7-14-93 Punch

Something changed during the night or morning.  This material world remains, and my situation within is also unchanged, but somewhere in the dreams something went right.  Last night was terrible, just ugly beyond belief. Imagine cops, killer cars, and cop-like behavior.  Sometimes a punching bag would be a dear possession.

Things are getting close, though.  The possibility of getting things done is hope amongst the chaos.  How much work needs to be done?  I wish I could help, but I can't, I just simply can't anymore.

So I get something temporary to scare the ghosts away.

One more push and it was all over.  I stood above him menacingly to make sure that there was no question of my intent.  He'd been waiting for it all this time, yet his manner did not change.  So I looked away then quickly back as my fist raced to his face.  He was not really stunned, yet my mark met its pain twice more before I grabbed him.

7-13-93 It's getting worse.

It's not getting better.  As the days roll on everything is getting poorer, harder to deal with.  I've spent so much time getting nowhere, it's unbelievable.  Is it possible to wait for something to come along that's ripe for your experience, attitudes, or talents?  Must you make your own opportunities?  What of the rest, the lack of material control.  Is it possible to evoke a higher power through simple duties which physically manifest themselves and their results in a way to put it all into a Goddess' hands?

         March of time
            trampling again
         making rhyme
            beginning to end,
         the absence of sense
            in between,
         makes the fear intense,
            and the relief serene.
          I need a route of escape,
            I need to hide
          from the great hidden rape
            of my self and my pride.

7-12-93 Again.

Odd that I'd read of dreams in this way while being assaulted by them.  When in action, they are all-consuming, and I am convinced of their seeming reality. One day it may be best never to surrender their truth to the pull of this world.  Things are not looking particularly good at this time.  Everything is so confused and unreadable.  I have no idea what is to come, though I fear for the worst, while dreaming the best.

A mark on my leg signifies the phone call I received.  A distant voice spoke of uneasy commotion at an indistinguishable location on the coast.  Those gathered had long ago lost the ability to understand the events transpiring. Waves of movement or emotion crashed against the booth, and washed the phone from grasp.  It hung swinging amidst the chaos before it was cut completely away by the sharp attack on that beach.

I reached to my tongue with a newly-bathed finger, and wiped the inky trail clean from the back of my calf.  No message.

7-8-93 A shitty Day.

Unamusing, not Gay.  Where's the easy way?  Could it be that I don't know enough, what?  People who know of the stuff?  Recommendations, that's what I need.  Acquaintances like luck.  Why was the ticket not mine?  I didn't want it enough.  I haven't wanted anything enough, it seems.  How much am I willing to settle for?  It makes the difference.  Where can I go?  I need a key, an input, a spot of wisdom to get me in to what I need for expansion.  Where do I go for this?  For that?  I can push myself to do, but I need the impetus, which always comes from without - both meanings.

Not feeling too poetic today, so I must continue the prose.  The bottom of a page, there's impetus.  One edge to slowly crawl to, sidewinding down, not at all fast.  It possesses me to continue with words and folly until it seems I can go no ....

7-7-93 Lost:

Troubled dreams like no others.  Dimensions clashing, poking up from scattered surfaces, they run amok and test my sanity.  Questions pop like corn on fire.  So what?  Can I really lose?  only my pRide.  Maybe I should run again.

Next page on shows another tumbling form, its limbs stretched about the toiling sand.  Shifting rays run against heavy trees weighed by blocks of green. The image is quite ugly to the eye of any who are aware of perspective, proportion, or the entertaining factors of reality.  Surely even on an abstract scale the piece is worth less than the planet it was planted on.

    Grave metal vessel aflight
        in blackness of depth despite
          pricks of running white light
          which catch an eye turned right
          as another approaches, sheathed in fright.

7-6-93 Diary of a Country Preset

Sure I'm King Squid on the keys, but what good can that be?  Amuse others? OK, where do I come in?" he asked in solemn tone as he kicked his feet about the stage and stared at midget spirits lined along the tow lines.  "Stage left."

