he doesn't care.
    kill them all.
    kill us all.
    death will come.
    you do not control it.
    you can create and perform the ritual, but death is what decides who to take and who to leave behind.
    but no one will be left behind.
    no one to remember the names.
    10,000 trees could fall and there would not be a sound.
    the balloon universe will fart away in a twisting looping crazy wall banging pattern as soon as we let go.
    no more.

    5/30
    and a blind eye.
    a gesture.
    rocking thrusting hips.
    the words spilled out as if broken.
    he picks a piece of one up, looks at it - it is not broken.
    it was precisely and finely cut apart by a surgeon.
    a doctored operation.
    mumbling from the room behind him.
    it's fake.
    once again.
    these people are cardboard as well.

    a box.
    a box which contains all the magick elements.
    a box which contains you and him.
    a box that is round and soft.
    a box that is composed of living pulsating flesh - blood flesh.
    a box that is an opening from dark to light - it is itself neither.
    there is no mystery here.
    we are surprised each time.

    an eating sore.
    your face.
    two little spark eyes buried in hideous sweat slime flesh.
    we act out of our dreams - our dreams come true.
    the force of habit.
    genetic data.
    we are who we were made to be.
    then we are given names and things to fight for.
    struggle for each breath as automatic as it might be.
    and this is old hat.
    and this has all been said before.
    no it hasn't, because now it is him saying it.
    he doesn't care how many thousand or million or however many have been on this path.
    this time it is him.
    he's never been here before.

    he can't stop.
    he watches it go by.
    it just all goes by.
    no one else seems interested.
    he can't stop.
    set adrift in time.
    it just all goes by.
    this is life as it is.
    no matter what everyone does or does not do, it just all goes by.
    up into the attic.
    down into the basement.
    out into the garage.
    a museum or a landfill.
    it just all goes by.

    and out of wonder.
    and the fool's dream.
    and the fool's dance though the fields on the 5th moon.
    we were wishing about something else when the sky fell.
    broken windows.
    webs from stars to stars.
    die with the sun.
    die looking straight ahead.
    die screaming.
    death walks by smiling, waddling with fat belly.
    death looks like anyone.
    death is a big spender.
    a night on the town.
    remembering what might have been once.
    remembering the names.
    falling.
    the dream twisted and turning around.
    it was a long day ago.

    being.
    in two.
    being.
    as one.
    through the heart bleeding.
    through each breath taken and given.

    6/3
    so thinking about all this whole mess here and there not knowing what to think or not.
    who is he fooling besides himself?
    the logic fails.
    the walls hold their place.
    where did it go wrong?
    or was it wrong from the beginning?
    or is it wrong?
    what's wrong about it?
    etc.

    zippy tick-tock.
    looking back down the line.
    what does he see but the ruin of despair?
    years in a cloud of confusion.
    like a dog choking at the end of a chain.
    he can't do any more.
    he can't do any less.
    it amounts to a big fat zero.
    just noise.
    he's had everything taken away and nothing given back.
    and he knows that we all come here with nothing and leave the same way.
    but in-between you gotta have something to get you from one to the other.
    but he's tired of pretending that things have meaning.
    he's tired of people turning away.

    6/4
    and so it's all the same.
    it doesn't matter what you do or don't do, it comes out just as messed up as ever.
    this is the big plan the gods have laid out to prove how stupid and human we are.
    the limits are set, though the solutions are obvious.
    we have been made blind and filled with strange passions we cannot control.
    heaven forbid that we should ever be able to figure it out and do it ourselves and tell god to take a hike to hell.
    imagine that.
    instead we're stuck in a game that's been stacked in favor of the almighty with our hands tied behind our backs.

    and so, at the end of all this mess what do we have but exactly a mess? z.q. dingbomb spoke to his refrigerator which he held open gazing from shelf to shelf for something to eat, a great big twisted fucking mess.
    what else di you expect? asked lefty, what have you done to make it turn out any different?
    z.q. slammed the door shut. there was a clinking sound of various condiment jars knocking together. i didn't do anything. what was i supposed to do? who am i? i don't know anything.
    well then quit complaining, lefty shrugged and fed herself another spoonful of fruity pebbles.
    z.q. watched the cat rolling on her back in some catnip. i'm not complaining. i'm just commenting. i don't know. maybe it's supposed to be this way. maybe there's something else going on that will surface later.
    you're always trying to see some deeper meaning in everything.
    are you saying that i should take this all at face value?
    lefty brought her empty bowl to the sink, not face value, just take it for what it is.
    and what if what it is has deeper meaning, as you call it?
    it's as deep as it is.
    i think this is getting rather vague. what i was getting at before was that i and my surroundings - the world as it were - do not jive. this is not where i belong.
    maybe not. but what are you going to do about it?
    there is nothing i can do about it.
    so why keep fighting it?
    it's just my nature, i guess. i just have an overwhelming feeling that this is supposed to be different somehow - or could be different.
    but it isn't. she squatted to pet the cat who was sitting in the center of the kitchen floor looking quite dazed.
    no kidding sherlock. but don't you see, it could be?
    how?
    i don't know. it just could be. and i don't mean just politically or economically, though those could be improved, but they're only the surface symptoms of something even more fundamentally wrong. something in the very nature of reality itself - in the fabrics of reality, if you will.
    you can't change reality.
    so we believe - but maybe the reason we can't change reality is because we believe we can't. after all, what is reality but what we perceive?
    maybe. so let's see you change it.
    i can't.
    so how can you expect anyone else to?
    i don't.
    so what are we talking about?
    i don't know. forget it. and he put on his jacket and left for parts unknown.
    lefty watched the car pull out and away. you know muskrat, she said to the cat, he's right, but i can't tell him that he is. he's got to figure it out for himself. but it's so frustrating to watch.

    and he drove around in circles and then came back.
    and he stepped through the box.
    as i was saying, he said opening the refrigerator again, i don't know what to do - or even what to think. i see it on too many different levels. i don't know which is real and which is fantasy. he closed the door again, more gently this time,  still finding nothing he wanted to eat. like what i was saying about the political and economic stuff. maybe that's where it is. in that case then any metaphysical, so to speak, ponderings are fantasy - the opiate of the people and all that. but if the metaphysical is where it's at then all the political and economic struggles are all part of the overall illusion.
    what about both? she asked with a smile.
    yeah, right - that too. or neither. it goes on and on and on. he sat down at the kitchen table. lefty was standing by the stove. what's what and who's who? and the big one - why?
    so we're back to what are you going to do about it?
    we're back to the same answer too. nothing. how do i know what to do if i don't know what to do? anything could be anything. what's right and what's wrong? i don't even know that.
    i think you do.
    well - yeah, i do. but is it only my personnel viewpoint of what's right and what's wrong? the nazis knew what was right and what was wrong. they were very certain about it.
    but they were wrong.
    not to themselves they weren't. whatever it was that made them think that way, that is the way they think and nothing could convince them otherwise, even losing the war. they thought they lost the war because the german people betrayed them or something like that. they weren't good enough for the new life the nazis were giving them and there's guys who still think that.
    but you're not a nazi.
    yes, but that doesn't make what i think is right or wrong or any truer than what they did. what makes me think the way i do? is it objective reasoning or just social environmental conditioning - or genetic?
    you have a mind. you can think.
    i have a mind that i haven't trusted since i can remember. my mind is not me. it's me as i am in this life - in this body - but it's not me as i am.
    but that's all you can be is what you are in this life. you may be something else otherwise but if you don't know what that is then you can't act on it.
    then i prefer not to act.
    then you cannot find fault in what happens.
    i can - because my not acting does not mean an end to action. there is something else that acts in my place - by default, sort of. that is what i blame.
    but you cannot control that.
    i don't want to control it. i just want it to leave me alone. it can do what it wants, just leave me out of it.

