fix it again.
    no time like tomorrow. as he is sitting around about in waywardville thinking on and on thinking.
    waiting for a surprise.
    now and again.
    the circus crowd arrives looking and looking through all the dull moments for something exciting.
    turn it on.
    fly away.

    always a dull moment. a gentle gray fog to walk slowly through.
    talking.
    away from the bright lights and noise and all the people looking for something they've lost.
    and the continuing blues.
    the drum.

    and he wants to write a story or a poem or something that would take you there.
    he wants to see you fly on wings of smiles.
    he wants you to see yourself as one of the most beautiful creatures on earth.
    dancing without remorse - free from bondage.
    he wants to be the savior who shows you how to save yourself.
    that is his pride.
    that is his ego trip.
    he wants to pull you to him far enough away that you won't go back.
    but what can he do?
    you fight it.
    you have your dreams of freedom but it seems you need to live in a cage to enjoy them.
    you don't want them really to be realized.
    fear of something - someone.
    let it go.

    there is no love.
    that is very easy to see - too easy.
    you have to look very closely to see love.
    it is masked and hidden but it's right in front of you
                                                    - and behind you
                                                    - and above and below you
                                                    - and to your right and left.
    it's far away and whispering in your ear or sitting on the tip of your nose.
    it's the love you find yourself.

    he wants to hate all of them.
    he wants the power to send them all screaming into eternal hell of the worst nightmares anyone might imagine.
    he wants this more than anything.
    he wants it to be easy.
    he wants to stop thinking all the time this way and that way all around and around it all trying to weave a way out of it.
    he wants to be like them.
    he wants to have enemies that are the cause for all the problems in the world.
    he keeps trying to figure out who it is.
    somebody.
    he wants to hate somebody and devote his life to bringing about their annihilation.
    it would be so satisfying.
    it would feel so good.
    he wants to be like them.
    he's tired of being outcast and apart.
    and it seems that to be with them he needs to decide to hate someone.
    an agreement and bond of common hatred.
    but he can't decide.
    he sees no one being worse than any other.

    this will not do.
    understanding and forgiveness and compassion are for losers.
    this is the future.
    he needs to toughen up - get with the program here.
    it's down to the wire.
    the lines are drawn.
    the battlements are built and the doors are being shut and locked.
    he's going to find himself out here alone in the crossfire.
    join the party.
    fill out the application.
    get his membership card in the mail before it's too late.
    it's so easy.
    what is he waiting for?
    why can't he do it?
    what is he stupid?

    so he's left here.
    he's left out.
    he's left to wonder who any of them really are looking through their shuttered windows at him walking past their house deciding if they need to call the police.
    no, he's keeping himself moving.
    don't worry.
    pass it all by.
    a dream.
    a long ago dream of a world that could have been.
    not now.
    they bury themselves in tombs of security.
    never saw them again.
    now no one comes out except the few of us here to fend for ourselves.
    they're even too scared to come out and mow their lawns.
    the time has come.
    the time has come.
    a world he envisioned since childhood.
    cities overgrown and collapsing in on themselves.
    everywhere free to roam.

    get a grip.
    get a job.
    get a life.
    get real.
    get serious.
    don't you know there's people bent on your destruction and you got to get them before they get you?
    be prepared.
    wake up.
    don't be caught napping - dreaming.
    and yeah.
    and yeah.
    and yeah.
    and he doesn't know.
    it all comes around to being the same and the same.
    no surprises here.
    a life of dull moments down stream in a dream.
    sleep.
    tomorrow is another day.

    and the beat goes on.
    under water.
    undercover.
    under the weather.
    dogs.
    arf!

    a poem for all seasons.
    a poem to follow you home.
    keep it.
    feed it.
    a poem to kiss and hug.
    a poem to talk to.
    a poem to keep you warm at night.
    a poen to give you sweet dreams.
    a poem to gently wake you in the morning.
    a poem to play in the tub with.
    a poem to leave behind and will be there when you return.
    a poem to send away when you grow tired of it.
    a poem that will always come back when it's called.
    a poem of imagination.
    a poem that isn't much of a poem at all.
    just words on a piece of paper.

