9-19-13 Now what?

Well, that's about it for this archive.

Now what?

I guess I should step things up over at Fatguy Sez.

To close this out, here is a poem that I wrote to Mom on her birthday that I found stuffed between pages:


     To my Mother:

As I attempt this glorious day
through written word to find some way,
to tell you true how very much
love and happiness and life and such,
all the things you've given me,
mean so much more than the words you see.
I want you to know with all my heart,
how much love I send; this tiniest part,
is but a glimmer of the blinding shine,
given by me, forever thine.
And though lacking, this is the only way,
to show my joy when I do say
that "My wondrous Mother was born this day!"

9-28-04 Voodoo Cure

     Pick up the pen, lose it all.  No words.  Blank.  Write words about how there is no words, look at the style, the mistakes, the change.

     Once, I had some dreams that waited, like children in the flower garden, waited until I was like a lost flightist, fully away, and they sprung upon me, laughing the whole time, screaming at first.

     Shock.  Searching for meaning.  There it is.  Children.  Playing.  In the garden.  Shock.

     The dreams themselves were doorways, they had always been there.  But now they were open.

            Possibly a chance goodbye,
                 ever so lost and rare,
            May be never having to try,
                 to put it to tune

9-24-04 Katie Didit.

     Mmmm.  Left to devices, the dream/brain takes the pen, makes the mark, it means something, it all means something.  It means what it means, which is to say, it means what it meant when it meant that thing it meant, way back when.

     Take words.  Take them out.  Portray them, with your hand.  Take an instrument, make the words.  Make them look like what it means.  But all it means is words.  And words mean what?  The things in my head?  Doesn't seem Likely.


              When we trust,
              when weee see,
              there is nothing,
              yet so to be,
              Can you see,
              with an indrawn eye,
              that after the lower,
              it would go so, so high.

8-2-04 Yeah. Again.

                    So around, around it goes, here again,
                                    painful blows.
                    Pain imbedded in the mind, all your own,
                               face it,
                    Laughably soft, there's nothing to it.  DREAD__
                               besides the caps, just
                    another arrangement of letters, just
                               making sense in your head.
                                        Nowhere else.

5-15-04 Remember Me?

     Hi.  Flicking wick to stick the blood clotless, trying, vying, like one of those cars, you know the one, struggling, choking, someone get out and push, for god's sake!  Turn again to the energy bin.  Green gold, ticket to true, passport to puzzling; stop writing!  How the hell do you expect me to do the thing?

     Done.
                      Wow.  Who?
                      Do I know..
                          You!
                      Smoke clears, clarity descends,
                          the true road depends,
                          on the links in the dream.
                      Could be, can be.
                      I believe.
                      Different, so samely so, sweet.
                      A whole new dream.

                                                             Kaos

7-7-01 Years later

     At the advice of my physician, atop a log anciently dead, long from home (both log and I), I suck sour grapes and sponge sunshine out the air; wind attempting to stop the pen, the pen obstinate, my dyslexic hand away from the keyboard betrays itself.  Pen shift.

     Whoa, pink sail, huge and near, sailing the beach, 'twould appear, dangerously fun, psychotically mild, vulture and rider share the game, wind game, evil venture, crushing power, random master.

     Lighthouse sans namesake, dead, though beacon in sun, constantly aroused, waiting, ever virginal, lest you count the nymphonic fog, cloaking, cold, surrounding, still, loving not at all, yet enough?

     Spicy gorge, head tethered, less than the worst, which wouldn't be good; leave the shining portal at home.

     There is always Sunday.

3-2-00

     Spot; in the dark distance.  Belief, following fact.  Morsels of light blinkingly blessed in tried trundling crescents.  Blanketed bastions of sanity, like sanity, only better.  Like Sanity.  once ago, remember.  Once that time when I looked at you, you at me, and
                            'tween us did see
                              Yog Suwhatsisnaneme
                       and reality died,
                                So reality lived,             
                                  born on pained sight
                            we saw what was
                                      no longer unreal
     but to death with the flailing, put a rest on it, why don't yoo Scattere

5-22-99

     Been a long time.  Don't know what to do.  Stilted sentences w/o subjects. Odd abbr.s.  Blandly, blandly I continue without one good thought to write, but continue to write.  I do.  Every day, as the heat repeats and the air is teeming with flora's team efforts, the noise crisply moist in the air, and the quaking ground more evident, strolling over water is another chore.

