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.

8-10-93 Staredust

     Make way for the complex hero, one you think you might know.  But trust me, few really do.  Not even he himself can claim to possess a firm grasp of his own diluted psyche, which is pushed this way and that by his horrid emotions and waking dreams.

     Two days had gone by since the incident, and so twice he had awakened realizing that it could be any time.  But when the ceiling peeled back later in the day, he still screamed like it was never coming.

            Trapped by time,
              a familiar stint,
            Stopped on a dime,
              with a nine cent hint:
            don't let the lack of action
            make your actions lacking,
            turn all your least of moments to abstraction
            and send the doldrums packing.
            Bull
            Shit

I'm goin' away, I'm leaving tomorrow morning.  I'm goin, and I'm goin'.

8-8-8-9-93 Back to Front

     Megastasis was the opinion, the third sought thus far.  Again between the mumbo-jumbo jargon of the trade, the pronouncement was devastating, if not entirely alike to its predecessor.

     The casket was taken back to the interum, and there it sat for three terrible days, amidst clutter and less, a mournful statement of the times. Finally, on the seventh of that plodding month, the box was moved to its final physical locale.  The trumpet played an odd tune, odd in that it appeared ludicrous to those gathered.  Suddenly, a huge bang, and split-second flash,and the casket spread itself into a million tiny particles, flying outwards like a swarm of tiny insects, getting tinier, until they no longer existed to the eyes. It was always a shock, no matter how many times one may have seen it, regardless of stupid courage or tough skin.

8-6-93 It can be done.

     Sommersby's attitude has grown worse of late.  He's expecting bright happenings around every small corner.  He's broken from the group in his admission of happy philosophy and light heart.  He's astounded us in the extent of these fantasies, which stretch beyond ridiculousness to blatant insanity and avoidance of the real.  Since our situation remains unaltered, and we have yet to observe these "silver linings" that he promises, we are sure that if his delusions do not change, then he will have to be separated from the rest of us, if not merely for his own physical safety in the face of the angry retorts hurled his way of late, then for relative sanity to prevail among the majority.

                 There was a small hole

                      where the knob should have been,

                 within was a mole,

                      or, at least, his grubby skin.

8-5-93 Literal Literary Vacation

     As soon as it's over, there'll be one huge sigh of relaxation, tinged with stretched nerves and wide eyes, asleep to the world.  This, too, shall pass. Shaddup.

     The upholstered table was splashed with a black and white pattern combined with red and yellow dots.  The jade green lights glowed like spirits upon the surface, surrounded by odd condiments, and even odder silverware. The music was extremely quiet, all the more so because everyone present, right down to the bartender and front cook, were utterly silent.  The kicking beat and feel-good tunage made for background motion influence, and mild irritation after two whole minutes.

                We saw a cloud today
                   that took us to places of past and never,
                we couldn't look away
                   and now we fear 'twill last forever!

At the bottom of the page there was an odd script I could not read?

8-2-93 Rop Okra

Man, searching for philosophy now is tough.  Not spur-of-the-moment, not someone else's, but one of the views I can only remember as an event, though the phenomenon is less its content, void of that which I thought was so interesting at the time.

So do I carry a pen and paper wherever I go?  I'd dread the habit.  I do. Writing everything down.  It seems like a cheapening of the moment.  And how many close-following continuing events or thoughts are avoided by reaching for those tools?  But if writing is what I wish, then how can I avoid this necessity? Not of the habit, but the cheapening.

     Masterfully drawn, the picture stood
     at the back of the gallery flanked by wood
     and papers for the fire.
     The air was cold to the artist's desire,
     So, slowly the need for fuel
     causes a sorrowful demise
     all a clever tool,
     to invoke some priceless cries.

8-1-93 Now We See The Wire

Monkey Sea Monkey Doom.  Narcoleptic Superman.  Something Else.  Freeze Or Burn.

How to push thought to page, the question now standing between here and the bottom of said page.  Those words above inspired a great deal of activity about my brain, yet none of these words that follow are truly about any of that.  What they are about, though, is why.

Think of the problem here.  Some believe thought requires language, and cannot exist apart from that weight.  But if my thoughts at the aforementioned moment were, in fact, in existence, then the language's necessary cause is bull.

