jesus in a hat tip-toe past the graveyard in the middle of the daylight. meanwhile he sits in a cafe. it is almost time to say good-bye. the darkness is folding itself inward toward the center zero thing or not thing. yadda-doo flakes tick-tock hummmm the time goes by. jesus without a hat skipping past the school yard in the middle of the night dark. opposites attracting. he wonders about wondering. why do we wonder? what is wondering? a strange word like all the strange words he uses to describe something he is not sure about. what is the line between reality and his imagination he has yet to discover? is there a line or only a fuzzy blur - a haze of gray?
    he is writing as he imagines himself writing as he writes about himself writing as if someone else were writing. who is he now? and at some point this comes to an end. he is waiting for that with a mix of fear and anticipation. he reads a book. he must keep himself amused. the writing doesn't do it much any more. the writing does not go anywhere. not much of anything goes anywhere. everything is a flat line. not much up. not much down. he watches it all go by. watching the people around him live their whatever lives. excited about this, disappointed about that. he writes about himself of what relates to himself. i, me, mine. me, myself and i. he looks into the mirror and sees himself looking out. he swirls around in the solipsist maze of mirrors spiral trying to avoid the oblivion of total feedback screaming in silence realization of nothing.

    3/26
    into certain kinds of development pursued at the expense of light drowning under the sea of earth rolling over. it is time to wake up again into the realization of being. how easy it is to forget. how easy it is to keep walking in one's sleep. how easy it is to not think of something like a spoon. the spoons are full of dancing matter and energy - or so the scientists tell us. he has not seen such a thing except on tv or read it in a book. however we can imagine
    there is the assumption. there is the disease. there are handsome soldiers. there are ugly beauty queens. here is the point of no return existing in space and time here and there, slow and fast or even backwards or sideways. it is as it is. he sits in the cafe dreaming about sitting in the cafe dreaming about himself in a maze of mirrors reflecting the same dream of dreaming past the point of no return.
    the shallow envelope exploding within one's mind turning this way and that way from itself. a shadow befalls the lonely - the abandoned. he is among friends in the end of what time has passed that he has left. the arrowhead point of the moment slicing through space and time. the mind on the verge of comprehension but cannot quite get the grip. reality is a slippery fish. reality is the sea never quite the same at any given moment apart from itself.
    a date written into the day. a moment here and now that becomes there and then. a spoon is a spoon. it always comes back to that. nothing else quite fits though the argument could be continued for longer than most have time for. yet there are those who would have the time and inclination to do so forthwith unbroken gypsy wagons.
    the delight that is caused while wondering upon dust in a window's sunlight. off lost in a dream dreaming of itself causing momentary awareness to be formed within. marks on the pages of a book into words one is thinking while one is sitting in this one place at a table in a cafe. all that has been long forgotten.
    and it could be the last.

8/13/87

    in this few linez it is too easy to become someone else - therefore what else?
    and what does it become when it becomes?
    and what could it become when it becomes?
        the radio is on.
        he is listening.
        he is hearing.
        he is waiting.
    he looks to see it coming.
    he looks to see it rise above.
    he looks to see its face.
        when the tide is turning.
        look at it come.
        and they say dreams don't come true.
        when a billion trillion minds have dreamed the same dream for so long.
    he smiles for the first time.
    he smiles again for the first time.
    he is here.
    he is seeing it happen.
    he thinks...

    try to fill it up.
    try to remember to fill it up.
    with light.
    with the light.
    come on, help him now.
    he needs your help so badly.
    he is this close - how can he fall?
    how can it fall?
    we all know it.
    we need your help too badly.
    try to fill it up.
    try to reach it.
    it's not that far now - even with everyone turned against it.
    put it together.
    each of us has a piece.

    being.
    into being.
    into this.
    this is it.
    the song is being singing.
    into vanishing.
    being gone.
    into within and without.
    what do you say?