     Hastening along, Schrieber telegraphed his message, his motive, and his opinion all by his body language:  taught at the shoulders; loose in the knee and ankle; eyes that darted as fish from loud, invisible barriers crashing against the constant numb of the deepest, wet depths.

     Hippety-hop, his feet hopped, shook, hopped.  Clackety-click his teeth chattered, and his blubbered jowls waved in the gravity of force.

              Mastered,                Haiti,               Asking
                 truth.                  hiatus,               belief

             Blanketed,           Blasphemed;         Bereft,
                  kind                     helper             antwerp

             Ensconced,               Empty                 Ego,
                Breath                    larder                begin
           

Like makeshift passion:  wind, untameable, told in golden entrails, seeping truth, hold fast, don't dream.  In the flesh lies flight, in the flight:  God.

     Has, have the will, begin against heavy roads, sopping the energy, given freely by rampaging, roaming mists of unwary, underpinning dream lives, take for granted something on a page, a page in a book, call it your own little joke: Explode onto the joke, take it by storm, reduce its talent to energy, frenetic laughter, love, burn into light, above.

     Take hold, hold.

And Thus It Endeth

That's the last of this volume.  160 entries, not bad.  I've got some leftover miscellany that I'll post from here on from the journal that I attempted and then failed to follow up with.......

Hold an instant, new beginning, holding fast on born horizon.  Born beyond with little betwixt, trained in an array of dry fiction.  Belittling the scene seen once in the drain, one odd Ebenzeerte drove a stake into the deal, cut out the heart of the meal.  Trusted up, trundled out, dumped like a cheap rug on the heads of trouble.  When I last saw the effect, it was wreaking terrible chaos from a tiny throne, bleating of forgiveness and tasting of dry bone. Once there were twenty twenty visioned dilemmas aboard the the skinny schooner.  Today they've fuzzed beyond easy recognition.

               When, o when
                  does my berrypatch grow?
               With chicklets and filberts
                  all set aglow
                  by the blaze I have set
                  from the seeds I didn't sew,
               Bunnies fleeing, rats watching the show
                  As the neighbors beat my head blow 'top blow,
               And the constable comes to take me to row
                  19 aisle 29 F subset 99ZL2.

     The bottom of the page.  My old Nemesis.  So we meet again.  How many times and in how many ways have we met thus?  Ooh, there was

2-1-95 (Fuck)

     The beyond legendary, household-eternity omnipresent, if not ultimapresent of all, all.. ALL of those thoughts passed down from electric charge, to mouth, to charge, again; the deepest of fathoms:  forget the rest, don't even mention a one, it's pointless; one can't escape its little clutchings, gentle messagings, as the mind is entwined,

     It flared, it burned, it squeaked on the surface a little odd, the formality of the borders and informal mesh of day-glo colors, all adding the continual tweaking of the bit.

     And there it sat, sometimes for awhile.

     Sometimes, it was enough, the offender deciding to take a break at the next exit,

     Let it go.

     That attention was not unwarranted, though neither minutely planned.  It was a question, where to go?

     Somewhere.  But there has to be something extra, a bending to the ways, accepting what you really saw.  React, become a wave, a distortion, an oddity to kick some gear into the whole arena, right down to that damned soda jerk.

     It was hardly concocted by the owner, owing to its cheap attainment.  No, not stolen.  Just cheap.  The van, what a van.  Vacuous.  Odd, possibly. Crazy, a little.  Bent, sure.  On that highway.  Actually there, bringing a packed hull back to that one magnet, hell, Reality takes a couple bruises.

     All's fun.  Sometimes.

     Yet.... Law and.. you know.  That vague rock beneath which thrive bands of dark dwellers, seekers of more muck, their power.  They've taken the reins of a philosophical moral question and turned it into a gun, a badge, some sunglassed, hopefully a club.  Damn fine club.  And it cannot be questioned when the sighting occurs, a sleek, dark vehicle piloted by future monsters coasts into the consciousness, and those inner pangs begin, the natural alarm, bringing it all to bear.
   