Stage left.  That's where he'd enter, the scene packed with all trappings and trimmings of the art before him; the song, the sorrow and merriment, the horror, the endurability of it all.  He looked back to when he had first read the script, all of three months ago.  It was a spectacle in letters, and something quite more now that production scampered ever closer to the carrot of opening night; when he would enter to a flourish of horns, bells, and kazoos.  Stage Left.

             These are not tears, nor rain,
              not a cloud nor pain,
                  could cause these drops
                  or shudder to the starry tops 
                         of the hickory..
                         .............tree.
                         Blanks worth two.

7-5-93 Beware the Idiot

He will make you sigh with silent, seething rage at his every imbecilic word. His slights are slight, his wit is dull, and his general line of thinking is that of a ten year-old, an average ten year-old, or the lacking equivalent thereof.  He's like a cancer that cannot be cut away, unless totally abandoned, and that would entail no heavy price.  In fact, it could be the answer to more soothing dreams and less tension about the fists.

        Make a robe for me,
             make it three feet high
        with green lapels swinging free,
             and a gangly belt that will not tie,
        and a pocket for widgets and such
        with my crest upon the back,
                make the pouch small as to not carry much,
        so I can never hope for much to lack.

♪
  And that's the song of seven!
                    ♬

7-4-93 Wasted Weekend

Lost in flashes and haze, we bent to the wind proper, and may still need a bough or two to catch today's insanity.  If the rock n' roll show goes on, all I hope is that I get a little closer to the action, to the tune, the scene.  A goddess constructed from lost opportunities sets up small disasters, yet the powerful promise is what makes the dream whole.

            Eyes of jewel within beauteous head,
            laying with her thought instead
            was less than nothing,
                  greater than now.
            When she is seen again, she'll know
            the direction my brain did go,
              and what's to be said
              when I'm with her instead,
            and I cry out Athena.

     Whoops.

6-30-93 Too Lazy?

It's possible.  But this life makes way for the lazy as well.  Whatever happens, what will remain?  I can change, that I know.  I could turn into anything, possibly something that at this point I would detest.  That would be painful. Somehow I've got to be able to drop out far enough to get sucked into something.  Wait and it will come?  How hard should I be working now, honing skill and studying technique.  I'll always feel that it's not enough.  But perhaps, though lacking, it can still be brilliant of its own design.

              Two small drops of blood
                  came to his face as he stood
              ankles abruptly flaring from the mud,
                  the quick blue flashes held the mood.
              One arc stretched straight on the line
                               of the horizon.
                   Another flowered up from the pine
                               as it shattered.

6-29-93 Diligence

Now forced to write, to carry out the tasks necessary for further development, I seem robbed of their meaning.  Once I know I must do something, and at times when I feel like just forgetting about it and picking up the pieces down the line, I have to be the schoolmarm, the coach, the rigorous trainer.  I must subject my own self to tyranny of soft type just to keep going.  Somewhere I know it is for the best, but if I cannot yearn from the heart, only push from the forebrain, then of what value is that which proceeds?

    As we revolve into resolvement,
      and the tattered lines left behind
                     burn to catch us,
    Our minds lose the penchant
      for happier times now blind,
                     lost forever to us.
    Ecstasy of form or sound,
      hidden in the ground,
                     refuse to see us.

6-28-93 Apostles of Night

How many times has the surge come, ravaging and quick it blazes into the present, astounding everyone, confusing them into pride and boasting.  With the wave of new interest comes responsibility that not half, not three fifths, nor even ninety-nine percent of the world can bear alone, yet few come forward to shoulder their mass, and instead these neglected necessities breed reasons for human misery, and again and again signal the coming of an end.

But it is never total.  The completed deed is never truly complete.  Whether some are spared, or all destroyed yet in the future they live again, this universe cannot find the heart to end anything, good or bad.  Repetition is the answer.

Pull back and you see the end.  Step back once more to see it start up again, or a mirror of an example just before the present's start.  It is both:  all and none.  It is dream and other.

6-27-93 Denied the past.

Sometimes it's hard to think about just how far things have gone.  To look closely at surroundings, one can only find what they've missed before, things changed and their motives or allegories come to light as black tributes to the roaring chaos about.