    later z.q. was sitting in his room which was on the east end of the house. he was a little drunk by then. he'd been to a gallery opening where there was champagne in overflowing abundance. and he still had not eaten. this was maybe because there were a lot of soldiers on the street.
    anyway, he was about to say something but he forgot what it was.
    then he remembered.
    yeah - i don't belong here, he said to himself. it's all nothing and nowhere - nowhere.

    sitting in a graveyard.
    death in life.
    noise on the radio.
    words.
    windows drawn.
    time passing.
    trying to think of something else.
    creation and destruction.
    destruction and creation.
    which?
    in this morning with people silent.
    the blinking eye.
    what set of mind is needed to be developed again?

    in and out of sphere.
    the darkness involved in shape.
    non-judgement.

    yes -how can god judge? z.q. asked the cat, to god how can anything be evil? we know evil because we are damaged by it because we are these mortal things. yet god cannot be damaged. i not only think that god cannot judge evil, but god cannot even recognize evil. all god can see is good. good and evil are concepts involved in one thing being against the other, which is rather common in this created universe. in fact it is the primary substance and motivator of the universe. and as god is all-encompassing and all things, as defined, then god cannot be with one and not be with the other. god does not win or lose in any situation as do we individual things do.
    and z.q. went on along this vein all afternoon, but the cat walked away.

    trying to come around to something new.
    unlock more of the doors.
    trying to find which of the doors to unlock.
    could go any way or the other by now.
    what is - what is not?
    this is something - or this is nothing.
    which is which?
    new or old phase.
    what is the direction?
    what is the shape?
    things to come.
    things that only go so far.
    trying to find ground to stand on - but the waves keep coming.
    the important affairs of the world.
    listening to the self.
    the waves and the tides of waves.
    trying to find zero.
    set the controls.
    dripping on the floor.
    waiting.

    6/7
    on the idea of physics and the mystical.
    omm... x=x... omm... x=x...
    on and on.
    looking through a telescope and seeing the back of one's head.
    meanwhile, there still isn't anything on tv.
    on hatred and love.
    is there really a difference?
    a slow dive on the radio long ago now.
    it has little or no meaning at this point.
    driving cars everywhere.
    what is this?

    6/9
    lifting from a head.
    the trick to include as many.
    zippy.
    zip.

    6/11
    life goes on despite the disintergrational process involved in its very structure.
    changing changelessness.
    are there questions and answers, or is it just sleight of hand?
    the hand of god dealing the deck top and bottom.
    shaking hand.
    shaking the hand.
    it's all real, but what does that mean?
    is there reality beyond the perception of reality?
    do you know what he means?
    something lost.
    or something found.
    he doesn't want to do anything.
    anything that he must do is put on him by others.
    what do they want of him?
    why do they have this need to control?
    they all talk of one purpose or another.
    he can see none.
    it's just control.
    control out of control.

    the airplane dives down into the quick jungle. there are many survivors. two are seen the next day where they mated by a mountain stream. a thick mist held back the rescuers traveling by foot led by natives who deserted them when their goddess told them it was time. now there are many lost though only a few want to be found. they will be the last to die. what can death bring that might be called horror? it can only bring itself - or the threat of itself.
    and here the artist stands before the thing twirling inside the thickening mist where the airplane dove around here somewhere. the natives scamper off behind some rocks and change back into their animal shapes. the party of rescuers were stopped suddenly aware of having been unaware of where they were going. they had depended upon people who had abilities they themselves had forgotten and lost. this was a very big mistake. but nonetheless it happens repeatedly over and over time and time again throughout human history.
    a clock somewhere was not keeping the accepted time. this may or may not be a significant event. this too must be determined by the mind of the beholder.

    6/12
    ongoing frustration.
    weeks.
    months.
    years.
    lifetimes.
    buried alive.
    bound and gagged.

    everyday monotone conversations.
    better to sit silent than the endless mindless chatter.
    silent in currents of thought.
    but we're too nervous to do that.
    gotta yak-yak.

    people do not spin but arrow straight ahead no matter what gets in their way.
    the narrow world they create in their wake.
    no room to move.
    no room to even think.
    gotta think straight or you'll be bouncing off the walls.
    what a life.
    what a way to go.

    bringing it along just as far as it can go.
    this is the limit in this world.
    nowhere to go but out - out of sight, out of mind.
    their money world does nothing for him.
    the treasures locked away tight.
    even the people who own them do get to see them.
    all the gold bricks sealed in thick walled vaults - enough to pave the streets of babylon.
    yet the wars go on.
    the innocent deaths.
    even the guilty deaths.
    the fear and the hunger while accountants tally the score in air-conditioned towers.
    when has it ever changed?
    when will it ever change?
    will he live to see the day?
    will his children?
    will his (if any) grand children?
    who will see the day?
    the day is in our hands.
    it is not the will of those above us, but our will enslaved.
    we are the ones who must decide that we've had enough.
    maybe after next payday.
    but these are only words.
    greater words than his have been written.
    who reads them?
    who learns?
    so who is he?
    what can he scribble down in these notebooks?
    and even if he could rent a million billboards and hours of radio and tv time and magazine and newspaper space, what would he say that would make a damn bit of difference?
    the power of greed is strong.
    once it grips it never lets go.
    even in death the hands still stay closed clutched tight.
    who has the power to let go?
    who has this power and will it be enough to turn us from our destructive paths?
    he thinks not.
    we are mere idiot human beasts designed by a god who is determined to teach us a lesson we will never forget.
    it's in our reach but we do not possess the will to touch it.

    and this goes on and on.
    day after day.
    the same.
    alone together.
    we are strangers to each other and ourselves.
    he is tired of waking up to this same old thing over and over.
    how does he get out of it?

