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.