Once one began to look, there were two paths created, both taken by mirror beings.  One is to stop looking, the other is to continue.  Either can be taken over time, one then another, then back.  It is possible to never look, but it is not possible to look forever.

                Starry glade in the shadows,
                dew on grasses, lights on rose,
                no breeze between.
                   Those stars live in the water,
                         they hang, then totter,
                     'til they take flight and crash below.
                   Each one a universe and more
                         within each is a door
                             to a star.
                   Each star amongst the many
                         some may give any
                              to come back to this one.

6-25-93 Another Day In the Pipe

As everything coalesces, the dreams, the reality, the bitter taste, the bastard's complaints, once again the truth is found in the words of a stranger. Those beauties, in solid motion, those beauties, I love them so.  I watched each of them walk away, I suffered an unfair burden, I sacrifice for the few, those who come close and call themselves needy.  I don't give to all, only certain.  I can only imagine that my feelings are correct, otherwise, arbitrary reckonings are abound.

    There once was a girl from Minzk,
      who bathed in a pearl-white tinzk,
        when she asked who was there
        when I knocked with her bare,
     I saw her soapy suds not rinsked.

6-24-93 And Zo.

Once upon a time there was a magic stick, magic by the fact that it held within the power of language, of thought, and of understanding.  This stick was absolved from its bond to the trunk by a very peculiar bolt of lightning one Indian summer.  The stick lay for ages amongst the other forest litter, never decaying one bit as the seasons rolled by and over.

A long ways away lived a small boy of imagination's ways, one with eyes for the shadows, and sight for things moving about that most never saw.  It was by chance that the boy chose when he did to wander down that lane, but it was fate pure that whisked him into the arms of one merchant of young flesh.

Woe, before continuing, it is important to state that this is no story of ill-ending.  In fact, its very purpose is the revelation and triumph that the tale holds.  Though the path to this happy plane is crowded with some shock and much horror, one must traverse to find the end, else they must end themselves here, and have none of it.

6-22-93 OOOchie!

Chikpea.  Stop.  Smoke, then start.  Hapspur.  Do it.  Chanceless monkey. Observur.  What's to say?  Nothing.  Days go by, I get high.  We wait and wait, and as we do, the change continues.  I'm still devoted to the grey-eyes. Where it will lead me remains obscured by the forebodings of present.  How can I get anywhere when I seem to wait for inspiration?  But when it comes, it's as if I call upon it.  Why don't I always?  That's what I should have learned, what I should remember.

    Beat underneath the ground,
      feet stop to feel the pound,
    shaking roads to the side,
      lazily tossing about the tide,
    holes like stars burst wide,
    lesions of fire creep like snakes,
    winding away from the sun of lakes.

There was a big explosion, then sound.  It was unlike anything dreamt or unreal.  It's power sucked us whole, and we lay dormant for many a year.

6-21-93 Summer Solstice

And it was hot; a working man's day.  I worked and worked it away.  Not much else to say.  Someone's really getting annoying, worse than before. Everything emphasized is paltry and rude.  It's just stupid, that's all.  And testing, tiring, everything else you might do to drive someone over an edge of perturbation. Stomp, stomp, emphasis-emphasis; give me attention.  It makes my gut turn and my mind darken.

      "How can you possibly be serious,"
      he asked,
      "You wouldn't do this to me, or us."
      she averted with,
      "I think you're delirious,"
      so he sat
      Just then they saw the bleary bus
      in the rain.
      She got up and took it, serious. 

6-20-93 Did it. Done it. OD'd it.

Well, that was something completely mutated from origin.  What can follow? It was deep, moving, but not for the same reasons as in the past. It was tragic because it wasn't nearly what it used to be.  And all of those people, they keep it going with supportive devotion.  What is it?  How long will it go?

But the company was good.  3 out of 4 ain't bad.  Fun to be with, talk to, and look at.  Confounding as usual.