    and this is what it is and what it was.
    what will it be?
    he sees nothing that will ever change it.
    he just hears talk talk.
    everybody thinks they have the right idea.
    the funny thing about it is that they do.
    but as long as we keep defining between us and them we'll never get it.
    until we realize that we all want the same thing and nobody's keeping it from us but ourselves.
    what can he say?
    he can see it and he's the biggest fool of them all.
    but we love to hide behind our symbols and flags and call each other the enemy.
    all the nations divided.
    the many names for the same god.
    and sometimes the fog lifts, or he lifts above the fog, and he can see the connections.
    sometimes.
    and the traps we've fallen into.
    we're beyond the ways of our ancestors.
    they've gotten us this far but it's time to let them go and all that business.
    the worship of leaders and heroes - and the tribal wars.
    we've risen above that except in our heads.
    our technology can paradise the whole damn world if we wanted - if we decided.
    but how to bring it about?
    we've about spent the possibilities on our individual conscious level.
    it's somewhere in the total mind both above and below.
    the mind we all share the same.
    the mind before the translation into all the this and that we get into.
    all beyond that.
    but how?

    and he can't think of a gosh darned thing.
    so what the heck is he doing here?
    he's useless.
    the world goes its merrie miserable way.
    what action does he choose?
    what action does he not choose?

    and once upon a time in an alternate world from this a man grabbed a young boy on his innocent way home from school. the man took the boy to a nearby field and beat the boy with a stick. he whipped him with his belt. he burned him with his cigarettes. he raped him repeatedly both anally and orally. he shat upon him and pissed on him. this went on all afternoon and into the evening - until and even after the boy was dead.
    the police came upon him doing this too late. they caught the man who didn't even try to get away but laughed all the way to where they locked him in jail. the people of the town hearing about this broke into the jail and overpowered the guards and killed the man before he could even be taken before a judge.
    now before you turn away in disgust let us just tell you that the young boy's name was adolph and he was to later take the name hitler if he'd grown to be a man.
    so why do either of these things need to happen?
    why do we need either of these things to happen?

    and there really is nothing much to be done but to wait. either the day will come or it won't. until it does, if it does, nothing has meaning whatsoever. it's just their games of greed and power. only that day can bring meaning to anything and everything in human history. without it we're nobody and nothing.
    he has no idea what he himself can do in any large or small degree. action or inaction? he chooses the latter. he leaves it to the others who are so wise and wonderful and have all the answers to this and that. yet he sees none of them agreeing on anything, even within their own divided factions. but who does he believe in when he cannot even believe in himself? he sees no rock to stand on and build upon. he sees no god that is more than imagination. no religion or philosophy that is more than gut reaction. no politics that isn't thinly veiled greed and power grabbing - and vengeance. he sees nothing that they think, say and do that is anything close to it at all.
    he only sees that day and will know when it is here.
    he won't be fooled again.

    but he thinks again as he always does - for what it's worth. is he missing something? is there a part of this that he has yet to understand (besides all of it)? something that will make him jump up and cry, that's it!
    there is nothing so far. he knows that most will call him a fool. this is why he is alone. they turn away from him. he cannot blame them. he has nothing to offer that they will accept. they cannot give into his terms nor he to theirs. so they remain strangers from each other. he does not belong to their world but he gets tangled up in it and cannot get free. he is connected to it physically and because of that he must obey them. but he does not do so of his own free will. he is drugged by his own body's needs and acts in a way he would not if he wasn't. his needs and desires are those of his body and its mind, not his. it is these he expresses. he can do nothing else. where does his true self lie? where can he touch it and know what it is and what he truly wants to do? he has yet to find it. perhaps it doesn't exist at all and he will live and die as he is.
    this is not him.
    he is not who he is.

    6/13
    just another day along the way with all the rest that have come this way and are to come. just another day with lawnmowers disturbing the afternoon air cutting down potential wild fields and forests. ugly people parking their cars in hot parking lots to go inside air-conditioned junkmarts. more broken down trash to buy today that will end up in a landfill. greasy cardboard food.
    and meanwhile here he sits empty-headed doing nothing which he has become fairly expert at as time goes on.
    just waiting.

    drifting through one dream to another.
    nowhere.
    faces with no names and names without faces - whatever that means.
    what chances are any of us willing to take?
    leap from the safe and warm into the dark and cold and hope you land somewhere.
    there's too many nightmares out there.
    too many people who haven't come back.
    he doesn't know.

    just another day of dreams.
    surrounded by this hideous reality that scrapes against his skin.
    he screams silent in pain.
    this is incredible.
    it goes on and on.
    no one sees it.
    they move through it like it was the most natural thing that could ever be.
    like it's supposed to be this way.
    like there is nothing terribly wrong.
    do they believe it?
    or are they only acting like he is acting?
    if so - how do we trust one another in order to stop?
    this lies so close to the surface.
    he can almost see it.
    but not enough to describe it.
    not with these words.
    it's incredible.
    it goes on and on.

    so he wastes his time sitting here writing these endless cycles of pondering whatnot.
    pacing the cage.
    there is not much else to do.
    he refuses to go alone with the game and whoever is controlling it.
    is it him?
    is he the god who keeps him down?
    he'll crack it yet.
    he's lost just about everyone and everything.
    that's the price he pays.
    is it worth it?
    or should he become another mr. nice guy and populate his life with empty images of people?
    could he then pretend it is something real?
    no - he knows what he wants.
    he'll know it when he sees it though there seems to be no way to describe it now to anyone else.
    and he can wait for it never to come.

    and it doesn't matter much what he writes or doesn't write.
    but he keeps trying to approach the wild thoughts butterflying in his brain.
    but when he does catch one, it dies.
    and he can only display another lifeless shell in his self-dialogue.
    empty words that can trigger nothing.
    he arranges them this way and that way trying to copy the way they appeared to him while still living in his head.
    it doesn't work.
    broken.
    alone.
    waiting.

    just nothing.
    just the dreams he cannot touch while the real world batters at his senses trying to get in.
    he's held out for this long but each day there is less and less to defend.
    and reasons for defending it become increasingly more vague.
    it was such a long time ago when he saw the dreams as being real.
    now they are shadows dying from lack of light.
    soon there will be nothing but dust.
    then not even that.
    the winds will blow it away taking from him what he was once given that he could not take care of and keep alive.
    and with that he will die.

    low level survival.
    surviving to another day when all you can do is to survive to another.
    and another.
    and another.
    and another.
    what is that?
    is that something to survive for?
    everything undercover.
    it never changes because no one ever comes out.
    everyone is just laying low underground - surviving.
    surviving for what?
    a few have opened the door and gone outside only to be shot down by the survival defense mechanisms.
    and everyone else proudly proclaims, see? we must just survive.
    we can't come out one at a time - this is true it seems.
    this only proves that we must all step out together at once.
    put it down.
    get naked together.

    and surviving from what?
    we survive from each of us trying to survive.
    we are each other's enemy as things stand now.
    each of us and each of our tribes seeing themselves as the true human beings.
    everyone and everything else can be and is sacrificed.
    surviving because we are surrounded.
    we survive until the time the others go away - die out.
    then we feel we can come out.
    but they're not going to go away because they're surviving until the others go away too.
    the others who are you.
    the others who are him.
    and this is life as we know it.
    trapped.
    alone together.
    and so?
    so what?