But it may be my own ability to relate the language of my thoughts to that of the word.  Or maybe I don't know.

          Every time someone comes
               up with an idea or two
          which combine the smallest of small of sums
               they cannot abide by the rule.

7-31-93 Planet Brainage

There was a sound coming from an odd location.  It bounced about the oddly angular hills surrounding the party, then descended towards what they still referred to as "the riverbed", thought what they had thus far encountered on their exploration consistently confounded all of their elementary beliefs of landscape, scientific law, and philosophical theory of all types, from all ages.

The sound was sharp at first, a pulsing of an odd tone, it seemed to have no beginning, no attack, it merely arose from silence and continued to a pitch near spine-tingling.  It repeated a good many times until continual silence inserted itself.

The the "rocks" began to shake themselves from the very surface of the ground, shifting about beneath the feet of the intrepid crew.  Large chunks flung themselves from the sharp sides of the embankment, and began falling about them, closer and more constant.  If it were to continue, none doubted, there would be no avoidance of death this day.

7-30-93 How Close

Just what is it that you want, please?  We've found something.  What?  A mistake?  We're not sure.  I don't think it's a mistake, I think it's something else.  What?

His eyes had been on the clock over the door, now they swiveled smoothly to lay in direct line with Mark's own vision, and he couldn't avoid reading exactly what was Implied.  Hal looked to the floor.  And then sighed to himself.

Mark's heart began to jar his panic into over gear, he was now aware that this person, and who knows how many others (didn't he say "We're"?), have finally stumbled in an impossible way, as to suddenly reveal that one thing he'd struggled so hard against the world to keep hidden.

Just tell me how.

Hal backed to the sealed, soundproof door, and place his hand on the latch. And with a click, he turned and left him alone.  Surprised.

7-29-93 The Mistaken

Cold Times are Ahead.  What's going on, X?  There is a man; now there is a man who will destroy the world.  He thinks very little, and when he does, he thinks of himself and his tiny glory, and how he will be infamous in the memories of a deceased planet.  This is what he thinks.  Who is it?  Who else? Your buddy, Z.  Damn it.  You've screwed us all.  May I say, that your country has done many things throughout the years, some great, some good, and most of them were fuck-ups.  That's all your damned country has ever done, it just keeps shitting along, and now you've screwed us all, you stupid son of a bitch. Now hold it, X.  Fuck you.  (Smokes the pipe)  Is that going to help anything? Is it?  (offers pipe) Would you like to see God before you die?  Last chance.

7-28-93 Swinger Reports.

The news from Eliza Jane, "Hello sorrow, goodbye trains."  Sweet devotion, lacking name, last emotion of the game.

Crackling shards were beginning their journey out, pushing into the air in a spinning path.  Minute and limitless in number they fanned from a central point, then began racing to form their own focus, some successfully tying in many, some two or one; others were slaves to the concave, or never stopped dividing, and, therefore, dissolving, from the eye's view.  That eye was, upon the initial impact and action of the glass, two feet away.  And as the seconds stood longer, the distance was tiny, indeed.

Behind him the fires had begun, much farther, over distant hills.  Yet the smoke was less than believable.  From anywhere seven hundred miles away, there was at least one odd cloud, stretching to obscurity in the bent rays of the sun.

7-27-93 Rolling Along

When the past keeps growing, adding bits of what was moments ago today, and the future hides amidst a seeming calm in action and situation, and the present just sits there, dull and stupid, plodding about and toying with trifles, then it is time to add something, for something to become real and energizing, for thoughts and actions to focus upon, to add jewels anew to all three frames, past, present, and future.

He toyed with the idea of going for a walk, but the humidity outside, the heat of the day, was foreboding in its powerful presence.  However, the house was not at all cool by any means, yet it became a comfort trap, where he once again fell into sleep and crazed dreams that entwined with the real world to give him initiative later that evening.

7-26-93 Another World Now

Something has changed a bit, what it may be is as mysterious as the weather. It may be that I'm finally able to overcome my odd narcolepsy for a time by brief napping in the face of death's younger brother.  Now I sleep and wake at times that have no bearing upon the eve or morn.  It is another monster, self-determined and alone.