    and something that more or less survives through its own destruction.
    facing the meaninglessness of it.
    broken dreams of broken hearts in a world where nothing more is promised.
    it's your problem if you see anything more than that.

    he's just babbling on paper and letting whatever comes out come out.
    maybe some of it's true.
    maybe all of it.
    maybe none of it.
    and he reserves the right to deny it all if he needs to protect himself.
    it's a game.
    it's a joke.
    he is the hero.
    he was the innocent victim.
    it's amazing how one can edit one's life to be whatever one wants to be and not come across as the greedy selfish pig asshole one really is.
    oh boy - looks good on paper - right?
    he wants to be a clown - a fool - an idiot.
    he doesn't care what if it makes people laugh and smile - if it makes them forget the pain.
    but it seems that he brings more pain into their lives than taking it away.
    so maybe that's his real motive.
    play the fool and get behind their defenses and stab them through the heart.
    sweet revenge for all the people and all the times that's been done to him.
    maybe.
    so is any of this true?
    does it make any difference if it is or isn't?
    isn't it enough that he can make it up and write it down?

    10/31
    and.
    and.
    and.
    and what?
    too much.
    too little.
    the ways and means of roles and behavior within the confines of roles and behavior.
    and.
    and.
    and.
    and whatever passes as whatever now as those roles splinter and fall apart and reform into new designs.
    forming the formless.
    describing the indescribable.

    the time in-between time.
    x-ray mind.
    words are nothing but words with nothing in-between them now or maybe not ever before or again.
    as we decide now what's what and who's who.
    do we redefine?
    do we reform?
    do we take apart the broken structure and try to build something new?
    another structure?
    or do we leave it lie where it falls and walk away from it altogether?
    what ends?
    what begins?
    and how do we tell the difference between the two?
    how many questions are there?
    how many answers to each question?
    too many?
    too few?
    enough?
    come on now, leave the struggle behind.
    our freedom is to be found elsewhere.
    somewhere.
    some time.
    who knows?
    who cares?

    find the way back to your heart.
    home.
    a flag is waving in the field of flags in the heart of the imaginary city with your name on it.
    somewhere.
    some time.
    we are all.
    and all is all there is.
    the dreams too.
    it is what it is.
    it comes and goes.
    the great big fat it.
    the it of all its.
    the it of all this and that and the other thing.
    kick it in.
    kick it out.
    spin it around - one to another and back again.
    a dancing dance of revolutionary change - evolutionary change.
    and go with it or lose it as it will lose you.
    absorb into rapid light.
    zebra.
    on/off blur into the brilliant colors of gray.

    11/1
    a formulation.
    a what if.
    disguise.
    he wonders how it all seems to be.
    he looks into his eyes in the mirror.
    a center of being.
    does he see anything of how the others see him?
    does he see anything of how he sees them?
    what does he call himself now?
    who?
    who is this what he is?
    try to laugh.
    breaking china.

    garbage in.
    garbage out.
    and what lies in-between that we are left to struggle with.
    dark days and nights of pure light filling our overflowing minds.
    drown.
    frightened.
    a strange disease we speak of without speaking.
    every word.
    he lies by telling the truth.
    he tells the truth with lies.

    another formulation.
    formulations that do not formulate.
    an open mind shut tight.
    a kind of singing from some distance off.
    an order given with a whisper.
    here we are now.
    can we believe anything we see?
    we laugh.
    death.
    vampire.
    clocks ticking in the factory.
    attention.
    how did we get here?
    where did we come from that ended us here?
    sometimes he feels it and sometimes he doesn't.
    and somewhere far away.
    it always feels to be somewhere far away.