    just another useless dream again.
    trash.
    no escape.
    everything locked up tight in this bare essentials concrete world.
    survival rations.
    kill or be killed.
    dog eat dog.
    on and on.
    forever.
    ingrown logic that cannot attain escape velocity.
    black hole city sucking in everything it touches - even the light.
    don't let any light out.
    they'll see where you are and they'll get you.
    festering wound that grew over with thick skin before it was healed.
    inbred disease.

    and the darkness.
    the soul without light.
    this ugly hell world.
    give him one thing.
    give him one touch.
    turn him inside out with one glance.
    set him on fire that he may radiate like a sun.
    nothing.
    static on every band.
    he is still left abandoned.
    disconnected.
    he doesn't know who or what you are but he knows you're there.
    someone has to be there.
    there is something there.
    why can't you respond?
    how many times has he called you?
    how many moments have made up and continue to make up his life?
    that is how many times.
    he calls you with his being.
    he himself is the question.
    nothing.
    what cruelty is this?
    to be created and not to fulfill.
    nothing.
    the god who is too high and abstract to care.
    is that who you are?
    does it even know what it does?
    are we just sparks that fly off its raging fire having brief life before dying cold?
    or does this god watch idly amused by what it doesn't feel - cannot feel?
    nothing.

    he wants to see you but he does not see you.
    in him you have  your most delighted friend.
    how many others would keep on this long without a sign from you?
    he looks into the faces around him looking for you.
    who can explain their belief in terms of evidence that they must be insane?
    yet you are not moved.
    he has tried every approach he could think of.
    he has cried for you.
    he has cursed you and denied your existence.
    he has asked for your blessing but has even tried to attract your anger to prove to himself that you know he exists.
    maybe in that he has gone too far since it seems he has been damned with your absolute denial.
    and blah blah blah.
    nothing.
    he has tried opening himself up to any and all possibility of what you are as much as his limited human perception is able.
    but you are human too - so what's the deal?
    but so far you have been nowhere he has looked for you.
    nothing has come in that can be nothing else but you.
    he has tried to keep himself going with imagination, but that's getting real thin.
    the darkness around him is thick and he's running out of matches.
    where are you hiding here?
    are you as afraid of the dark as he is?
    or is it the light?
    nothing.

    so where does this leave him?
    where does he go and what does he do?
    he's getting tired of waiting.
    he wants magick coming out of his fingertips and songs coming out of his mouth.
    and all else.
    he wants to trigger or just even be part of a chain reaction that zaps through this dead world and brings it back to life and as life should be and can be.
    nothing.
    nothing.
    nothing.
    and there are those who say that things just don't go that way.
    life is life as life is.
    apparently they are right.
    but are they right because that is the way it is or because that is how we have made it?
    he doesn't know.
    do you know?
    it's hard to explain.

    somewhere like being home again yet some place we've never been before.
    up and down.
    lost and found.
    dreams that come true.
    a thousand thousand years.
    it's nonsense.
    it's pure fantasy.
    humbug.
    the never never is exactly that.
    we are stuck here in our place as mortal humans subject to the whims of gods or the random events of fate.
    and he's tired of it.
    but there is nothing he can do.
    life is life as life is.
    there is no metamorphosis chain reaction to be part of.
    no color.
    just black and white.
    but at least if this wanting could be taken away from him.
    if his eyes could be closed and he could be just another happy robot who thinks ain't life grand.
    put a beer in his hand and he'd be satisfied.

    in and out of phase.
    blinking.
    in and out of mind.
    on and off.
    downstream to the sea.
    the waves crashing eternally in orbit around the sun with the moon too.
    dreaming again and again.
    all a dream as a dream never was.
    do you know your name?
    do you possibly remember?
    do you know what it means?
    in one moment.
    a moment before another moment.
    now.
    waking.
    walking on a beach between here and there.
    remembering and forgetting.
    it is not as it was and is not as it will be.
    coming from and going to.

    and he gets nothing from any of this.
    he gets nothing from anything.
    he wants connection.
    he's gotten it before but it sparked out.
    back into the dark.
    that was long ago.
    he can barely remember.
    was it another lifetime?
    dreaming.
    dreamtime.
    believing and not believing.
    just life as life is.
    slow rain.
    death.
    hold the breath inside.

    all the time that wastes away.
    all the things that don't happen.
    all the dreams that never awaken.
    don't want to wake up anymore.
    just let him sleep through this nothingness.
    he just doesn't fit into their scheme of things to come.
    their endless schemes that just lead one to another without anything ever resolved.
    it just keeps getting thicker and deeper.
    you can wake him when they're done - if ever.
    or not if you don't want to.

    orange barrel acid rolling uphill downhill forever through his brain still.
    though there's many who deny the open dreams they saw once then.
    maybe he's a fool to still believe what his mind did once with a little push.
    call it what you want but he'll never forget.
    and all that jazz bop doo-wah and who cares?

    on the other side.
    on the far shore with distant winds.
    memory.
    eyes closed.
    a strange language spoken along with laughter.
    here we are.
    are we insane?
    do we care?
    the night no longer troubles us.
    we sit together in the moonlight waiting for the moment to come when we will be lifted away.
    we do not really believe this will happen but here we sit anyway.
    let the others call us names.
    we don't care.
    actually it is him.
    he sits here waiting alone.
    no one is fool enough to be here with him.
    their lives are busy with such important things they must do or die.
    and as long as this activity goes on the gods are amused and entertained.
    they see no reason to put an end to our petty struggles - death struggles.

    constant theme.
    endless imagining through the noise this world makes.
    he remains alone against their total nonsense.
    he does nothing, but by doing that he subtracts their number by one.
    warmakers, peacemakers - all babbling idiots feeding the machine.
    the big machine chewing everyone through its karmic maw.

    all dust.
    forget it.
    today will fade and be just another day.
    tomorrow we'll get up and it will the same as it has been for thousands of years.
    everybody fighting and grabbing what they can.
    no sense to any of it.
    until it just blows itself away.
    all dust.
    forget it.

    generation after generation thinking they got ahold of something new.
    it's just another cycle - another variation.
    nothing changes.
    it feeds on itself and grows from its feeding.
    the wheel turning in the void.
    and if there are gods or not gods it doesn't matter because it keeps on going forever on its own.

    it vanishes away.
    gone.
    a moment or two that make sense - that feel like something else might be happening.
    but then it all turns under again.
    tease.