    8/15
    and so it is as it is.
    and it is not as it is not.
    no one knows why.
    the turning.
    the worming.
    the birth of new things.
    the sharp edge that cuts through deception and illusion.
    the eye that sees everything.
    the mouth that speaks of everything with kisses inside and out.

    we were torn between these things at one time.
    now these things are being torn between us.
    we are falling on one side or the other.
    our daily lives are becoming divided.
    our ways are not the ways of others.
    there is no more wisdom. there is only now opinion and theory.
    and this is as it should be.
    how else does growth occur?

    outside this world connected to other worlds.
    inside this world connected to ourselves.
    it's hard to let go.
    it's hard to see ahead mixed with hope and doubt.
    life from one day to another.
    a spider's web.
    from heaven and hell.
    listening to this world.
    what does it say?
    and whatever else there is or not.
    is it too soon to tell?
    what else needs to be written?
    what else needs to be done?

    and so this is it.
    it is told that we are now moving toward the threshold.
    will it be as in the past?
    will it be a threshold to nowhere but the same place we've been before and always?
    what will be different this time?
    what more needs to be done?
    a thousand hopes.
    a thousand doubts.
    and who decides the direction?
    is it the ones who are willing to live?
    or is it the ones who are willing to die?
    and can it still fail?
    our failure plunging us into the forever darkness again at the push of a button.
    our struggle toward the light extinguished as it almost reaches its goal.

    the shape in death.
    death being only what it is while we paint faces on the formless void.
    while we design spaceships in our myth of escape.
    the point is death and what death is.
    no more, no less.
    as we seek to live forever.
    the eternal denial of death without knowing what it is.

    circling in orbit without a thought about yesterday or tomorrow or even today.
    time in no time.
    eyes in an unfocused stare toward the ever-present infinity surrounding the point of existence.
    this is the dream we have forgotten - or something as that.
    he is the fool who tries to remember searching through the pieces.
    none of it goes together.
    this is the dream we have so easily forgotten.
    he is tired of writing about things he cannot see.
    he'd rather see them and be so struck that he cannot lift his pen or even remember what his pen is...
    it all changes and doesn't change.
    it is already whatever it is to become.
    so what does it matter?
    so what difference does it make?

    the one song we want to sing but cannot remember the words.
    dance in the fire - in the center of the light.
    we surrender ourselves to ourselves in the moment.
    under heaven.
    over hell.

    hard minimum concurrence juxtaposing the sacrifice into and across the wide open wilderness thought at one time to be confused.
    who?
    when?
    how?
    sit back and do nothing.
    or
    sit up and take notice.
    stand up.
    speak out.
    this is it.
    whatever you do or do not wish to believe.
    this it.
    take one and leave the other.
    or take all.
    or leave all.
    this is it.
    or take none.
    or leave none.
    whisper among your friends.
    or
    shout loud and long.
    but let the others know.
    this is it.
    this is it.
    this is it.
    ain't nothing else.
    and while thinking about nothing else.
    and while doing this and that.
    and while whatever else.
    this is it.
    this is it.
    this is it and 1/2.

    8/17
    so is something happening?
    the dividing line.
    the beginning.
    the falling dice.
    the open heart.
    the cutting light.
    bring it on.
    how and when?
    as we shift.
    the higher light beaming in.
    or just more words?
    or just another disguise?

    thinking about what may or may not be important.
    thinking about things he cannot think about.
    flying away.
    the connections.
    into the light out of the dark.
    what will we see?
    dreaming away.
    how much time is left?
    listening and not hearing.

    and into all things and manner of things.
    what we see and what we do not see.
    what we believe and what we do not believe.
    what we doubt and what we do not doubt.
    we never know the ways of the gods - or do we now?
    we imagine what the gods are.
    we are surrounded by mystery no matter how much we ignore it or pretend we know what is happening.
    we have explained only the surface.
    as it goes on - as the manner of things go on.

    lay down.
    lay it down.
    what will be will be.
    who are any of us to stop even if we could?
    we will either be raised up or be buried under.
    lay down.
    lay it down.