    Bringing a huge platter to the table,
    the sweets piled so high he was hardly able
    to steady the mountain for the mountain's sake,
    leaving no trace or path in the wake.
    The mountain waited patiently, though sour
    for those hands slowly reached the hour
    when his palette was doused with salt,
    and his beautific hunger was called to halt.
    And what could he do?  He erupted in flame,
    Zince then, nozingz the zame.

Fucc'k. 

6-16-93 I don't know what's going on.

How long does one wait until the bad news is assured.  I just want to drop out, not under.  But things will change after the voyage.  One year later, hardly any greater, and I'm there in the same boat.  What's to be said, when all lights go out and the only movement is of scurrying harts.  What?

    Old Jonah, not of the whale,
      went fishing yesterday,
    sprung a leak, forgot to bail,
      'til his feet were washed away.
    Later, when every do-gooder was done
      everyone got themselves together for some fun.
    They spit rocks, they hung fruit,
      they scampered in the tar.
    And man o man did they hoot
      when they saw Jonah's car.
    Jonah, too, was hooting his hassles
      "You can't drive without feet, you stupid assholes!"

6-15-93 What Now?

Again the sun rolls through the sky and I am hardly here.  Something must be done, I need to get it working.  So little to hold on to these days.  So few people around that I know and can pass the time with.  It's broken apart again, and I have nowhere to run.

Threading a path through the marketplace could be, on certain carnival days, and excruciating and plodding experience.  The marching others, with no concern for anything; they come at you from up ahead, or from the sides; sometimes they may nearly trample you over your back, some of the taller ones.  The shouts are in your ear alone, no distance exists, no space between them and yourself.  Anyone else around is drowned out by that woman next to you, trying to get away with something, or that crazed man who wishes to get everything for very little.  At times one may literally spin about the clamour, and lose direction, too, if their landmarks are ill-placed, and end up at certain angles hidden by the shrine-like stands.

6-14-93 Odd Movements

One way or the other a ship is gearing to set sail, whether it be a light beacon vessel, or one of darkest forebode; whether it be greeted by the tumbling forms of lovers, or battling brothers; it will sail.  Sometimes the string crawls so slowly past the grasp, that the days seem weeks, and low triumphs of habit become amazing miracles of fortitude and spirit.

       Beneath twelve to ten layers of rock he lay,
       Pressed 'neath both loam and clay,
       Awake with the thoughts of one lost,
       to his plan of escape and that cost
       his mind shifts,
       as the mulchy sand into his mouth sifts.
       Such weight, such measure,
       hides little golden treasure
             and too many dead.

6-13-93 The Big Switcheroo #II *

Uninspired.  I hate it like this.  New influx is just reassurance, not new ground.  Perhaps I just continue to forget those times when we really push it, change it, and rego.  Writing is still backburning.  It doesn't surface in more than short, immemorable skits, or as a phrase or two, nearly enough to cause one to act upon their substance.

    Anguish piled as high as the rocks
          outside the parapet, where cursing
    waves smashed themselves in flocks
          of mad white birds versing
    a dark grey tune of woe and dream,
    a bright young beauty entombed
    by forces of dread teamed and
          teeming with the foul,
          the dark, the watchfulness
           he cowered in his hall,
           amidst the light and song.
              His payment quickly traversed
              and his reason was not in coming long.

*where I flipped the book upside down and began writing from the back.

6-7-93 Excuse Me While I Toke

Flashing weekend, creeping, empty week.  As far as what's to be done now, I can't say, perhaps working all the time possible is the only hope.  There goes a major slice of the day.  But to slip and fall would be disastrous.

They were crazed, quite crazed.  The laughter creeping along the creek would have sent any person running, and rightfully alerted the wildlife of impending, imposing, possible mayhem.  The alertness occupied the air in bulky masses, pushed about by the movement of the strangers, and the push or pull of the wind.

    Unabashed in the way it foretold,
    of a city of iron and a dream of gold,
    the text was woven with conspiracy and fear,
    Increasing like chainless fire each year,
    Up to the point whence the book was writ,
    Upon which the authors and their type quit,
               this time-torn earth.

6-2-93 Hapspur.

Haberdasher.  So among the trees are the words, thoughts, and beacons. Among the leaves are the same, and under the brook, matchless perfection!, again they reside.  So when one looks to these things, they must not forget any of these hospices, or they lose sight of from whence permission of language use is given.