    and a duck.
    and a pair of ducks.
    dreaming.
    waiting.
    no nonsense.
    just say, no.
    laugh.
    laugh again.
    write this poem about nothing.
    write this poem about everything.
    time is a moment forgotten.
    another bridge to cross.
    another nail hammered into the wall.
    flying down.
    sideways.
    and the words pile up on top of words.
    each one the same and each one different.
    it begins again.
    the heart needing to be broken.
    the heart needing to bleed.
    the pain allows us to feel alive wishing we were dead.
    some fun.
    this is how it comes to us sometimes.

    a hug and a kiss.
    good-bye.
    go before the crying starts.
    how absurd that is.
    why?
    why do we play these parts with one another?
    all too human.
    oh boy.
    come on now.
    come all ye faithful.
    full of faith.
    what is faith beyond faith itself?
    doubt.
    doubt everything.
    question.
    questioning.
    questions without answers.
    no answers but faith.
    faith itself.
    and the argument will go on forever about all this and that.
    shattered into pieces no one can put back together again.
    we hold ourselves together by argument.
    we form alliances and build defenses along lines drawn.
    we live together by living apart.
    without enemies do we have any need for friends?
    he doesn't know.
    he just asks the question.
    he throws words at you like whipped cream pies.
    right in your face.
    you either laugh or chase after him with weapon drawn.
    either or the same.
    reaction.
    wake from the numb and senseless slumber of unshakable faith.
    ha!
    his argument is irrelevant.
    yet he won't let you ignore it.
    we shall see what  your faith is made of and what it's not.
    we'll see who's left standing when the smoke clears and the dust settles.
    he'll be there - will you?
    he does not call for peace.
    he first calls for war.
    the war that cannot be won.
    the war that cannot be stopped.
    look out - here it comes ready or not.
    we shall see who's who in the zoo, baby.
    and the weapons of hate.
    and the weapons of love.
    we decide which.
    which way will we go?
    which world do we want?
    it's all here and now.
    and how about them apples?

    can't they see it?
    how many times in how many ways can we tell them?
    it seems we've tried them all but they still don't get it.
    they go on following their idiot greed instead of their idiot love.
    boy-o-boy - what are we going to do?
    how to teach them what they seem incapable of learning.
    we cannot tie them down and inject them with it.
    if we could, we would without hesitation.
    all we can do is show it to them in any way we can.
    open our arms and hearts to them in as welcoming and invitation as we can even if it means being trampled in the stampede toward one glittering thing or another.
    we survive.
    will they?

    all light.
    all darkness.
    all that lies beyond and between.
    absorb.
    become.
    zero in.
    vanish into possibility.
    laugh at the realized joke.
    what?
    what is he writing about?
    nothing.
    he's sitting here killing time grinning on acid and smoking cigarettes.
    that's all.
    he's sorry if he bothered anyone.
    they can all go back to the way they were.
    till death do them part.
    they have their part and he has his.
    maybe we'll all look back on this and laugh someday.
    but for him, someday has come - someday is today.
    if it's not today, if it's held out even for one more moment, then what good is it?
    it might as well be dog shit.
    who cares?
    not him.
    and maybe he laughs last or maybe not.
    keep breaking china.

    the totality of the human mind in full tilt manic/depressive schizoid radiant being.
    there is nothing he would change except all of it which he seems to do with each and every passing moment here and now.
    what a bunch of hypothetical bullshit - eh?
    a pair of ducks squawking and biting at each other in a flurry of feathers.
    it is what it is and what it ain't.
    love it or shove it.
    coo-coo-ca-joob and whatknot as such and so forth.
    ain't nobody's monkey but his own facing his face in the mirror and laughing all the way home.
    the heart.
    the human beating heart.
    the drum beat of the dancing soul.
    how poetic.
    what a bunch of dada trash.
    dada.
    dada.
    dada.
    ain't nothing make sense at all, mama.