    and leaning ever-onward through the shadows.
    the wintered heart waiting for the spring.
    not knowing what is or what is not.
    not knowing who is telling truth and who is telling lies - or when.
    all the money in the world can do nothing.
    just digging a grave.
    so what becomes now?

    the distance.
    the forever distance.
    even between each particle of matter - the non-existent particles of matter.
    he looks at you.
    you look at him.
    what does one see in the other?
    so we avoid looking at one another.
    the storm is raging and we say nothing.
    and this goes on and on.
    the forever distance.

    candle light night.
    slow breathing.
    thoughts are full yet still quite unclear as to their intentions.
    this is how it was.
    this is how it is.

    from a star to a star.
    light trading with light.
    what do the stars think?
    do they think?
    or is thinking only a disease of ours?
    the stars know.
    what do the stars know?
    and are they telling us?
    will we be like they are? - radiating fiery spheres?
    or are stars nothing like everything else? - just there.

    formless shapeless motion.
    breeding.
    being one, then the other.
    never knowing.
    moments of a day.
    a day as long as it is.
    then it is gone.
    no more.
    a day being just another moment of memory.
    waiting.
    now and again.
    earth turning around and around.
    what a ride!
    pointless but exciting.
    just something to keep us from falling asleep forever.
    someone is always awake.
    just go away.
    it was sort of fun but not the sort of thing he was interested in.
    the mystery of how it will all turn out is rather intriguing but he could live without so much suspense.
    he just wants to dream.
    just go away.

    he wants to break it apart.
    split it up so wide open and into so many pieces that it snows over the whole earth and gets in everyone's hair.
    and they laugh.
    and they get up and walk.
    and they can see and hear.
    and they forget.
    and they remember.
    and they live as happily ever after as they want to - not as they've been taught to want to.
        - not as they've been conditioned to want to.
        - not as they've been denied to want to.
        - not as they've been advertised to want to.
        - not as they've paid to want to.
    as they really want to.

    snap!
    and he's here again.
    and dreams are dreams.
    and reality is reality.
    we must remember that.
    big trouble.
    we must always remember that.

    so how does it all come down?
    so many walls around so many people for so many years.
    this isn't what any of us want, is it?
    we cry that we are so lonely.
    it's some sort of combination of all wishes and desires tangled up together.
    locked in.
    concrete.
    as it is.
    so everyone wonders what's going on.
    whose world is this?
    who does it really benefit?
    it cannot respond to all the commands we give it without knowing.
    and we'll be damned if we'll change - nor should we.
    we are gods after all.

    losing the name of god.
    losing your mind in some ordinary place - your own home.
    it being very ordinary turns weird and green and breathes threatening.
    a mask.
    a nose in the doorway.
    a footprint on the bed sheets.
    distant laughter.
    imaginary drumbeat.
    spooky refrigerator.
    and it's all so bright like acid - bright with darkness looming.
    everything you've never seen before.
    losing the name of god.

    but we are these fleeting moments.
    no time for ourselves let alone each other.
    how many have died this way in love with dreams?
    we let vanish what refuses to appear.
    we deny what could be to try to gain a scrap of what is.
    usually we lose both.

    so he writes another poem to you.
    it's not a very good poem.
    he's not a very good poet.
    it's just one of many others.
    like another cigarette or another cup of coffee.
    or another day.
    one moment inspired.
    another moment realizing inspiration means nothing.
    so, words are words.
    one writes them.
    another reads them - or not.
    ink on paper.
    compulsive scratchings by a pen in hand responding to but being unable to follow leaping thoughts and feelings.
    he writes a poem to you.
    at least he can pretend you'll read it.

    all love, peace and happiness.
    wherever it goes.
    gently down the stream.
    over the edge.
    to hell in a hand basket.

    8/19
    and it's too much down and down maybe soon to hit the bottom and start back up again.
    or will it?
    or go boom.
    or go fizzle.
    target zero.
    and where are we now?
    and who are we now?
    and what do we do?
    all the simple lies.
    target minus zero.
    the struggle continues.
    we are where we stand our ground before we run away screaming.