    under the sky down on earth where the cities crash with people doing nothing. come back a thousand years from now and not seeing anything change. maybe the technology will be in a new phase but it will still be used for the same purpose keeping the powerful in power and everyone else down in the streets in a angry mob doing nothing.
    he writes about the same thing because he is faced with the same thing every day - the same wall. he wakes up to it every day. he is forced to cooperate with it the same way every day. when it changes or goes away he will write about something else - or stop writing and go out and play.
    there is so much but so little is given out and you have to pay over your soul for even that. what is wrong with these people who grab it all? what do they think they gain except the hatred of the many who have nothing? and the wars and the governments that are needed to keep them down and all the other life sucking dada.
    square eye looking into a space where once used to be where jesus was sitting at the right hand of god until he fell over being just a puppet after all. so we won't pause here much longer. but we would like you to notice the detail in the world around you at the moment now. looks very real and lifelike doesn't it? look at your hand moving. think of the biological physics involved in such a simple thing. now let's move on. there's more to come.
    he supposes the next stop is... where did he leave his umbrella? but he doesn't have an umbrella. is this a delaying tactic? what is he trying to delay? he watches his hand move. he takes no responsibility.  the fault lies beneath the table back when we had the time and the frame of mind for this sort of thing. now everything has to hurry up and mean something. cost effective or some neo-pop gibberish as that gibbering from the mouths set in the faces belonging to people who should know better. it was all an illusion - wasn't it?
    waiting for the groove.
    waiting for another wave.
    a song to dance to.

    6/14
    there is nothing real about this. it can cause pain, that's all, zimbo said for about the 2 millionth time this afternoon on the train to paris or wherever it was we were pretending we were going. we were passing all the trees and the houses. if it weren't for pain, he went on, we'd be free. it's pain that keeps us locked down to this damn rock of a place.
    so what?
    you can't live on that.
    shut it down.
    report for duty.
    you know what else is interesting? zimbo asked. no one said anything but that never stopped him in the past. well, with electricity, the male plugs into the female but it's the female that gives the power to the male. think about it.
    we did.
    so what?
    jesus de hell knelt in the aisle. he unzipped the conductor's pants and let the birds flutter out. they fluttered and banged inside the car awhile before we managed to shoo them out the windows where they were each hit by the 90mph wind passing which to the people we were passing was hot dead summer air.
    it was ten minutes until two o'clock in the afternoon of the last sunday of the month - though just what month that was none of us could quite remember nor gave a second thought. maybe this was a long time ago. maybe it was yesterday.
    but tomorrow is sunday, isn't it? zimbo asked.
    no - i believe today is sunday, jesus de hell answered getting back into his seat. and it's also ten minutes until two in the morning.
    i get so confused on trips like this, a voice moaned from the back. it was lucky sue. she was eating a lemon yogurt. she was a sour freak.
    and what next but a big fat ol' moon above and behind the lake we were now traveling along the shores of. what a perfectly errie scenic view. perhaps you can just imagine. we were glued to the windows. in jesus de hell's case this was literally true - paper bag and all. what a bad boy he is sometimes. the conductor came by again and took the opportunity to check jesus de hell's baggage, so to speak. the pane exploded into diamonds as jesus de hell's head jerked back as his body spasmed in the conductor's hands.

    and where we get to and where we don't get to. there is no set time. there is no set place. what is now? what is here? we were driving through the west hills where the 8-10 room houses are tastefully located. what a bunch of trash, exclaimed moo-ma from the back seat center. this is what i call a ghetto. we chuckled to ourselves. this was moo-ma in her true form if there ever was one. what do these people have? fucking nothing. they're dead. and i'm supposed to be drooling? this is what i'm supposed to strive for?
    you're just jealous, the reporter from newsweek said. he'd been with us for the past week or so saying he was doing a story about people like us - outcast subculture or something like that. he was so fbi that we decided to let him come around so we could keep our eyes on him.
    bullshit, moo-ma spat back, let me tell you, mr. yupster. i ain't jealous because i grew up in this kinda shit wasteland. i was spoon-fed this vacant existence until i was 16 - then i split. it took me a long time to detox that neurotic hide everything in a closet conditioning i was mind raped with my whole childhood. now i'm 32 and i'm just beginning to be able to put together a basic foundation of my own life that's based on some sort of reality. so don't tell me i'm fucking jealous.
    the newsweek guy shrugged his eyebrows.
    we drove on.

    and so it wasn't the first and it wasn't the last though it could be either or both.
    time is not as simple as most people suppose.
    down the drain.
    flush it.
    look into the mirror and see nothing.
    it better get better, he thought, but it doesn't.
    always been on the outside looking in - or the inside looking out.
    whichever.
    it's always someplace else.
    no one wants to be here.
    no matter what he does it's not what anyone else wants to do.
    and he's always the one who's wrong.
    the many and the one.

    so what difference does it make?
    remember.
    there's nothing left.
    darkness in full circle.

    fill in the details later. just keep pouring that concrete, lance baxter III shouted from his transit hotel window, 5th floor second window over left of the fire escape. he swallowed another lime kool-aid vodka from his tropicana coffee mug. this was the good life. youthful destruction. burn it to the ground while there's something to burn.

    square root bicycles jagged on main street.
    and a thousand years from now.
    bad radio.
    the theme.
    how does it feel?

    6/17
    to write down thoughts.
    but he doesn't know what his thoughts are.
    they're vague and shapeless.
    these attempts to put them down on paper are...
    he cannot think of a word.
    a million things firing off at once.
    each a brief bright spark then a pulsing after image, every color and tone a different meaning.
    and what is important about any one of them?
    why write down anything at all?
    does it relate to himself?
    does it relate to anyone else?

    purpose and direction.
    what and which?
    he has no ideas - do you?
    it's just here in dream city.
    he knows they laugh.
    there aren't enough worlds to conquer.
    but one time they will turn around and he will have them surrounded.
    either that or he will fade away to be remembered no more.
    he doesn't care which.
    whatever comes.

    no one knows their own name anymore.
    did they ever?
    or did they always think it was a joke.
    their world is what is the joke.
    and them taking it so seriously is funnier still.
    because they can rule thumbs up or thumbs down on anything and anyone they think they are in control.
    they don't seem to be able to see how controlled their control is.
    they react to such primal concerns on a low consciousness level.
    the hell with their iq intelligence - that's nothing.
    it is not the same.
    a machine may run efficiently but still be useless.
    the simple turns the complex.
    the complex turns the simple.
    this is the web we weave.
    as much as building and maintaining is so is the falling apart.
    this is where their system fails.
    they always try to gain the eternal without decay.

    and this is the dream.
    the dream of the dream.
    we are the dreamers.
    he is the dreamer.
    and what do we dream?
    do we dream of ourselves dreaming?
    does the dream continue?
    does the dream end?
    it's all twisted.
    we are deformed when we should be formless.

    they've got the power.
    they're not going to stop.
    they feed on the power.
    they can't stop.
    we can ask them and tell them but they will keep on.
    they think they own the world.
    they think it was given to them by god.
    god the power.

    it's zero -  whatever that means.
    it's us together on a level where it balances out.
    zero to infinity.
    zero equals infinity.

    and he can't quite grasp it.
    it's too changing.
    he should be able to think, speak and act.
    instead he is paralyzed.
    if only he could touch what he cannot reach.
    what is it?
    or is it just another dream?