         Encampment on the Eastern Hill,
           buzzing with workers, with talk still.
         Enter a disguised beauty, a spy,
         who looks for one specific to smote his eye,
         And this she does, though unawares,
           her target recognizes well, merely stands and stares,
         helpless and nearly caught, she flees,
         his following yields when she reaches the trees,
         and a great howl goes out, one from all the wood,
         and she is swallowed away, to his dismay, for good.

5-30-93 Tripalong.

Sometimes it's best just to keep going, all those hours lost on one goal, one idea.  Many ideas all coalesce into one.  It was nice talking to such a slinky sexpot, no disrespect intended.  Wacky, I should have remained home, all that was accomplished was some snappy repartee and some useless small talk that gave me scoping opportunity.  Every time I write the word - opportunity - I look to see how recently I might have penned it in the past.

     Asleep, gentle waker, and re-lose the ground,
     storm soft castles for a feather-down crown.
     Valiantly absent in corporeal form,
     he tackles the worst beasts who challenge the norm,
     and that is peace, quiet from the outside,
     and a warm little place for heroes to hide.

Who's suave now?  Who's the king of swing?  There are few here who would know.

5-28-93 I can feel these thoughts.

What has he come to say?  How long has he held it within, this thing he must now impart?  Who is he now, what is to be done?

At the pulpit, the murmuring silence is like a cavalcade of rifting water across a landscape of shallow bowls and short rises.  His hands touch the wooden sides of the podium, and an electric, warm charge creeps into his hands, and he realizes what he had forgot, and knows that he has been discovered by one.

But that can wait.

  What else need we know,
      other than the prattlings of the insane or arcane?
  Perhaps it would be best to show
      all of us just how to play this little game
  that you've laid out, all neat
      and simple for the loosest mind,
  point out the score that's to be beat,
      and hand me the tools for my turn in kind.

5-26-93 You Becomes Me

As it was once said, long ago, before the old were upon the earth, and only the beasts held conference, that a travelling movement, a redundant treat, can taste like the hauling motion of a Jakanape.  Then again, many things are said by few, and those we hear are but a shade of the hue.  Bring the lights down, this is where it gets sloppy, where the mishmash is blasted through a narrow tube towards unwarned abandon, a bastion; a truth; Dividenedum!

           While people's brains toil about,
           Killing again, tilling soil 'til they shout,
           "existence, why have you come,
           and caught me as I am, dumb."
           Existence was pissed with chagrin,
           you don't say her name without a capital Gin.

When some may think of bowers, you may think of

5-25-93 Foist Day: Stretchy.

Bring to bear a titled flair for the needy.  Happy to do unto others, there's anything you want inside the cabin.  Hearing the words come as they do from the plain little box, he opened his mind to the page.  Hope upon hope poured from a dark fountaining pen.  Every letter as itself only could be, looking nothing like those before, like anything at all.

    Maybe life is short, as they say,
    maybe as short as a single day,
    perhaps as short as one mere week,
    or short as ten, twenty years in a heap,
    as short as the distance from here to there,
    as short as the bridge, so you beware,
    shorter than the breath inside your throat,
    or those memories upon which you dote.
    Wrap them all up and put them away,
    so you can be ready, ready to say,
    "life is short" in the end.

After the potato, there's nothing in the stew.  After we had no stew, we sprang at you.

5-24-93 Need A Break.

No booze, no booze!  I'm tired of the stuff.  It's caught me in a little trap, and I'm well aware of it.  In fact, everyone's doing it, that's why it's so seemingly unimportant.  Yet, for me, this cannot be so.  I must grapple here, early in the summer, to assure a place on top by the end.  Heave ho!  The donkey show.  Keyeshound.  Key.  Tight.  Blarney.  Nebuchudnezzar.  Drawer.  1st Drawer.  Tight Drawereere.

Everyone understands that the very tips of those tallest of edifi do hide tiny, tiny men with penchants for nothing.  They'll hold everything there is once, only to finagle it later.  In the end, they've had the least.  Who am I to argue. I haven't had my key yet.