    8/21
    moving from night to night as the days pass as gray fog.
    time is not time.
    he is not himself.
    impostor.
    so what is happening?
    how many people stop to think or stop to think for very long?

    8/22
    listening to the door.
    the colored imagination bending through the cracks.
    the door refuses to open.
    but it is not locked.
    or is it?
    or is he?
    he doesn't even know if he's try ing to get in or out.

    eating thought around edges inside circles each time smaller or even larger than the ones before and standing out on the beach where we see ourselves and each other with crystal hearts.
    we have been here before.
    we have been here forever.
    the time.
    the time after that time.
    and the time after that time.
    as the same time.

    and where are we now as phantoms of this light reflecting on ripples of a great lake that is only a droplet in the eye of frog.
    the foolish laugh - the wise scorn.
    or the foolish scorn - the wise laugh.
    rarely do they do the same thing together.
    the prison camps are full of people laughing and scorning all day long into the night while dogs bark in the dark.

    8/24
    over and over.
    thoughts turning.
    going nowhere.
    slipping and sliding.
   fish.
    and sometimes just wondering when there is nothing and everything to wonder about.
    it is or it is not.
    snot.
    connecting and discovering through various spectrums of whatever whatnot.
    mumbling about this and that.

    how can anything be transferred?
    god and humanity.
    how does it go through all the space between?
    do we leap up, or does it reach down?
    the earth keeps turning and rolling toward - what?
    spider web universe with everything pulling on something else.
    and we sit in the middle and theorize a zillion ideas and zebras at once with our billions of minds.
    one would think someone would think of something.
    yet it remains as much a mystery as when we traded stories around fires in the dark.
    do we know anything?
    we can pretend knowledge that is swept away in a moment.

    8/25
    and to awaken now.
    and to open our eyes.
    and you just don't stop.
    nothing stops.
    in and out.
    zap!
    and then to think in non-stop spinning in circles.

    all in a can.
    your life in a can.
    can it.
    hard shell exterior with inside soft mushy goo.
    you drip into a can.
    packed sealed tight.
    all in a can.

    8/27
    it's all as it was and is.
    it's around here somewhere.
    conductive.
    conducting.
    with the way things are happening.
    side-wise.
    up and over.
    sending signals.
    reaching whatever comes.

    and when the every way and which goes spinning around and off.
    and here we are looking up at the stars when we should be looking through the mirrors.
    it's only an idea.
    it's mixed up.
    who are we?
    turned into one another.
    turned on one another.
    scattered.
    linear identity.
    that's not who we are who we try to maintain.
    it's mixed up.
    we are identified as friend or foe.
    kill or be killed.
    when we should be looking through the mirror images of each other as ourselves.
    every face has a nose.

    and many kinds of death.
    the death of life.
    the death of the heart.
    the death of the mind.
    the death of the soul.
    the death of a toe nail.
    the death without dying.
    walking through the day today.
    the world of death centered on death.
    kill it.
    make it the same as it was.
    make it how it should be.
    don't let it change.
    we are all guilty of murder.
    we all have blood on our hands and faces - the taste of blood on our tongues as we speak.
    how are we to gain eternal life if our vision of life is death?
    static.
    concrete.
    death.

    8/28
    and what do we want?
    do we know what we want? - or do we let it fall by default where it will?
    the pursuit of wealth - the carrot on the end of a stick dangling.
    but if you're lucky and innovative enough you can get to ride in the wagon and hold the stick.
    is that all we want?
    is that all we can ask for - to be king of the hill for as long as we can maintain our position against the hordes?
    is there something else?
    is there something more?

    and to sit under the shade of a tree and getting stoned and writing love poems for everyone who walks by.
    and he could write one for you.
    but he's a slave to the war machine.
    he pushes the buttons and pulls the levers.