     Again and again.

5-23-94 Half-cast introduction. (Beware Idiots.)

     A blasting flash, a sudden attack upon the scene entered from behind the hill, around that bend.  Loud and warily unbelievable a rolling powerball swooped in on those burnt out drivers and their crews.  Stares, and more stares:  It came roaring into their selves, and it roared as it left.  The mere size was no mere matter, though if it were alone among all the characteristics, it would matter little.  But to those who saw, who experienced, it was the largest of the large, a crushing power of infamy.

     And the colors.

     Like a mad-dog circus; like a dream from dark, bizarre, hilarious, electric Hell, The Dope Roach Coach flew through the brains scattered along the highway.  Alien landscape, a neon-green horizon dissipating within grey fog stretched beyond the eye, while here, burning through the empty space of a past, silly coating, rushed the spirit, the motion of the beast, the silhouette, black to brown, of a stagecoach sped with cockroaches in place of horses, and a massive roach-god holdin' the reins, flying the coop, and scaring its way to belief.  This was the flash for those to whom the thing was an obstacle, slow like a black hole.

     To those whom it was the pursuer, the one to overtake, and the one to abandon, an answer to everyone's question, electric orange and yellow, beat against the side.

4-13-94 Begeen.

     Rolling, sweating pavement; black tar weighing for miles on a dry crust of Earth; rolling, rolling, falling away to shallow and wide valleys, uninteresting, rehearsed a million times by millions, again the tree goes by, perhaps a pink elephant.  The truth will set you free two out of three, this being the third; where the truth was this road, its other side planted as the beginning, steady and awaiting, the whole thing one ghastly monotony, painful and trying to the traveler.

     All forms of comforting were tried in each and every vehicle that sped along.  But none could delete the truth, the third truth.  Music was out of place, attempting to theme something, bare to the bone, surrounded by the nothing.  Conversation was never as lengthy as the miles nor the still time between them.  And mind alteration, altercution, or substitution, though soothing to some and purposeful to those others, still would not erase enough of that constant of views, that lack of substance.

     And so it went one day, the variation in the vehicles alone, their operators hidden from awareness by the clogging lack of interest.  Flashing the sun back to the dark gray clouds beside it, the metal demons flew before one another into the zero.

3-22-94 One Month, One none month.

     There once was a proposition made.  It had little to do with what was around, abounding.  In fact not one of the varied and multipulous existants knew one little bit of what it could really be about.

     But where it came from, that's a different story.  Because all had witnessed, the path the proposition traveled was well observed, and played over and over again through time, when it arose, for that was all that they had to grasp.  So little.

     But so much when it finally came time to answer, to respond.  For, you see, the ultimatum was just as well known as the origin.  So the point was arrived upon, and who can deny fate?

     From the beginning they'd worked so hard to find what wasn't there.

2-22-94 The Jerk.

     Wrapped in his own unobscurity, Jason made his way past the pizza parlor and into his nothing-but-crumbling life he'd left behind 30 minutes ago, crying all the way.

     When does a sentence become a paragraph?

     When does 3/4 of an inch make a difference?

     Life after the river.  Interesting and happy, those days on the shore.  We truly lived there, but days were short though nights will be our eternity. Where the most occurred, where things progressed forth, if retarded, at least beautiful.

     And where does that leave us today?  Where are we?  What must happen to get somewhere.  Things can't just fall apart, not so soon after the stage was stricken.

           A message reads
           among dead leaves
           written by hands with no meter,
           So they lead here
           these words undear, 
           where I'm sure, in time, I've beat her,
           and here she comes
               the lightened sums
           and, 'cept her springtime caress, none's sweeter.

1-31-94 The Town

     The town I should live in is the one in which the person whom no one knows is the one you yearn most to.

     There he scoped casually, knowing that he was doing nothing while exuding just that feeling through his heavy winter gear and odd-mirrored sunglasses that combined to shroud him completely from any seeker of a sign. His left hand snaked around to his left buttock, into the pocket to grasp his goal, and quickly worked it.