    Blanket of soft silence, glowing
        like a sea capped by the moon,
    I trip along the avenue, still growing
        while the path's edge comes near too soon.
    Tumbling like a rejected rat,
        'neath a grey tree all night I sat.

5-23-93 Green Bay?!!??

Geewhiz and goshy willickers.  What the fuck?  Then no call? ¿Que pasa alli? Argg.  Man, if you can't stew the stir, then don't turn on the gas, cripesolmighty!  Fuckin' I donno.  What else is their to say?  Nice to look at up close, but, she avoided the Svengali bit, wouldn't fall prey to that ol' pigeon trick.  Someday, we won't meet again.  And it will shurely lack memory.

      Tables, row upon row,
         set with tidings for the eve,
      A generous pie of crow,
         for one the cook can't deceive;
      Once and for ever the guests come,
         slowly chairs begin to wail,
      the wood loses itself in roaring hum,
         and the sun falls in the dale.

As if it were something, it is written little more than nothing.  Who's on that?

5-20-93 That Was Close

Almost went out that door, for no good reason but a slim hope that might pan out of existence; just drop away in the muffled conglomeration of odd visions, dreams, and fancies that bare this frame out one night and into the next day.  After so long without understanding, without any sense of the justice of this existence, one is forced to confront that darkest of terrors, the beast of nothing, of uninformed chaos.  It's a circular tube with only one end open; look inside and see the finite of the reason, see that it extends only so far;  That, too, it shows only one side.  The inside.

          Clustered forms of white aloft,
                a fleshy existence, and soft,
          they break apart the day,
                into segmented blue, God, and grey.
          Once their was a bird clinging to this bough,
                during one hard gust of wind,
                isn't it odd that none is here now,
            when the shapes have opened.

5-18-93 Yeah, Good Idea.

Can't be letting that happen.  It's hard to get serious about it when I've got so much else to get serious about.  As everything slowly slips away, I seem to keep treading water, flailing about for no reason at all, no motion, no island, no safe shore.  I just don't know what to do anymore.  I never did.

       Everyone hopes for better than this,
       all scrambling for their ease or bliss,
       to some it seems to tumble down
          from nowhere, without a sound,
       'til it falls at their feet
       and they easily pick it up
       making the days somewhat sweet,
       while here on my bitter fruit I sup.

How much is a brain these days?  Less than you know.

5-16-93 First of Zero

The caller.  It was like talking to no one.  there was a person on the other end that I didn't know.  I couldn't ask.  So forget it.

Second section dealing with ideas of what's to come:  blank.  Open up a book. Fish out those tunes.  Ruttledge.  I just don't want to write now.  I'll perform a magic trick first; I'll take a break.

5-15-93 ZzzzzZ.

Powerful denizens of the dark, black, cocoa, pushing, pushing, and I felt like I could've lost it at any time, like anything could have flown apart.  I could have misplaced a leg, or an arm.  Anything as crazy as that was plausible last night.

I hope she didn't show.  If she did, I'm dead.  That's all there is to it.  That's not really all, but it's a good deal of it.  Good deal.  Don't don't, good deal me. Athena, grey-eyed goddess above all else, please, if I'm here, make the way like I might have spoken it once as so; a story I told neath a drought of my own self.  Those footsteps would be worthy ones, happy to a degree, and fulfilling to the gills.

           The chain hung low to the ground,
                the railing long gone with rust
           Some were awakened by the sound,
                as the lever to move was quickly thrust.
           Some sparks let fly,
                not one did try,
           to hold on tho that train.

Nothing now, nothing.

5-14-93 That's that.

Much better.  Aware of the cost, I can slide by on the tax.  All gone, every bit that I hated, any acknowledgement of what might have been a plus was submerged deep beneath the hate, the time lost, and something has to give, somewhere.  Sometime there may be a gate, a signpost saying where I enter. This is expressly the time that I don't care.  Remember the source, not the conduit.  Feed me.

Juice, juice.