    but he can't seem to quit it for good or ill, heaven or hell, up or down, inside or out.
    he seems to be along for the ride.
    this world ain't stopping to let him off.
    spin, baby, spin.
    yee-ha!

    a flower reflecting in a pond with echoes echoing away away.
    dreamland.
    become becoming.
    rise and fall.
    in and out.
    fuck/not fuck.
    excuse him and bless its pointed little head.
    don't look.
    to close one's eyes.
    it's all so unimaginably hideous that one never wants to see such a thing again in one's worst nightmares even.
    run away.
    run away.
    yet one is sinking into a quagmire of hopelessness and disgust and despair with each step one takes.
    hello?

    who do you see in these words spilling out?
    a demon from hell?
    an angel from heaven?
    another dazed and confused human such as oneself approaching though the wilderness and ruin and no man's [sic] land between sides in a war that cannot be won?
    uniform.
    un-uniform.
    either or the same.
    here we are.
    do we now kill one another?
    do we take each other prisoner?
    whose side are we on?
    whose orders are we following?
    what sacrifice are we willing to make?

    the absurdity of the absurd.
    the twists and turns of the idiot mind avoiding any and all responsibility as such to laugh at the absurdity it becomes once this view is reveled.
    and it is no more true and probably much far less than any other.
    those who control and rule this world who cannot control and rule themselves without always arguing and fighting about this being this and that being that - unless it's the other way around.
    yes.
    no.
    maybe.
    fish.

    a dream of possibilities that are not possible.
    not in a month of sundays, as they say.
    they will not allow it.
    they cut their heads off away from it.
    squawking and biting at each other in a flurry of feathers while we sit on the fence and laugh ourselves silly at them and their precious timeless antics.
    what a show.
    applause applause.
    encore! encore!
    zerbra.
    chessboard.
    set the game up again.
    let them defeat us again.
    who will they have to defeat then but themselves?
    think about it.
    or don't.
    we don't care.
    we've thought about it and know where it goes.
    we played it out in our heads a thousand different ways and the results are the same.
    they win, we lose.
    and with our defeat they are left to face themselves and all the ugly shit they've done to drive us down and out.

    11/3
    begin it again.
    start.
    turn it off awhile then on again.
    see if the static clears away from the images not quite right.
    we see it.
    we feel the pain they radiate from themselves as they ignore it and hope it goes away.
    it does.
    it comes to those of us who choose or are forced to live life with our eyes open.
    we catch it.
    and we must be careful.
    we cannot allow ourselves to outwardly demonstrate that we feel anything.
    not unless we want to live in exile.
    once they rid themselves of the pain they do not want it back.
    they do not want to be even reminded of it.
    closed in.
    unapproachable.
    and we don't want to cause anyone pain.
    but we want to show them - look at this - do you understand what it feels like to live in your world?
    a world that denies reality.
    he doesn't know.
    maybe that's not how it works.
    maybe there's something else.
    he doesn't know.
    he knows how he feels.
    he knows the pain while they're all smiling their happy lives away through a living nightmare they leave in their wake.

    cold rain.
    tears.
    can't wake up for nothing.
    nothing to wake up for.
    what is there?
    he looks around and sees nothing.
    nothing.
    nothing.
    just dream away through forgotten memories that ended up on the rocks.
    a dream away.
    on an island somewhere.
    away away in a dream.
    begin again.
    waves.
    sand.
    trees.
    maybe leave it like that.
    and someone.
    who?
    no one really.
    just someone.
    no name.
    no face.
    maybe.
    maybe that is how it is.
    he doesn't know.
    but what does he do?
    sleep under the sky listening to the surf.
    maybe this is all it is.
    people.
    no people.
    no hassles.
    no demands.
    no broken promises.
    no arguments.
    no fights.
    no wars.
    no schools.
    no factories.
    no offices.
    no politics.
    no religions.
    no families.
    no clubs.
    no parties.
    no galleries.
    no cafes.
    no stores.
    no concert halls.
    no museums.
    just say no.
    no - no - no.
    they can leave him alone with all their noise on about themselves and each other.
    when they get their act together then send a ship out to get him.
    if they want to.
    if not, he'll survive.
    dream.
    away.
    no place.
    locked up in his head with nothing but a dream in mind about how wonderful it would be if one could go outside somewhere and everything would be alright.
    just a forgotten memory.
    just words on pages repeating themselves.
    on and on.
    dreaming.
    how long?