     The spring fired a gleaming gold rod from its wooden casing, out through the top hole like a gopher to be clubbed in an arcade.  It settled in his hand above the callus on his right index and it bit familiarly to the dead flesh like a carrion eater.  He brought it to his mouth, quickly lit and quit, sheltering for only a second that which he currently believed invisible, if only to make it so, and then pulled it to the corner of his mouth and hid it from view with his hand; a gesture which seemed odd if not totally inappropriate.

     One, two, three, then it was back to the hole, and the buttock, so he turned round the corner to spot the dumpster, the space

1-23-94 Three at the Station (The Big Finish)

     The slush was high and dirty on the sides of slick, black streets.  The sidewalks were shoveled every other thirty feet or so.  The sun was out.  The sunglasses were on.

     Burning time at the burger restaurant waiting for a pariah bus on a line out to the "edge" of town had given him an excuse to slug a large coffee of ill repute.  Finally making his way to the stop he looked at his watch to find fifteen of the heftiest and ugly minutes standing there, unconscious.

     He made a move to scope the building who's dumpster represented the only landmark on the hillside, dwarfing both the marker sign as well as what he now realized was a person, standing, shuffling, waiting there.  A familiar, from his only last bus ride out here, a plainfolk to him, hardly describable.  A typical.

     As he moved around the face of the building, avoiding the truck and courier fleeting around, he saw what was within:  space.  Empty space for rent, like the rest of the world.  Too many places that they wouldn't want to be.  What's to be done.

    He continued, without halt, to the corner
     

TIME Bored to Mediocrity.

     Starved, in the old-fashioned sense, he stumbled through the red doorway into a world of unbelievable romance and terror.  The music blasted, shimmied and boomed, until the last of energy went to entropy, which never could happen in such a nexus, a conduit of the never-ending rush of everything to nothing.  Hips bounced, legs flared out from torsos of massive smiles and bugging eyes.  Those resting from the torrent drank and laughed at the tables scattered around, and there was nothing but horrible cheer throughout.  He was immediately dancing, subsumed by that greatest of amoebas, and shaking like an inflamed idiot, grin just as wide, and whitest of white eyes pointed right at the ceiling, the reflection, the speakers staring right back, booming, bouncing, and all was together.

     By the time he'd spent what exertion he could, he flowed to the bar, through all of the bodies and motion.

SPACE Maiden America.

     Gleam like never-gleamed before butter, on a roll or hot tator, something inspiring, that cuts your throat with unabashing holsumnes.
      
          Travesty on the borderline.

     Hard to come by in the evening.  Questions questions.  Every day the ball grows and goes faster and faster.  I've begun to see and be blinded, what's to say when the end is near.  What's to fear when who's to say if it ever will end.

     Scared, Scarred, Scurrying, and fetching.  Hope for the truth in a violent craziness escaped.  Roar through the gates upon a giant mound of everything, and wave.

              There's a stair
                       out there,
                 where the air,
                  and the flair,
                       by compare,
                           UNDERWEAR.

1-22-94 A Million Years

     Lake, Fire, space.  Dreams afloat forever, washed under, purged sourly. One may assume about the future, about the ability, if existing hidden, to change that which one sees through.  Not merely the surroundings, but the eyes.

     And what of events that pale, dull, and fizzle when they arrive?  We've lost it all, underneath that is a problem of the realistic sense.  Don't forget what can happen to anyone.  Don't worry about your doom.  Don't cry about the trying night.  But roast and marinate yourself amongst the sorrow and pretend life doesn't hurt.

           Blanched by the pale moon,
           a severed limb too soon,
           a train of thought marooned,
           savage hope too soon,
           a dangerous sound crooned,
             and the end of the lightning.

Guess....,.No? 12-14-93

     Mortified by the memories which now caused him to remember violet shadows of wrath and movements in the moonlight that play over bright daisies in the grass, by the gazebo.  Fraught with passions unknown, but by his own self, somewhere, locked away for an eon, placed there by willpower, and drawn with pain when it emerged.  Sucking the air into his lungs one last time, he had a moment to wonder why, before the sky was shadowed in violets, a daisy-chain of past incarnations, and a flash of anxiety left its mark on the floor upon which he wavered and fell, it being hardwood with aged wounds.