    6/18
    under a tree.
    unsettled.
    restless.
    can't zero in.
    can't zero out.
    one thing pulls one away.
    one thing pushes another.
    and these are the things we have to do.
    no one wants to do them.
    but we do them anyway.
    nobody makes us do them but ourselves.

    it turns.
    he wants to turn with it.
    he wants to go with it wherever it goes.
    or does he?
    it turns.
    he wants to turn it.
    he wants to make it go wherever he wants it to go.
    or does he?
    it turns.
    he wants to turn.
    he wants to turn with it whichever way it turns.
    he wants to... he doesn't know.
    what is he saying?

    he realizes his selfishness.
    but denying that and surrendering to the whole is not the answer.
    it is the answer and not the answer.
    was there a question?
    he is too selfish to want to give up his selfishness.
    though he does not want that to harm others.
    it seems to him that there should be a way for everyone to be totally selfish with it being socially destructive.
    yes, he could devote his life to giving, but he just doesn't want to that's all.
    or something like that.
    he can't focus.
    he can't pull the vague elements into a solid construction of ideas.
    he just doesn't know.
    so it's the same thing day after day until the weather breaks and something shines through.
    nothing, nothing and nothing.
    what's the point?

    there is suffering so that there might be compassion, the priest said in reverent whispered voice.
    but the only reason we need compassion is because there is suffering! the quiz kid screamed and flailing her arms, head and legs, fuck the both of them!

    #2
    what did we do wrong?
    what flew by?
    #6
    the city is burning.
    i didn't know this.
    i thought i was myself.
    #x
    something else about a coo-coo.

    come one.
    come all.
    this is the time for all good people to come to the aid of their mother planet.
    but maybe not.
    all good things must come to an end.
    maybe this is one of them.
    another ending.
    the grand ending and exit.
    #33

    and the plan, he thinks, was to be there by now.
    we keep mucking about with cards up our sleeves and our hands in our pants.
    another slap stick scene.
    all the things we'll never get to be.
    you can see the disappointment on the children's faces.
    it's a sad time for one with expectations.
    a clock ticking down the time.
    alive in the mad dream.
    a scream - a real scream.
    he hopes everyone is enjoying this.
    he hates to think of all this mess going to waste.
    he doesn't know how he feels toward those who hope.
    at times he envies them.
    most times he feels sorry for them.
    but they set themselves up for it, don't they?
    there is no last minute play here.
    there is no calvary coming over the hill.
    jesus has fallen asleep at the wheel.
    so relax.
    this won't hurt a bit.
    and whether it does or not isn't going to stop it.
    the worst part is knowing beforehand that it is coming.

    listening to the basic mode.
    ear torn.
    the ground is hot.
    walk quietly now.
    so where does this lead us.
    stationary nomads.
    east and west.
    come down.
    the city is silent.
    the city has eyes.
    the city is packed for the big show.

    he fills with such sadness and sorrow.
    he takes up too much space yet he remains vacant.
    speaking lies.
    water.
    shout it.
    sit down and think about it again.
    it happened once.
    then again, maybe not.

    decay.
    one part is part of another.
    listen.
    eating.
    the worms celebrate.
    could we even know anything at all?
    could we get away with anything else?
    alive.
    event.
    self-wishing.

    forget it.
    do you want any of this?
    how long are you willing to play the fool's game?
    it slides underneath.

    break it down.
    and the basic problem isn't that he has too little money, it's that others have too much.
    he's doing ok - or he would be if he didn't have to carry their weight as well as his own.
    and what are you going to do about that, mr niceguy?
    huh?
    speak up.
    we can't hear you.
    this whole world going around and around - going no place.
    he would get off, but he isn't sure how he got on.
    so this is what all the excitement is about.
    he is very impressed.
    this must be it - the best of all possible worlds.
    otherwise, why would all these people be hanging around for?
    break it up.

    this is the way it was in the land it was.
    this is the zero hour for all that never happened.
    all we lost forever.
    and the rest we were stuck with in a world built out of walls.
    the grand unified theory of sameness.
    the waving flag surrealistically huge above the burger joint.
    uniform.
    conveyor belt paradise.
    and the profit flux margin and all that important stuff.

    around and around.
    the technology involved to constantly feed the system which feeds upon itself.
    sacrifice to keep from being eaten.
    take the town down and store it, suzie said between bites, we'll figure out what to do with it later.
    to know where it is and where it isn't.
    to lose control and forget the time and place.
    without thought.
    without a single piece of information.
    solid and vague.
    obstructive and intangible.
    what exactly is he up against?
    at times he can name each and every part of it and trace its history and project its future.
    then the shadows move and the form is camouflaged and concealed as is nothing were there at all.

    6/22
    and waiting and waiting for the end or the beginning or whatever and which comes first.
    it's one hierarchy or another.
    the pyramid maintains its shape throughout the revolutions.
    what difference does it make who is at the top?
    and the deadly game is part of the plan.
    we're supposed to cheer for one side or the other.
    but what about those who want no part of this at all?
    we are forced to attend the ritual anyway.
    then we'll be taken out and shot.

    the lies like dogs and you can't see the bark for the trees.
    and what does it matter now?
    if this is it, let it happen.
    he doesn't care.
    what is there in this world to care for?
    they've turned everything around so many times he can't tell which is what.
    everyone to him is strange.
    who knows who?
    so what is this all he sees?
    it is nothing.
    a void filled with noise.
    and this parasitic body attached to him causing a sensory spectrum of pain that forces him to acknowledge its existence.
    this existence that has no reason.
    he does nothing here.
    he learns nothing but hatred for all he sees.
    life is putrid decay.
    life is damnation.
    he never asked for life - not that he can remember.
    if he did, it was in ignorance of its misery.
    who in their right mind would ask for this?

    there is nothing here.
    each time he opens his eyes he is amazed that he is still surrounded by and attached to this idiot's dream.
    it doesn't get worse.
    it doesn't get better.
    it keeps going around and around.
    is he mad?
    he cannot speak of it.
    he cannot even think of it.
    no one hears him because they are part of what he is trying to describe.
    they smile and lie to him.
    they want him to join them happily in their insanity.
    he cannot.
    and they will not change.
    they have set themselves up as the majority and the majority rules all.
    his life is their life.
    he is allowed to do nothing but what pleases them.
    if he suggests anything different, he is called selfish.
    he understands nothing.
    his ignorance is a weight he cannot carry much longer.
    there is no one who has knowledge, except knowledge of the world and all its trappings.
    the ways of the world do not interest him.
    not even the ways out.
    the ways out only lead to extensions of this world.
    all the heavens and hells are only more worlds no different than this.
    another hierarchy with new rules and somebody else on top.