??/??/?? - (undated)

    to begin it somewhere. to begin something somewhere at sometime which this begins here and now though what is here and now? and what is this? but before we get into that - and it might be that we don't get into it at all - let us tell you this story about there's this cute little bunny hopping along down this trail one day and it comes across this other cute little bunny just kinda sitting there when the first bunny stops and asks, you wanna fuck? and the other bunny says, what are we waiting for? and so the two of them go at it right then and there. and that 's that for that story or at least that part of the story which we might tell you other parts of as this continues as it seems to do though we suppose it could end at any given moment though it doesn't need to though maybe it should though so far it hasn't though it always is in the process of ending but we really don't need to get into that right now but go on writing about something else which we haven't thought of what it is yet but we will maybe in a moment or two or maybe we won't or maybe we already have since we are still writing though we aren't really writing about much of anything except about just writing but what is anything we might write about that is anything? what should we be writing that would be something we should be writing about? which would mean that what we are writing about isn't something we should be writing about. maybe we should begin this again. but we've begun it so many times before what seems forever and what usually happens is that he gets up and goes out to some cafe or another to get coffee and sits down and takes out his notebook and starts writing and writes page after page of whatever he happens to think of to write about which he continues doing for most of the day when someone isn't bothering him by talking to him or he stops to read for awhile as he moves to one cafe after another and maybe sometimes a bar until he gets home and goes to sleep and the next day starts all over again which may seem meaningless and pointless but so what - you  know? what is anyone else doing? but if someone is actually reading this then we should take more care and responsibility and not just write whatever nonsense we might want to write to amuse ourselves as this we find to be quite amusing - but we are probably the only ones. but that is easier said than done because it would seem that most anything we might write is quite meaningless and pointless except maybe about those two cute bunnies but how long can one write about fucking bunnies? but maybe we shouldn't let this bother us that that seems to be all we are able to write because what is ever really written by anyone that isn't or can't be judged to be meaningless and pointless? does it bother you? but let's not dwell on that any longer than we need to and maybe probably shouldn't have even brought it up to begin with because if anything is meaningless and pointless it's going to be writing about how meaningless and pointless something is even though the whole universe is meaningless and pointless if one thinks about it and seems to be the dilemma of our modern age that we have discovered that and quit believing in a bunch of hoo-dah otherwise that used to give our lives meaning and a point to our existence that has all gone up in smoke and mirrors. but what is the big deal with things being meaningless and pointless? everybody seems to be so worried about it and we're surrounded by all these people who are doing things that are supposedly not meaningless and pointless and they are always kinda looking at us like we're dog shit or something because we're not as rabid about whatever as they are but it all comes down to them being nothing but a bunch of greedy pigs and what is so not meaningless and pointless as that? but that's not really it. that's the easy part of this and is not really what this is about at all. it's just the surface. they are just the surface. but the surface is what most people are concerned about. stories about fucking bunnies or whatever else about the meaninglessness and pointlessness of everything and about how greedy everyone is and on and on like that is about as far as it goes if that is all that they expect and is all that they get. but maybe that really isn't true. and maybe everything isn't as meaningless and pointless as all of that. and maybe we don't know what we're going on about. maybe there's more. but what else is being transmitted either here or anywhere else? what are we getting at - if anything? or maybe we should just crawl off into a hole somewhere and die like most of them would want us to as we seem to serve no useful function. unless there's something else that we haven't quite gotten to yet with all our fooling around with this nonsense that may not seem to be anything but may turn out to be something quite important in the long run. or maybe not.  it's just something in the way for now. because maybe there's more and maybe there isn't. and let us now say that there probably isn't and that there most probably isn't any very good reason for you to continue to keep reading this any more than there is for us to keep writing it except for all of us to take up space and time but one never knows. maybe we don't even know. don't you have a job or a party to go to or something? don't you have somebody to go fuck? go away. go crawl off into some hole somewhere and die. we have nothing for you. what could we possibly