              Once the time was upon me,
                     happy lived old man,
                 Grew children and had many, grownups,
              and forever-after living, marry.

11-17-93 It was Like This,

     Pen clutched in a slackened hand, his thoughts turned to the black corners of what was his project of inquiry, which it had been for several months.  A year, in fact.

     The sun began edging to the front door, when it struggled open, and out he stumbled, half purposefully, onto the UNWELCOME mat.  His hand halfway into his pocket, his single-ring keychain looped in his index finger, he closed the door and shuffled down the three steps to the sidewalk.  The cars parked along the street were subsumed by frost, and his nose first dried, then burned when he began to breathe again.

     The floppy, decaying hat was resolute against a frigid wind, his tattered hair clung about his ears but did little to stop the sting.  His horizon line shifted about erratically, and he finally noticed that he was smoking a cigarette.  Nearly finished, in fact.

11-14-93 "Here Come Da Judge, Tex."

     Reduex.  Plastion fathom hopportunity.  Clever placing of windows excretes a second-thought reflex, so that the coda is one estep ahead of the wordies on that ol' pageollen.  Studerpasterfunds atop the world, envious, return.

     An old hood on a new car, or coat, makes the whole, or hole, that lesser, or morer.  Take, for example, "for example", which is a phrase used to introduce a facsimile, in words, of that which has been alluded to, or even described before such frasipo.

                Time exists, no more
                once there was plenty
                                 and a bore,
                there was nothing there,
                 now memory laid bare,
                and this time to find, a chore!

11-4-93 Unbelievalbe

     So long.  So long since I've picked up pen and paper with a purpose to mind more than simple arithmetics or short, scurried sketches.  And what do I have to say about things?  The circle continues.  Someone has to put a foot out, stop the idiocy.  It can't be permitted.  I can't let it happen.

     On the major front, things are going and going.  What is it?  I've lost the ability to analyze.  I can't understand what is happening.  I haven't a clue.  But it's best perhaps if I stop trying to find one.  Remember this:  It will never be better, and only stop being worse after it's all gone.

  A parable for everything.

               A few words in a book,
                a little nod or a look,
               something to hide the time,
                amidst pages of rhyme.
               I've arrived at a stop
                below which doth drop
               a bit of wit like wind,
                the lot of which I can't rescind,
               so don't forget the end,
                when the last bend bends.

10-4-93 Good Buddy, G9.

     So long, so much time, space spanning and unreal, causing me to write so small that the least pickled reader may cry to their gods in strife, like the life they've left behind in search of a kinder story.

     But as the clouds rolled by, so did the tide smash against the banks, and, in time, the very walls of the trembling city.  And thus the travelers were to descend upon the scene, screaming of reality gone bad, and hoping carnage alone will be enough to damn their souls.

    Generations died again and again, when the flames claimed the seas, the terror did not cease.  When the breaches of the former oceans' floors finally cooled and were at rest, the terror did not cease.

     Only when the trumpet played did they harbor their thoughts.

        Muscatel on the breath,
                    of a stranger; we've met,
               under a spell or odd threat,
                    of beguilement or death.

Blanket soft calling me, I can't go....
Holy stomach on the moan, wait, wait.

9-24-93 Run from Tripoli.

     When you make mistakes your piece, you have escaped the Newtonian bubble.  After much ado, the planecatechers sunk beneath the swollen, swell moon to breach further the compounds within its destiny.  Moreover, never neglect to mention experience aside from the supernatural in your report, for we may never figure out (ascern) what you mean otherwise.

     Bashfully he picked the broken branch from the sidewalk and heaved it up over his head, holding hard to the severed stump.  It was twice as tall as he, as well as twice as wide.  And the eyes of the boys widened in mock amazement and they began to yell.  Their cries were mixed glee, excitement, mortal terror, and silliness.  The scene ended without a hitch.  The messiah was calmed, and no one felt the worse.