      Black light came through the boughs,
        to touch unlighted ground
      to bring forth bright and glowing vows,
        and muffle them, unsound.
      Flames leap up this trunk,
        then another crackles its skin,
      often times the fire has thus drunk,
        yet will never hunger hence again.

Once an easily scaled edifice, the mountain had grown loose with the foot of many a human and beast, tromping to the peaks with nothing more in mind than doing just that, or, in the case of the animals, unbounded constraint.

7-24-93 Melonchasis

Once there was a humble stick-wielder who, when unabashed, attempted to gain honors with his balance.  Of course, no town or burb is sufficiently a town nor burb without its standard stick-wielder.  Yet one of unkeen balance was odd indeed.

Yesterday, the stick-wielder walked through Merthle's Things 'n' Studding, looking, quite frankly, for a wife.  Not just any wife, but his own.  And don't be confused into thinking that he would find her, for he wasn't betrothed. Not only that, but none were very fond of him.

What to do when the telephone rings and you aren't expecting a call?  Don't answer.  Sooner or later, all of those other important callers will call when you're waiting for another.  Remember:  The most important people are those on your mind.  Right now.

7-23-93 It Can't Get Anything but Worse Now

What a horrible ordeal.  To see a whole possibility flash away, slowly and tediously, every step a sad moment.  It can seem pithy when compared to other natural human disasters, but it is nonetheless shame-filled, piteous, and distressing.  It is quite possible that it will run an ever-widening circle of empowerment through dread; the thing itself will gain in volume and momentum, for that is the certain result of its occurrence.

No escape, day in and out, it keeps running, and sooner than later it will all break.

       Come see the damage done
       all those happiest days are won
         in dreams and heart alone.
       The lost hope, despair,
         it all climbs a heightening stair,
         'til its reality crashed down through bone.

This is not fun, not fun at all.

7-21-93 Sobeit.

After hours of furious concentration, I have finally done what I feared possible, I have reached a doorway to a place that does not exist in any sense. What I mean to say is that there is no existence there, none at all.  There is no life, no non-life, no sight or sense, no sending nor receiving of any information to the smallest degree.  And I cower now, thinking that if I perhaps fall in or slip away, there will be no return.  In fact, it would seem that this very doorway would no longer present itself to me.

      The Conversation
               "Was I suggesting something?"
               "Yes, it was clear."
               "What was it?"
               "I really couldn't say."
               "You weren't paying attention."
               "No."
               Bitch.

I'm back now, it was an odd exclusion but my toughest of cowards came to the head and spoke.

7-20-93 Next.

While sitting in my hovel, amidst the clutter of letters and transcripts in my study, which is also my bedroom, not to mention thinking space and listening area, I happened across a bauble of a blurb upon a page much ancient when compared with its companions, yet quite infant when considering how long it was before my mind and pen formed the statement.

"Longnecker Garden"

This was a puzzling line indeed.  What, of all that I was thinking in those rapid days, could coalesce in those two words?  Believe me, it was a long time that I took to shuffle around the dips and curves of my mind, searching for a little trigger, a connection, anything to bring me close to an answer.

Was it a title? and what for? a song or play or flickerer or poem or none even of these?  Finally I pulled myself to grips with an answer unavoidable, that this person who penned this dream was one whose mind I could never know again.

7-17-93 Ledge

Well, what now?  This world will roll and roll, while all about the chaos reigns. It's scary, disturbing, sad.  Why a window?  Why?  It's a bad trap, but hard to avoid, no matter how obvious it is, how alerted to it I may be.  Hard to get around.

     Images from across the globe,
     static movement along strobe,
     a person miles away
     placed in houses on display,
     no question as to how their feelings lay,
     they never come close to turning away.
     Along the electric highway
     the dreams and nightmares come,
     shocking the mind with extremes,
     leaving us despairing when done.

Maybe some have grown to accept it all, but who are they for doing so?  What have they given up or added on to their souls?

7-15-93

I finally reached a decision yesterday.  It seems that I am, indeed, haunted in my new abode.  The arrows all point in one direction, and I have never been one to mistake the way in which one may point.  It's the Conquistador, that I know.  And though it was I myself who placed the blazing red eyes in his velvet sockets, I feel another has invested them with meaning.  I just now found a doorway above the grate between the two walls.