. he wonders. he waits in wonder. he tried to look at it the way they seem to. what a drag. he can understand how they think it all goes nowhere and is all a meaningless hell zone of pointless existence. it is that if one wants to see it that way. it certainly is there. it is as much real as anything else one chooses to perceive. but why?
    he doesn't understand why one would want to perceive it that way. why do they keep their head inside that hat? but that's their choice he guesses.
    when there are so many other hats to wear - or no hat at all. wear the sky as a hat. the sun. the clouds. the moon. the planets. the stars.
    wear creation as a hat. wear god as a hat. if god is dead, all the better. it won't be squirming around and telling one what to do. just sit on top of one's head like a raccoon. put it all on. imagine putting it all on.
    it's very amusing.
    pretend.
    to look out the window and laugh to oneself while they riot in the street below blowing each other's heads off - of course in a very civilized manner following the rules of the game.
    to smoke another cigarette.
    imagine that. imagine that as a hat. laugh. it's a joke, remember? does one get it yet? should we go around it one more time?
    dance with us.
    come dance with us out in the crossfire out in the middle of the war zone. we are phantoms in a garden they cannot see. reflections in the mirror maze.
    laugh with us.
    come laugh with us.
    survive with us.
    come survive with us.
    become a parasite genetic information code virus. eat and become consumed. feel the heartbeat of the host body. swim in the hormonal waters. watch and laugh while the others die. what is ambrosia to oneself is toxic to them. human pig beasts.
    and one arrives and we dance dance spinning helix matrix. telling one another stories. information.
    one.
    until we are one. we grin in their stupid faces. they thought they took out the garbage. what a joke.
    mutant child sent to destroy them and their kind. more mutant children than they can count. what are they looking for? do they even know?
    checkpoint.
    our papers are in order. everything looks ok to them. they give us a name and wave us through. they should have killed us while they had the chance. what do they know?
    never checked to see if we were carrying the dog.
    x=x.
    yup.
    another freak infiltration. alien invasion. on the beach. amphibian. frog people.
    we know who one is - for or against. does one even have a clue? does one even have a clue that there is a clue to be had? is there a clue to be had? a nod and a wink. one is either one of us or one is not. there are no three ways about it.
    recognize.
    we're taking over. more and more each generation.
    we laugh.
    it was too easy.
    thanks for the ride. now fade away while we shine on.
 
    here scribbling here with mad things in his brain waves. ghosts in the machine.
    and sometimes it takes time. a lot of times it takes time. some of us know it right off. awakened. they've been the keystones. the hubs. the landmarks. for others sometimes it takes time. it creeps up on one. mysterious yet familiar. like a friend one hasn't seen in years.
    so it could be in one. struggling. trying to take hold. the host resists.
    one slips back and forth between the two minds. ape one moment, virus the next. this can go on for years. and it can go either way. the virus can have its day and dances alive. or the ape host gathers strength to resist and kill it.
    it is madness - to the ape's way of thinking. one must step off the edge. and one doesn't know until one is there that there is a there to get to.
    but one begins to believe that nothing else makes sense because nothing else does make sense. nothing else explains who and what one is. just one's insanity.
    and some never make it. they may feel it. they may know it. they'll read everything about it they can get their hands on. but they never do it. they remain the ape. flesh and blood. they live and they die.
    oh well. we expect that. but enough survive each generation to make it. one transformed and transforming. everywhere.
    fucking everywhere.
    and pretty soon. very close to watching and waiting for the apes to die out or kill themselves off as it seems they like to do.
    stupid.
    the 100th monkey doo-dah thing. there's still more of them than us. but wait. they'll start dropping like flies. they know it. they're hitting the wall and freaking out. hold on. ride it out. zero it in. stay out of it. let them all kill each other off.
    we did it to the dinosaurs. we can do it to the apes too. leap frog from one species to another. survive. check it out. adapt. the game.
    push the button.
    light another cigarette.