    and when he wakes up some day and the sun is out and shining and he's walking out through waist high meadow and he sees someone walking toward him... who will it be?
    what difference does it make?
    come on down from your high tower.
    we're dancing in the streets.
    come on out from your tomb bunkers.
    we're unarmed.
    is he dreaming yet?
    is he dreaming still?

    around and around.
    day after day.
    week after week.
    month after month.
    year after year.
    time.
    dancing of the spheres.
    the juggling act in our minds - the sphere of mind in and around our heads.
    apart.
    together.
    what is the same and what isn't?
    dreams all dreams.
    dancing in each other's dreams.
    dancing in each other's spheres - arms.
    dreams.
    yesterday.
    today.
    tomorrow.
    wake up and smile.
    wake up and laugh.
    wake up and cry.
    it's over.
    it's all over.
    the monsters can't get us anymore.
    forget.
    remember.

    as it is as it was as it will be.
    forever.
    a moment passing itself off as time.

    11/5
    a shadow of a tree on the sidewalk.
    cold bright autumn morning.
    a choice of words.
    now we speak.
    pronounce our fate.
    what is decided by the minds of the insane?
    who are the insane - those who act insane, or those who don't?
    where did he lose them?
    what track of thought along the way didn't they follow that led him here and led them away from him?
    to what purpose?
    they march in rows and columns of regimented minds - discipline.
    downtime.
    his mind screaming alone.
    all the things they do against him without knowing - without caring.
    there's money to be made.
    a simple fact.
    enjoy it while it lasts.
    back to the sidewalk.
    back to the tree.
    all the things he wishes he could say to them.
    all the words that say nothing to minds that are not able to comprehend the pain.
    they feel nothing.
    they choose to feel nothing.
    as long as they feel nothing they do not care what anyone else feels.
    how is this stopped?
    all the money that is made.
    all the love that is lost.
    can they feel the pain - or have they had it surgically removed?
    drown in it.
    baptized.
    smoke another cigarette.

    drifting alone and silent.
    he knows where it is.
    he can spot those who avoid it and pretend it's not there.
    he can see the cracks in their image.
    he's seen the cracks in his own image.
    his ugliness has shattered more than one mirror.
    mirrors.
    leave him out.
    leave us out.
    who is he writing for here?
    anyone but himself?
    does he even write for himself?
    a long time.
    dance.
    come dance with him.
    help him dance with himself.
    distance.
    unspoken truth in words not yet invented.

    the sun comes in the window here he sits.
    where?
    let's say back at the kitchen table.
    it's been awhile since he's sat there.
    it's mid-morning.
    he's got himself involved in dreams of reality.
    plans.
    all going nowhere.

    his mind screaming.
    how does he get it to stop doing that?

    anyway, sitting at the kitchen table.
    the flowers he brought in are long ago dried out.
    petals around the base of the glass jar.
    he's made another pot of coffee.
    he has things he needs to do today.
    real things.
    he doesn't want to.
    he's lazy.
    he doesn't want to go out into their world.
    he takes out his sketchbook and draws.
    he doesn't want to think at all about nothing.
    drown.
    deep beneath the surface.
    something comic about the tragedy of it all.
    cold.
    even the sun cannot warm the cold.
    nothing.
    shattered images.
    no one left to be.