                 Last time I called you,
                        there was an odd clicking.
                                                                         Pedro

9-20-93 Blastopast

     Toot in common, the name of the second-to-last song, it was made of strung-together tidbits of dreams and happenings.  There was a rhythm that would not let go of the choked melodies it accompanied.  Narcoleptic Superman came next, tinged about the abscesses with insanity and truth.  A story about the Past, it always enters the mind in the present, a traveller, a beast/friend.

     Bashful to the end, when the cage was finally lowered close enough and burst into flames from the boiling heat, he did not scream, as to be thought a fool of little words and much volume.

           Hand me that stick,
               I'll show you a trick.
           It's something I learned from my old swami,
               the one Kissinger called a Commie.
           He used to hang from a tree
               whenever he addressed me,
           and I opened my heart and hand,
               he gave me a stick and a hatful of sand.

9-23-93 Mulberry II

     Brains plastered about Broadway, crises arising, appetizing morsels for advertising, chortling bag-heads, with open zippers and zippos alight.  Drink deep the wide river, the wide awakening, seeing the dust, plastered over everything in its wake.  There is no dog, only the infinite, the blessed, and the unbelievable.  Take hand with the traveling man, one who talks of a world he's never participated in.  Listen and learn.

                As the sun touched my tree,
                      as far as I could see,
                    There was a raging, foaming sea
                     my fears got the best of me
                    and only the hawks,
                              the tired, weary hawks
                                      heard my plea.

       The Country Priest and the Desperate Stranger

     Like an easy day the bike flew down the sidewalk, giving wind its character and making sound an oddity.  The basket clinked a little at each crack, and it was almost musical, so he hummed along.  And along.....

9-13-93 Long After the Accedence

9-5-93 Ain't Got the Gusto

     Banshee picnic happiness rides on the railways to the north; pole emperor stated the finality of life succinctly repeats sin.  Having appeared lightly beside secret placemats, the untrue plaster caster interrupted the fanfare with a loud gazoot, fit to the socket with a perfect idea that all at once began to hide the whipped cream.  So, the marmalade came back from the Denver omelette, so any questions are directed to stage right, where they are manhandled approvingly.

     Can you feel worse if you screw up?  Can you run from the cement-brained gum of a sad mysticoniao?  Blatant allegations trumped up like cards on a ship, turned about in the soup with a giant whipper, the dawn approaches the steamer.

                  If I dream of you,
                     if I give devotion too,
                  if I made you meatchunk stew,
                  would prophesied dance come true?

As was his way, he wandered about.

8-31-93 String

     Every person, purpose, or pursuing dreamer walks with a slumped gait, swinging on hinges eaten by liquid tears, and tearing out these dilapidated di-poles is a task fit for a fiddler, though reddish for love, like the wind.

     Monsters appearing in Jersey cows are encouraged through thoracic tubes, connected in confectury to dicted brains on ice.  Places without identifying signifiers can, at one and the same moment, call attention to nothing.  Having said it again, the blind parishioner examines the gamut, and prepares a small fish in his pocket.

              Ever since the last time I
              wrote:  Elly's sick, the dog
              was happy to get the key,
              it's been gone so long,
              and Eddie finally hooked
              into a heavy job, so
              he's gone.  So Long.            Silbert

8-30-93 Sometimes Harder

     Black in the fifth century, AZ, likely talk amongst the stones genuflected about the myriad of constant brainwave absence.  Haven't you heard?  Bought a mocking bird, flies all over town.  Got in big trouble when it robbed the Elementary School, though.

     Every dollar, on top of hollering masses of crazed absentees, like people on the edge of a deep lake, where the depths hold the secrets of a screaming horde, a terrible reminder of what can be, what may draw the attention to unkind events.  Once the time drew nigh, it was high time to act upon impulse, on jerk, on vibe, on yank.  Happenstance was once believed a scientific law.  In the old days one would have called such a mistake:  dumb.

                      Microdots on a barn
                           a bluff for a day,
                      We all gave a darn
                           when the brains flew away.