Last night sounded good; we truly need the whole of the sum, lest we be done.  Where's those key members?  Help on the stray.  It's hard to sign up for some.   We need the key.  That.  The.  Then.  Hapless.  Victims.  Grotto. Bourgeoisie.  Hipnotists.  HA!

             One hand open to the wind,
               to the light and the sun,
             One hand closed to the opened,
               to the right and the one,
             Hand together with the rest
               opened to closure and you never guessed.

5-12-93 That was stupid.

Man, that was dumb.  The last bad circus, just to see how Wringling it could be.  Center circle, all of them, packed with whirling hounds and ladies dressed so dazzling that they become unreal, and I freak out.  I could have lost it all, I might have been trying.  I certainly don't believe that. Somewhere there's a P, after all of the Xs are gone, and I believe it will keep me going, alive, aware, and humble.

         Laura Palmer's disappeared.
         Some have said that they had feared
         foul play.
         I don't know anything about it,
         She was confusing, and a tester of wit,
         that day.
         At night she became dark with the sky.
         Yet I still do not know why
         I went over.
         It was the lightning that fused the will.
         If we were there, it'd be the lightning still
         that drove her.

That was painless.  Future question of the day.  When?

5-8-9-93 The Ecco of Whomever Spoke

So again the task, the stupid burden.  No one asks you to carry it but you.  No one takes any claims seriously, so why pretend to remember?  The only reason for writing like this is because it's good that the other didn't happen.  Why is it that only evil words denote the better of times.  Thank God it didn't mean anything.  That's not what I think.  That's not what She(they, her, you know) thinks, and it's not what They fuckin' think.  It's what thinks of us.  It's what.

       Opened like a brief shower,
       from out parted clouds bringing truth
       some in their foolishness may cower
       to what we walk openly to in youth
       of our mornings.
       Birds and lifting haze,
       Do you remember that one, certain gaze?

5-6-93 On to the Show.

Being from a background, composed as it was, of hyper-mobility and an appropriate mix of the absurd and irreal, he found himself on a road to nowhere; a void where everything that had been was now peeled back until its myriad faces receded so far into the gloom that their familiar features had also gone the way of bleak extinction.  It was new, it was something like nothing before.  However, everything before had also been very much like nothing before.  Only this present thing was like nothing before in the shape it took.  It was far too often unkind or uncomfortable, anything might turn to muddy-colored zero and just melt away, or possibly an aggregation of nothingness would just hang about, until it too crumbled and fled the scene.

Once he thought of it, once he had defined the beast, he understood that he disliked it a great deal, and the he much preferred those motional days of old. That's when he left for Belize.

But the trap was awaiting his return.

And he did come back.

What's he to do now?

Get up on the mountain and I call down My BearCat.

Cinco De Mayo Mil, Novecientos, Noventa y Tres

Bring on the bugs.  So who knows what's going on?  I don't.  Hoping for a lead soon.  Soon the end is near.  I've got to get right on it, no hanging, no slop. Either work or run.  No in between.  A goddess, a simple request.  Oh dream, pointer, light, beacon.  That's what she's like, the headmast on a beautiful boat bound for green, and full of fine bounty (cards), I need that ship.

      Blown off isles withdrawn,
      amidst blue-green cool of weather's dawn,
      I held out the truth
      only to be shrugged off like I
      had little to hold.

If only we all could see.  And it ain't just me.

5-2-93 Remind.

What an excellent day it was.  Some wonderful scenes and feelings. Meetings, the rendezvous of short dance, long glance, and quick chance. And don't forget the Turk, don't forget to tell everyone that he isn't going to kill anyone.  Don't forget the Wesser among men.  Don't forget the music or the courage or the fortitude.  Don't forget who you now may be.  Don't give it away.  See her tomorrow.

           After the bastion of hope had fallen,
           the cats began their high caterwaulin',
           and little Johnny returned home.
           When the sun again showed its face,
           it gave form to a misty place,
           amongst which someone lay alone.
           Don't forget the words, the air,
           or the pretty dance caller so fair,
           and always give in to that hypnotic drone,
                      of time escaping.

That's the word of the wize, bring it here.

5-1-2-93 Eclipt.