    and all the people around him talking.
    all the words they use to describe something.
    he doesn't know.
    dreams come true.
    inside his screaming mind is silence.
    or - inside his silent mind is screaming.
    he can't tell.
    does it matter?
    trivial.
    waved away with a slight gesture of hand - a sideways glance.
    a forgotten thought.
    their silence.
    their screaming silence.
    their silence is maddening.
    he is mad.
    he is not mad.
    he is as sane as they come - though they do not come this way too often.
    he is on the outside looking in and the inside looking out.
    he is not alone.
    he writes for those around them who are silent.
    he writes for them in their silence.
    should he scream in their face if he wants or needs to?
    should he praise them?
    should he degrade them?
    what should he do?
    what do they want?
    they confuse him.
    what does he judge - their actions or words?
    pizza.
    he's eaten enough pizza for awhile.
    he's off it now.
    rice.
    he loves rice.
    he's reading a book a friend of his gave him.
    they're all the same.
    he doesn't care.
    he should read it because his friend will ask him about it.
    did he like it or not?
    does he?
    it's just a book.
    something to collect dust.
    it's comforting to him that in this brand new age of the bright clean future that there are things that collect dust.
    it's the past they cannot kill.

    a sweet dream.
    a long sweet dream.

    tick-tock.
    their clocks are weapons against us.
    a round a second.
    and their technology improves them even faster and more accurate.
    catch us in the crossfire between themselves in their time is money war they wage.
    just a thought.
    he tries to think.
    it's not always possible.
    he looks up at their clock and it's never the same time twice.
    he looks around at their world and it remains ever concrete in thought and ideas long ago proven to be obsolete.
    proven by those their world has driven mad trying to prove it.
    what a joke.
    where is the future here?
    and where is he?
    zap!

    a glass of water.
    war and the politics of war.
    bang bang shoot shoot.
    bullets and words.
    line themselves up on either side.
    only a fool dances in the middle between the two.
    a target.
    open season.
    he tries.
    and cowards hide behind and do what they are told and serve.

    now as it seems to be nothing.
    down.
    speaking words we did not know we could have spoken.
    dreaming in a dream.
    banana.

    and a color.
    and a rhythm.
    and someone he knew once.
    it was easy - although nothing is easy.
    he doesn't even try.
    he doesn't want to.
    he doesn't understand.
    he tries to forget.
    1984.
    how long does it go on?

    it leaves him.
    he is here and it is gone.
    lost.
    how can he be lost?
    he knows where he is.
    a station wagon.

    he is not at the kitchen table.
    he is not on the island.
    he is not anywhere but here scribbling in his notebook.
    sometimes talking with someone about things that don't mean too much squat about nothing except us heated about it in the moment we are inspired to speak until it fades.
    ejaculation.
    vomit.
    laughter.
    frame of mind.
    drown.
    open.
    close.

    and what he writes about.
    and what he happens to notice.
    and what passes him by.
    he tries by not even trying.
    whatever falls in his lap.
    it comes and goes.

    driving a car.
    he no longer drives a car.
    he watches the cars driving by and tries to remember where it was he was going with them.
    somewhere.
    one horizon or another.
    time.
    a horizon of time awaiting us all till death do us part.
    death.
    the void of continuance.
    he thinks of it.
    the worship of death.
    like it explains something.

    with it or without it.
    it comes and goes.
    he is the same either/or.
    will he notice one blink of an eye opposed to another?
    he survives.
    but does he understand?

    and the continuing story.
    things pass through his mind that don't quite add up no matter which of a thousand ways he's tried.
    well, actually they do, but not in the way it is presumed that they add up and this whole fucking world based on that presumption that they add up a certain way.
    he tries it again.
    silver platters and silver spoons in a world long gone.
    always look your best.
    but sometimes the best you can look is your worst.
    he quickly found that out.
    he looked his worst most of the time.
    the chance of a lifetime.
    the part he played.
    then he ran away and joined the circus.
    and the circus follows you everywhere you go.
    there is no escape.
    children of all ages.
    not only the greatest but the only show on earth.
    with the suckers born every minute.
    there is no innocence.
    he noticed himself divided.
    how did that happen?
    a crack that cracked.
    he didn't know which side he was on.
    there was all these ones who wanted him on their side or the other.
    how was he supposed to know?
    a split occurred and he fell into it.
    has he been there ever since?
    i am that i am, he whispers to himself.
    it's a joke.
    it's the identity of the joke.
    sit down.
    wait.
    nothing is more than what it is.
    a million riddles with each breath.