8-29-93 Epistelog

     For many thousands of centuries this world has been surrounded, steeped, in weather of all types and energies, but never before have I wished so strongly that there were not climatic factors, that it would remain one way, that pressure/temperature differences were nonexistent.  If this were so, I would no longer be underneath my house, trapped when it moved, and the water level continues to rise around my neck and ears; while outside, the climate rages on, for no other reason than natural law.  How can I lose?

     Measuring the pits in the sidewalk, Andrew grew course and bent, his back had strained itself when his hunched form moved quickly to avoid the sidewalk cleaner.  A giant rotisserie appeared above the blue cheese bank, and after a short tumble, exploded like a pork sandwich on the populace.

               Bringing to Bear,
                    all of his might,
               taking his share
                    as was his right.
               But, I hardly care,
                    for it wasn't my fight.

8-26-93 Marco Polgo

     Hangin' with Travis the homewrecker, a Caterpillar driver who doesn't discern; things get confused when the Japanese appear and ask for our Reasons.  Brought back to life once the coffee stopped, the ugly waitress stumbled over a triumphant episode, and after a million years, she returned in the form of a talk show, an evening news schlockfest that drove the best to their knees.  Brought along for the tribe was a large-eyed child who wept for the hunchbacks.  Every time the happiness peeked, I was asleep.  How was I to know when the evil began to crowd its way under my skin, to have it terrorize me like it would after Travis pointed to the infotainment and said, "Eat!"

                    All the time I
                    start sentences,
                    sometimes words
                         or years without changing.
                    every time they
                    repeat
                    or I start it
                    with the wrong letter, yet the
                                              right result ascends

8-25-93 My God, My Goddess!

     Bring back happy hedgerow after clattered beatings of whimbly-nimbly cantankerousness, charred like rind fish brought to boil in Red seas.  Thank it from me, when it comes down, It comes away from the core, the ugly master bereaved to berserkerness, under scrutiny of the King, who looks for special daughters and calls out again and again, a fool for time and a fool for engine. Blanks under the shadow of plywood ghosts, haggard with the twelve years he worked some deal for the dale, the hangman jerks his shaking hat to adjust for the incline, but fails to notice the small waif, a sandman, who trips his suitcase, then runs onto the tracks.  Once, we took away every thing for our big dream, but we did nothing but stumble on the way, and are now ashamed.

8-24-93 Dramatist

     Many times before, Dead's form, bulky and lumped, stood in my way, and many times I fumed my disgust and anger through my pores, through my eyes. Some would say I was on the way to self-destruction, but Dead, he knew what was brewing, and somehow it was worse for him than if I would have struck out.

     After the sweat had cleared, and everyone was back in place, the music box opened a can of cigars, which we passed about, in and around the party, the garden, and the beach and oceans beyond.  The sceptre King held tight to his delusions, as pass after pass was attempted to dislodge his thoughts and quivering mouth.

     When night approached on that dread eve, we found that the hole was gone and in its place was a marble gazebo, and upon one of its benches lay a wrapped object with a simple note:  "Make way for us,/ or your way will be ours./ Have faith in us,/ or the faith will not be."

8-22-93 Dead End Days

    Machu Picchu had its ring, but sometimes it is best to move beyond phrasing and constructed jingles to see what substance really lays beneath the lettered surface.  Begging attention, the giant mausoleum was crisscrossed with vines emerging from what was once a full, powerful rainforest, and which at present was no more than a tangled scattering of vulnerable vegetation.

     Sorry about again the fem, a crazed bat unlike questioning the happenstance or caution flow over rocks and sorry about again; life lorn placed into quarry-like caverns of pointed light and inimitable shadows.

     Break mack tucked in a corner, sipping joe; the coroner with his back to the counter held a steady gaze at the Beans, the accountant, out in the middle of it all, read a comic collection and occasionally laughed aloud.  And Sally, awake with the birds, grinding and brewing, everyone's brightened angel, she looks at me like we're both crazy, and I notice Mack is gone, and his diesel comes through the front window, dumping cabbages by the ton.