    and it's going over the peak.
    and it's a long way down on the other side.
    nobody thinks.
    they all react.
    and the rationale for it all.
    the talk and the double-talk.
    he can't think.
    it twists around out of his reach.
    so he waits.
    we wait.
    everything is set.
    us and them.
    there is nothing left to do except to decide which side you're going to be on.
    he sits in the middle.
    he sees no reason for any of this.
    but who is anyone to stop it?
    the forces line themselves up and are determined to destroy each other.
    they are too blind in their hatred to see that they are in complete agreement.
    don't try to tell them that.
    they've tasted the blood and are ready to kill.
    they claim the stars justify their actions.
    they point to the signs.
    they beat their chests.
    all are the enemy.
    all taken in like so many fools.
    the believers on one side are as insane as the believers on the other.
    there is nothing we can do to stop it.
    the forces are charged with their mission.
    and both are wrong.
    us and them are equally to blame.
    those who follow them are mindless puppets.
    we need neither.
    what have they done but turned us against ourselves?
    they are afraid to just leave us be.
    they fear what we may figure out for ourselves.
    so they keep screwing it in.
    they stir us around and around until we ourselves are insane.
    we are under their control because we can no longer offer resistance.
    they perform the last rites of their creation.
    and we are promised lies - golden future paradises.
    and on top of it all, they convince us that we are then ones responsible.
    they would need not do any of this except for the error of our ways.
    is this a joke, or what?

    and he could be anywhere.
    and he could be anyone.
    anything could be real.
    instead this is all that is.
    the world of horror and misery, everyday, everywhere.
    and time fades away.
    the time that wasn't time after all.
    and if we could get our hands untied from behind our backs and the gags out of our mouths we might be able to do something.
    but that would be too easy.

    look around at nothing.
    that is all there is to see.
    and those who are satisfied that this is all that could ever be.
    what else is there to do?
    we are nothing.
    who will listen to us when we do not even listen to ourselves.
    it's insane.
    or is he?
    and nothing still changes.
    the forest and the trees.

    6/24
    on the day of today and still nothing much happens at all.
    what does he expect?
    everything.
    but we all know about that.
    oh well.
    as some walls are breaking, others are being built.
    people shouting at one another over nothing.
    he just wants to sleep through this mess.
    let him know if and when it's ever over.
    he's not doing anything here.
    just one in a cast of billions.
    no one would notice if he slipped away.
    no battle would be lost or won.
    but, instead of sleeping, if he could wake up and wake others up.
    if he could be woken up.
    if they could be woken up.
    his head is heavy.
    he feels nothing.
    and all where could we be if we only knew better.
    but the distance comes down between us as we speak.

    6/26
    leaking.
    a flag leaking.
    voices singing liquid airplane drone knife edge.
    cat fit.
    leak.
    blank memory.
    money like crazy.
    mad happy swimming pools champagne burst machine gun jungle.
        death.
        rape.
        death.
        rape.
        death.
        rape.
        burial.
        isolation.
    leaking.
    talking whispers shadowed paneled office ghosts laughter star rank astute heels click florescent hallway buzz door shut.
    flag.
    asked to leave.
    very early.
    the decision had already been made.
    he suspects.
    in recognition.
    announced these facts.
    securing the documents.
    steps to secure the documents.
    there was a meeting.
    entirely in keeping with normal process.
    exiting the office.
    best and confident recollection.
    i think that, ah...
    criminal.
    examining the legal complications.
    get with me.
    come to learn.
    who is an expert in this area?
    on the phone.

    tomorrow click click.
    again the hallowed face of time winking in the morning light.
    on the front lawn.
    we think broken thoughts - not judging from one to the other.
    spinning.
    flip upside down.
    ready for the birth.
    jamming the radio.
    out of breath.
    breathe bad breath.
    we circulate.
    we improvise.
    is there life in this?
    steady development of awareness.
    confusion in faith.
    sureness in doubt.
    the blame is laid on those who have done nothing - who do nothing.
    just hang around.
    jamming the radio.
    no transmission here.
    no transmission - no reception.
    breath
    breathe.
    speak your noise.
    we circulate.
    we improvise.
    the high crime.
    they just hang around.
    jamming the radio.
    listen to the radio.
    listen to the daily reports.
    voices from far away shouting in our ear.
    the daily karma.
    the daily disease.
    we listen to the radio.
    we let the events filter through in and out.
    out in the sun.
    whispering nothing.
    out in the air.
    reflecting the radiation.
    will anything be known?
    or will it pass away?

    the script.
    thinking faster and faster toward nirvana.
    look at it.
    look again.
    look away.
    read through (blinking).
    this is the face worn by master control.
    this is the obvious trick and sham.
    play it out.
    we are master control.
    this is us speaking with ourselves.

    toward another end than yesterday.
    one more possibility.
    the bills unpaid.
    the flags not waved.
    flaming in thought.
    the circus is in town.
    without a clue as to who might want to... take another step.
    i'll drive, said wally. he was no one no one had seen before. we were forced to consider the underlying fact bearing his existence bar none.
    i don't think that was the point, sighed sue quick.
    i don't think the point is either one or the other, jack the mad painter interjected.
    billy, standing opposite across the room from them (and most everyone else who had turned up on this hot rainy night), seemed to want very badly to say something. his face squirmed.

    tonight in televisionland.
    what is being fed into the heads of the people he must face tomorrow?
    people who formulate the world that he must confront each day.
    his real world.
    their projected fantasies from the remote control images.
    any night in televisionland.
    out there in televisionland.
    out here in televisionland.
    what will they believe in tomorrow?
    what will they let by their sleeping conscious guard to attach itself to the primal gut and react?
    he remembers his nights in televisionland.
    he remembers the thoughts he found himself strangely thinking.
    the products he found his hand reaching for in the store with a jingle in his head.
    he left televisionland for parts unknown.

    in tomorrow city.
    tomorrow.
    he reads in the magazines about how clean it will be.
    shining.
    product.
    no one will need a name.
    everything will be just where everyone wants it.
    no one will know what anything is because it will be all brand new.
    one big surprise after another.
    in tomorrow city.
    yes.
    tomorrow.
    follow the crowd and you'll get there real soon.
    here it comes now.
    tomorrow.

    listening to a drumbeat.
    listening to one follow the other last one which was here a moment ago.
    where did he put it?
    he remembers a cloud driving by at 90mph.
        shake that thing.
        shake that thing.
    a death again crawling out the door where he saw the dentist describing about his new phone installation with 27 assistant channels to main feed his prospective clients toward unrealized expectations while he loses control with the machines he is forced to use and jumps the nearest vending invention downstairs where we were waiting.
    the nets.

    dark blood black and white dripping from her mouth.
    one more day to face it.
    one more day to realize nothing ever happens much anymore.
    we were young.
    we looked for victims.
    again.
    worms.
    digging in under the sidewalks.
        something clean.
        something to buy.
        something to watch on tv.
        something to lead us out of the valley.
        something to tip over the edge where it shatters and something else flies out back onto our face.