write that you wouldn't find as meaningless and pointless as you find everything else? just this on and on day after meaningless and pointless day forever and ever unless one turns oneself into another robot like all these others and march around as if there is some meaning and some point to what they're doing otherwise you're dog shit like we are and blah blah blah and doo-wah-ditty and are you still reading this? haven't you given up by now? you should. and so should we. but we haven't and maybe there's a good reason why we haven't and maybe there isn't. and maybe we'll tell you and maybe we won't. and maybe we can tell you and maybe we can't. and maybe we should and maybe we shouldn't. can you be trusted? and maybe we have already been telling you and maybe you missed it. and what the fuck are we who are everybody's dog shit gonna write in some fucking notebook that isn't going to be meaningless and pointless? can you imagine? what do you imagine? do you even know what you imagine? - and not what you've been told to imagine, but what you really do imagine. imagine that. and have we gone on about this long enough? weren't we going to tell you a story or something that is more than just about two fucking rabbits? maybe some kind of dreamtime thing of whatever nevermind and light another cigarette - and learn to forget. maybe something that comes and goes on and on, in and out, open and closed in a moment divided against itself as it is it and it is this and it is that and something else and elsewhere here and now and we remind you that a spoon is a spoon unless it is a hat because a hat is a hat and all the other tricks up our sleeves because this is the only way we can tell you anything about anything that maybe isn't meaningless and pointless but it's not that it isn't meaningless and pointless but it is something that has no relation to anything meaningless and pointless or not or even to meaninglessness and pointlessness themselves which probably doesn't make much sense but it doesn't have anything to do with things making sense either or not. at least that's the theory. and whatever story we are or are not telling you or whatever is actually only about explaining the theory which also in its own way is explaining the story and whatever hoopla on and on like that which doesn't really probably have too much to with anything as far as you may or may not be concerned but also - never mind that. and maybe it's something like a poem about the sun shining and the flowers blooming or about some nameless bum drunk face down in his own vomit behind some overflowing dumpster or about wheels turning or whatever else is real in this world of make believe. and about some insect-looking aliens from some other spacetime thing or another controlling our fate and endless stories about victims and villains and heroes coming to save the day and the fools dancing away from it all to gain and lose everything and nothing. and it's whatever you want and it's whatever you need and it's none of the above. and all the songs ever and never sung. and it doesn't matter what zero dada and jump up and down and anybody can pick up a stick and hit somebody over the head. and anybody can make you dance but how many can make you move? and one of the main things about explaining anything about anything about the theory is that there is nothing about the theory that can be explained because there really isn't a theory to explain because there is only the idea of the theory that is sort of like a theory or not. that's the theory anyway. while it also might be that the thing about explaining anything about the theory is that it's not so much that there isn't a theory but that there doesn't need to be a theory. but actually neither of those explanations is the case. but it is something else, but it is also not that either - or else it doesn't need to be. and then there's everything about explaining the theory and understanding the theory. and most of everything about that may have been lost or burned or stolen or thrown away or didn't even exist to begin with. and the part of the story that explains this is maybe the part about ralph - which is not his real name, nor is his real name wayland smith, nor is his real name his real name. his name is sometimes to be said to be legion but that's pretty much something that we just made up. or maybe not. and ralph lived on a farm. but actually ralph didn't know whether he lived on a farm or not. he remembered living on a farm as he remembered other things he remembered. everything for him was becoming a memory of experience rather than the experience itself and he didn't know which of his memories he was making up or not, including this one. and he lived on this farm with his twin sister, louie. but no one but ralph believed he had a twin sister including his mother. his mother told him he was crazy and refused to talk about it. but his mother was dead now so it didn't matter. and he may have remembered that he was in this cafe writing in notebooks hanging out for most of the day since he didn't have a job any more, nor did he need a job any more. he was free of that business. and back on the farm he told louie about this and she said not to worry about it though there was a possibility that she was actually one of the insect-looking aliens from another reality dimension or something. and also then she turned into a mole and scurried out the back door into a hole in the ground which she had been