8-21-93 The Headaches Begin

                 Frickin' Fysicians

  Back in the old days of savage carnage viewed by few, who might have known a certain something about loud oxen flown from a far crest on which lightened loads of life-giving sustenance are strapped.  Absent from this picture is the stick, the hazardous road, and an optical stunt.

     Hazardous Fizzitions, Physicians of Hazard.  Make way for the benighted                    day.

  Something about the way
       Sally wrote the note said,
           that she had hard
           times when it came
           to constructing sentence.

After two more years of clam skipping, albert the Cross made his way deep into Borneo, where, lying in wait, was a crippled asp, like a gravestone.*

(*gravest one?)

8-19-93 Message from a man who spent those last seven days in a bunker, with the monster.

     What can I say?  I could be permanently fucked.  They could ask of me a million and I will laugh like I will laugh when they ask a thousand.  There's no escaping the shadow of doom.  I can't turn my attention to the random topic, for it will always come up as this.  In one way it makes no difference, in another it changes something.

     And the damage may be more than I can imagine.

     Imagine yourself alight over landscape, the wind about you is a confidant, a friend, it knows you.  The most trivial things within vision call to you, sidetrack you again and again.

     It's like an exit, only not as fulfilling as the closure we dream of.  Not dream of, necessarily, but it is certainly crafted by our hand alone, the hand of The Lord through our little eyes.

8-17-93 Larry's Bomb Mistake

     After a thriftful day behind the rototiller, my man edged across a fathomed pit of rottweilers and makeover artists of the third renaissance. Having clutched a fine beard to his breast, hauling his mass about like a breakfasted midget-racer, a dance about the fountain does him good. Lengthy man with wire torso, he runs a gamut moon amidst breezy shrubs, which all hide a marmot with sharp clawed hammers.

     Blank on the beach, I watch seven hundred nude, beautiful women go by. They smile at me, though I'm necessarily unconscious.  If otherwise, there'd be nothing to smile about.

     I'd be writing.

                  Every time you drop
                    by, something breaks
                    my heart.  Stop your terror
                        and teasing.
                                              Thanks,  Miltie

8-16-93 Elvis died today. You fool, he's been dead for years.

     Amazement among bland haberdashers bringing back the ol' trumpet and washbasin acoustics in larger halls, turned inwards in front as a sort of reminder of where to exit from there, things began to get even less episodic as the horse's major had plebiscites in his diurnal variations, causing a champed bit of hash stew with the general purpose of cleaning up a little jerk like you would ever, ever say something totally expected, like there in the tiny place above yourself a mantled feast of pungent wine and bitter to the harvest.  Planet of question, glide about and forget what exactly you were hoping to make some statement about the head and neck, laced with silver, like a clod.

     "Make mine a double."
                        Stuffy Hodgekiss

8-15-93 Clandestine

     Opening the breeze-tube, ripe summer blasting in, he then makes his odd way to the piano, sitting himself upon the back of a grand tortoise, while feathering the keys with long, broken hands encased in silky gloves which are adorned with rocks of the beach.

     Silly simply splashing about the tide of temperate seas where longing abandon winies with every mass movement along the ocean floor.  But activity begets aberration, and voracious occasions herald a blind assemblage within the caverns of muskellunge.  Measure by measure of what is and what is a lot, the beginning recedes to swallowed bribes, while we run against the present, hoping a step or two is worth the difference, and we can't help but mention the ride.  Making safe the suburbs.

     If things don't work out, if you don't like my aborigini and I dislike your musk, let's never forget the love whe sheared.
                                                     Wistfully,    Freud.

8-13-93 Vince Sent Who?

     Blathersday.  Whattatime.  Another goody.  Wanted that big one, though, wanted to push it, out there in the gardens and steep slopes.  The magic, the wonder.  Amazing stuff, every last song.  It's changed every time.

     Once in a while there may be the possibility of a dreamscape that does not compound upon the ego, therefore disrupting malefactitious embarkments.

      Perhaps hunger will inspire me now
          since it has been a great time
                    since the last of the last cow.
      But upon what shall I feast
                   what things are there
                       I wouldn't remember
                         I wouldn't care
             If it weren't for the very
                       least.
          Matter of fact is matter of mind
                         and enters likeness and orange rind.