    cute ass.
    it's off.
    it's on.
    it's nothing much at all.
    it's another cigarette.
    he thinks again.
    optical.
    cough.
    a comfortable chair and a head full of dreams dreaming themselves away.
    nothing gets done.
    tomorrow becomes today.
    he's always hated weekends.
    too many fucking people.

    11/10
    slipping away out of it.
    tomorrow.
    a glass of water.
    a couple dancing.
    a race car.
    something else.
    velocity.

    11/12
    dinosaurs.
    the story that continues.
    the fire that doesn't go out.
    begin it and end it.
    or - end it and begin it.
    all the same moment in spacetime at the same point "outside" our spacetime perception.
    wait.
    explain with words that cannot explain - yet our words are the only explanation.

    another cigarette.
    come on down.
    stay with him.
    the execution is on.
    the event of apocalypse is an event at all times and everywhere as we each and all reach it.
    when the linear mind breaks and the white light shines through like it always has behind the images in our consciousness.
    what a drag it is.
    blinded by the light.
    no darkness to turn to.
    rest.
    imagine something else.

    he sketches these words.
    he does not use them for what they are and what they describe.
    he is not interested in what these words describe.
    he leaves that to other writers with their literal meaning.
    he wants to open up holes with his words to enter and reach beyond where the words stand sentry.
    he wants to go.
    he is going.

    dawn silence.
    the music plays.
    the words are useless.
    he sits in front of the fire in the house on the island.
    the old man has been dead awhile.
    he guesses he inherited this place by some kind of default.
    who else is there to claim it?
    he knows of no one.
    he conjures up someone playing long smooth cello with its resonant textured humming filling the room.
    he takes another hit.
    just a joke.
    remembering the place and time of this darkness.
    another kind of light.
    absence.
    it's been a long time.
    a poet.
    a drunken dead poet slurring words into one long incomprehensible garble of vocal dada.
    it doesn't matter what's been spoken but that it's been spoken.
    remembering the place and time of this darkness.
    we've all been here.
    we all keep places like this alive in our memory.
    nothing new.
    it's all old - very much old.
    no thought occurs that hasn't been thought before.
    it just takes someone to speak it.

    an emptiness filled with its own emptiness.
    complete.
    formed out of formlessness.
    this is where sadness and despair live.
    there is no hope to be found.
    one exists in constant doubt.
    being alive.
    that is when hope is once again found.
    one reaches a point where and when there is no hope because no hope is needed.
    you've found the place and time.
    by the fire in a comfortable chair.
    smoking another cigarette.
    when you cannot go and you cannot stay.
    that moment when both are out of the question.
    wait.
    there is no hurry.
    this is as forever as you make it.
    free.
    existing in existence.
    no more or less.
    on the imaginary point when the pendulum swings from one direction to another.
    the point outside rational spacetime but is transcended as it does occur without occurring.
    here we go - returning.
    here we come - leaving.

    by the fire in a comfortable chair.
    hurtling through spacetime in one imaginary moment.
    you cannot stop it before...
    the fire.
    spacetime warp overdrive pendulum - zap!
    remember this place and time.
    and this is nothing.
    it happens.
    it happens to everyone.
    or maybe just him.
    or maybe it's just you.
    is this what it is?

    open the door.
    take another look.
    step through the mirror to the other side.
    here and now.
    laughing with mercury tears running down one's golden skin from one's rusted iron eyes.
    quick.
    before you think twice.
    before you can think once.
    before you can think of thinking.
    before you know how to think.
    too late.
    too bad.
    try it again.
    begin.
    square one.
    square zero.
    begin where and when there is no beginning.
    and end it.