doing for about a week or so. that was if ralph had been at the farm for that long and he wasn't so sure and though he was sure that people didn't usually turn into moles but maybe louie wasn't really a person because when she turned into a mole he couldn't exactly remember what she had looked like before and kind of remembered her looking like a teacup or the toaster as much as anything else. but was any of that actually happening? was he even ralph or had he become confused somewhere along the way. and which way was it along which he may have become confused? but there was at least someone who was himself. someone who was watching his hand write out the words he was writing. he could focus on that much anyway. but when did everything else other than that slide far away into radiating lines of possibility in every which way direction? - even some he wasn't sure were exactly directions at all or which direction they were if they were. but maybe we're getting sidetracked. what was it we began this with anyway? maybe we should go back to that. but one part of the theory is that there is no going back because there is no back to go back to though there are always beginnings. in fact, everything is always a beginning. and he remembers a beginning that began - 1/2, 1/4, 1/8, 1/16, 1/32, 1/64... one night on the farm as he took the gun out of the drawer and loading a bullet into one of the chambers and spun the cylinder and closed it and pointed the gun to his head and then began to imagine sitting back at the cafe writing this all down while we were watching and waiting. and though that might not be really true it is part of understanding the theory even though there probably isn't a theory as it is explained without understanding. and about wars and rumors of wars - and an envelope. and the whole thing going up in flames. bent. twisted. fucked up. no good. evil. and it is another day we begin this again continuing on as if nothing much else has happened - which it hasn't except all these other fools going about their daily lives doing all that they do for whatever meaningless and pointless reason they do it which they don't even seem to know what or not but neither does he. he got up again and got dressed and went down to the cafe on the corner of the building he lives upstairs in and orders and eats breakfast and goes back upstairs to his apartment which is sort of small and takes a shower and goes out again downtown to another cafe and orders a double espresso mocha and takes out his notebook and begins writing again like a hamster on an exercise wheel in a cage. and he is safe for the time being. everything is where it is supposed to be. maybe. maybe not. there is nothing distracting which is how he likes it. he wants little from this world and mostly for it to just leave him alone. we keep him safe - safe from the others and the others safe from him. we keep him quiet and out of the way just the way it's supposed to be. and maybe a spoon is not a spoon - but a hat is a hat. begin it again. forget. nevermind. tip-toe buttons. napkin. thinking of something else. thinking of nothing else. and this guy smiling with clenched teeth and his hands in his pockets playing with himself. police. and a dog barking. imagination. drunk. a dirty word. father. god of our fathers. burn it down. cast them out. in the age to come. revolution. people in the street pushing shopping carts. men in a doorway passing a bottle. not him. cars driving by. cars for sale. demonstration. and what comes and goes through it all. leather. everything is working out just fine and dandy. flashlights in the dark. people going on about their politics and social and economic dada-doo-wah-ditty. it amuses him now that he is where he's at. untouchable. he smokes another cigarette. just live and die. baseball. elvis. not like anything at all. making it up. a thief and the valley of judgment. and jesus up in the air and buddha on a rocking horse and satan striking it rich. god is dead, long live the human mind free and easy as it comes and goes. power to the people. and he laughs to himself. it's just a joke he just remembered he was telling himself a long long long time ago. get what you can where and when you can get it. and what makes people do the stupid things they do? and what makes people do the mean and nasty things they do? and what makes people do the sweet and nice things they do? fat and ugly. a rug. an ashtray. television. taste. futons. money honey. pleasure and pain. sex and death. wheels. toys. the beast and the whore dancing at the last feast. windows. music. a game. waves. simple ideas turning in his head like the machine inside the burning theater on the island in the imaginary city and megalomania burning holes in his head as he told us to just fuck off about the theory anyway. he says he has better things to do and he walked away down the beach. and this answer isn't always as simple as it seems though don't look for it to be too complex either though it does seem to confuse most people who are confronted by it every now and then and they fall back on what they understand which is to pick up a stick and hit it over the head. and he's learned how to be invisible and to get them to think he agrees with them while not saying anything about agreeing with them at all allowing them to make all the assumptions they want and stuff like that. and all poets should be taken out and shot. and everything goes according to plan as it should be.