Don't fret about the trade, oh terror, being fleshed with a dominant pain. God, beautiful.  God, amazing.  Like music, I want to study, to know what it is that makes her so attractive.  Now I'm on the run, no hopes barred.  Help continue the idea of free dreams for the less, less, loess, and don't forget,
                                           

                 Bastion of heralds of time,
             don't hope for less than

4-28-93 The Archer of Nind.

Blurb.  Speak now, or forever holder cease.  This doesn't seem to be working too well.  Hmmm.  Let me see.  Questions, questions.  Damn, it seems like I have to waste a lot of time in waiting out the answers.  Someday the time will be all gone, and the questions long forgotten, and the answers long since devoured and ingested.  What's to be said in that end?  We tried?  Did we try rightly?  Where's the best path?  Will we ever know it?  Will we even know if it's been missed?

         A certain someone dropped by today,
         Now, please, don't ask me to give it away,
         They shared with me a secret phrase,
         that sent my soaked brain into an iron maze,
         and upon emerging, I found that gaze,
         that had sent me.  And now these days,
         I wait for what I've been allowed to,
         shared moments of warmth and desires true.

In the end, it all worked out different than when I first plunged and recoiled at the shadowed depths.

4-27-93 Afternoon.

I wish that none of it was real.  To awake and find it merely one, big internal mistake would be just fine.  The rope's end comes ever closer.  I feel like nothing, that I could kick back, and never feel the effects of my drop out.  I wish again, and my words don't cut it.  I mean, I really want this, this end, oblivion, rest, relaxation.  I've got to stop drinking, that's for taken.  Maybe it's the only way.  "Stretching out" whenever I can is not the best idea.  A little control, maybe more solace.  The people, they mislead me.  They tell me things that only confuse or involve me in realms I can't know.  Run away, Run away.  Bang.  Gun through the window.  What an end.

    Have yourself a merry little prance,
         about the eucalyptus and gyrate,
           past the shimmering pants,
         and don't forget to ask about my rate.

I want to crawl back in that bed/oblivion!!!!

4-25-93 Taste of the Awful.

Big dragon number one, bagged and tagged.  The lesser creatures crouch in the hollows of darkness and distance.  They pretend that the days aren't passing nearly as fast as I know them to be.  What would I say? one day, when long after my card's been played, and someone comes to me to ask why?  I'll stumble and fall for there is no reason in back thought, only the present.  I'm a hollow soul when I existed, as I exist, the world lives inside me.  Heaven and earth, matter and                          void.

     Frowning sweetly to himself,
     another torrent outside the small,
     oval window above that shelf,
     that held a flower so tall,
     that its stem perspired as it tried,
     to hold up what it can't hope,
     to really do, so it died.
     He grabbed again for the dope.

Don't ever forget that you don't know until you know it all.  You can't know it all.  Some try.

4-23-93 In the reflection lies a dream.

There happened to be a happy time, when some hopes were buried in contentment.  You couldn't even estimate the boundaries, they stretched far beyond those cast glances.  Every time the same thing turned over, a less close happening began to charge out the gates of today.  Don't forget who wants to say what.  The way they speak has nothing to do with their reality. Pause.

Comfort comes from hands, yet is not merely hand-made.  Handmaid. Methodological.

    Above the summit, the clouds held,
    a small denogration of a whispy meld,
    beneath which swarmed a crowd,
    hovering near brinkish, though constantly loud.
    The evening was far away,
    the sun reigned high,
    Amongst the peaks do play,
    and come forth to greet the sky.
                                          This guy.

4-22-93 Posh Dream.

Extreme again run my thoughts, one single path towards terror, unlike the real or any those hopes that care.  So long, small hopes, we're on the road to nonsdale, where anyone can be no one.  Take a pleasure wherever it may hide.  I need a drink.  Help.

    Toons of palace dreamt,
      Unlike breaths of darkest intent!
    Hop hope among tools of,
      motivations and cranes, dove,
      breaker, begot, best,
              tomorrow, Hide
            Hide, hide,

Amongst stalling, tempests tall, falling squat, teerror reset.