    6/26
    self-defense.
    the mandatory requirement for isolation.
    drown.
    beat down.
    say something you fool! she screamed into the intercom. the outer office had been dark for several days. this isn't easy, you know, she moaned pounding her fist on the first thing that moved.
    she was home.
    how long had she been here?
    how long had it been like this?
    had there been another way?
    she poured a cup of coffee she did not remember making.
    the tv was static on all channels.
    pure static.
    fresh.
    crisp.
    how long had it stopped changing?
    everything stopped changing.
    static.
    self-defense.
    the mandatory requirement for isolation.

    black on black.
    the forbidden darkness luring void where nothing can be everything.
    one eye open.
    one eye closed.
    speaking out names.
    sonar echoes.
    deep sea slow motion gestures of a diver to overcome the panic.
    wait - i had a dream like that once, dixie said to the clown.
    is this the dream? the clown asked as he pulled out a wallet and pulled out a photo and showed it to her.
    yes, that's it, she smiled at first then dropped her face into dead seriousness, this is also the dream. and she unfurled her wings in such a glorious way that the clown dropped his pants. she sang her way upward.
    white on white.

    6/27
    and, by golly gee whiz and how, i got something to say, the clown later said, put me on the satellites. i'll blow this whole scam. ain't nothing real about this flux - no way, dig?
    spin, span, spun.
    suzie sufi startled herself spontaneously in strategy somnambulistic states of stargazing.
    when it went.
    when it broke free and leaped for the sky. and the remnants fell to earth burning, yet the spore left the sphere.
    cats can curl themselves up into a singularity. that's why they disappear all the time, the clown quickly quipped with ad hoc wisdom.
    a singularity or a similarity? the bear asked.
    both, chuckled the clown - whose name was chuckles.
    yes - i see, the bear nodded also amused.
    how come? the clown asked, how come we're not coast to coast?
    let's get serious, said the bear growling, you really think they'd put you on?
    well, no - but why not? how come? the only time someone like me gets on is if they do a mass murder or something, or potshot someone important - like jesus in palestine.
    or bomb someplace, the bear agreed.
    yeah, the clown burped, it's like drilling holes into the ground. like a hole in the sky. like now. like a windy day. something is there. something gives. like a cat chewing its skin off.

    excuse me, said dr. darlene mcdivers, deep thought expert, author of how to enlighten the lower class and why society cannot function with an enlightened lower class, into the mike held to her left breast by the guy from media dome, but the love torn from the hearts against the will inspired by the tide's eternal anguish... sing a simple song and the world will surround you. scream confused and get lost in the crowd.
    needless to say none of that made it past the first edit.

    distance man.
    flying through delicate action sequences developed by the machine of history.
    the woman who survives the last call to reason.
    breaking the dimensions.
    silent gods look on while the birth proceeds.
    look out!
    you got a mutant on your hands, doctor!
    you may not know what's coming out - or do you?
    do you count on the mutation to sustain the balance?
    i cannot think that far, the doctor spoke, can you? and if you can, what are the limits for you beyond that?
    every moment and every point going one way or another.
    or another...
    i can't speak, the doctor coughed, i do not know the words.
    we do not speak.
    we bark like dogs up a stone tree.
    one place.
    one time.
    when our language is understood by ourselves.
    not one language, but one understanding of language.
    or something such as that.

    stay under.
    the evolution.
    the taking of form.
    the focusing of image.
    we know what we do not know.
    or.
    we do not know what we know.
    we struggle with both.

    6/29
    all the stages flipping and flopping, rolling and tumbling.
    a scarecrow as savior.
    a dairy as scripture.
    leaving the time and the place, yet never moving an eyelid.
    tricks up the sleeve.
    a horse as a cow.
    a rat as a pig.
    a bat as a chicken.
    are we amused?
    flame tongued.
    hard boiled brain raving idiot ranting wisdom.
    bang!
    hit them with it.
    they'll understand it if you just hit them with it.
    make them think they all think the same thing.
    seduction and rape.
    promise and denial.
    sweet talk melting dripping flowing from their darling lips - or is that foam and spittle?

    the birth.
    new world waiting our arrival into its arms.
    breathe with open arms.
    feel everything.
    sensation.
    inside and out.
    one circle of all circles.
    child in waiting.
    eyes closed as if in sleep.
    let us think.
    let us be among ourselves.
    call us back to the dream river waters.
    bring the cup to our parched lips.
    long have we been in the deserted lands far from where we were all along.
    let us only pick up the drum for dancing.
    let us quit the march.
    let us go ahead.
    child in wonder.

    tick tock shoe.
    easy rhythm.
    dance time - time dance.
    we are bodies of moments as much as atoms.
    and neither are all that real.
    what is really here and for how long.
    he sees a smile growing on your face.
    understand.
    shall we dance?

    what is needed with more words?
    more action?
    more anything?
    hasn't there been enough?
    but with each new generation come more fools who buy into the scam.
    this idea that we're almost to it - almost there.
    then we can rest.

    liquid time.
    flowing.
    in moments in and out of moments.
    on coming.
    on going.
    joy or sorrow.
    life or death.
    nothing stops.
    nothing starts.
    it's just here - all the time.
    as we were.
    as we are.
    as we will be.
    there is something more to this.
    something we cannot touch.
    the point of understanding beyond the point of reason.
    if we reach together.
    if we could say to one another what it is.
    anything.

    close.
    it's close.
    or is it?
    it seems so but...
    it's all wrapped up in this mystery symbolism dada.
    it could mean anything.
    and maybe that's the point.

    and the continuing saga of no one nowhere nothing.
    the eternal poem spoken in every breath ever taken by everyone.
    this mystery.
    the time is now.
    the place is here.
    he is himself.
    and it means nothing at all.
    and it means everything.
    the eternal poem spoken with every breath.
    imagination.
    mind as matter.
    understand.
    when?
    where?
    who?
    just wait.
    just waiting.
    all passes by and away.
    all a dream.

    the ways and shapes folding and unfolding of infinity in and out of itself alive and living.
    breathing.
    moist breath vapor over the tongue as we speak.
    we speak.
    we have spoken.
    we speak no more.
    did we understand?
    now all we have is memory.
    we are shadows in the broken light.
    we are the forms of memory.
    we remember each other from one moment to the next.
    this exists as memory.
    it happens as memory.

    kissing it all away.
    he is not missing anything.
    it is they who have cut themselves off from him.
    he sees what they do.
    they do not see him.
    they do not see him dancing.
    they do not hear him singing
    it is they who have cut themselves off from him.
    ding-dong.
    beep-beep.
    zippy-ha-ha.

    yes.
    a poem with x-rays.
    looking into the meaning with destructive vision.
    yes.
    how can he know you?
    how can he...