    the impossible is possible only until it is conceivable that there is such a thing as either/or.
    or something like that.
    the concept must be kept from becoming a concept.
    no applause.
    let those who own and control the world deal in concepts.
    leave them guessing how and why there are those among them who have vanished.
    vanish.
    you know how.
    you know why.

    do you know what he's telling you?
    nothing.
    he is telling you nothing at all.
    remember that.
    the impossible is not possible.
    that's the trick that makes it possible.
    remember that.
    sit by the fire.
    common sense.
    no more and no less.
    we all know it.
    all we have to do is to remember knowing it.
    reach.
    touch.
    let go.
    doubt.
    ha!
    fat chance, dude.
    nevermind.

    and what is gained or lost by this?
    hello.
    divide it between the two.
    hello.
    and all the words that have been spoken and written before.
    no one speaks and the pages are blank.
    begin.
    we've forgotten to remember.
    it's just a trick.
    sleight of mind.
    twist in and out again and again out and in twist.
    a memory of speaking and a memory of writing while it lasts held in this moment while he can speak and write.
    while he is able.
    while he is willing.
    while he is ready.
    he is ready to lose it all.
    or is he?
    he is willing to lose it all.
    or is he?
    he is able to lose it all.
    or is he?
    why should he?
    what will that do for you?

    and too much is easy.
    and too much isn't easy enough.
    the rest is just boring.
    or something like that.
    the difference between the two and between everything else.
    break it down.
    leave it behind.
    words.
    nothing but words about nothing.
    everything too.
    something.
    anything.
    so much to doubt.

    yes.
    well, as it comes and goes and here we are again - here and now.
    on the edges.
    dreaming.
    and maybe sort of closer to whatever point there is - and there is a point.
    the point is pointless.
    scattered.
    scared.
    being something that is not.
    shaping itself.
    as things develop and don't develop.
    as there are no plans and plans are made all the time.
    all the promises broken that were not promises.
    this is us.
    this is the way we live somehow through it all.
    ego/non-ego centered and uncentered in balance out of balance.
    tightwire.
    a game in dead seriousness not to be taken all that seriously.
    ready.
    aim.
    fire.
    sit by the fire.
    fish.
    flash surprise when what one expects it to be is not what is expected as it turns out to be just that in spite of us knowing better.
    what?
    who knows?
    drown while keeping one's head above the clouds.
    that's a trick.
    mirrors.
    up a sleeve and out of a hat.

    fix it.
    nevermind.
    he comes to that now and then a lot.
    nevermind.
    the nevermind.
    pause.
    don't think for as long as possible while it whiles away as it does whatever it may be.
    it.
    what is it?
    it that surrounds us from inside ourselves out.
    where is the line drawn between?
    zero.
    one.
    from one to the other we reach infinity first.
    and when we reach infinity we ask where and when did this infinity begin - where and when is this supposed zero?
    and where and when is this supposed one we are headed for?
    ahead?
    which way is ahead in a universe spinning infinitely through infinity?
    one?
    is one everywhere?
    what else is there but one?
    infinity?
    zero?
    a small detail.
    but he still counts his money to pay for his coffee - double espresso mocha.
    zero - one - two - three - infinity.
    but what reality is reality - the infinite or the finite?
    both exist at once in one place yet are divided from itself.
    this and that.
    the difference between zero and one.

    fix it #2
    another musing upon musing as he sits here and muses his musing life away.
    that's what he gets paid for.
    him and all the rest of the crazy crew.
    how fine a life it is.
    the only involvement with anyone or anything is the involvement he so chooses.
    this is the life for him.
    and perhaps he should now write more about spoons.
    a spoon.
    o' spoon.
    o' beautiful spoon.
    a spoon is not a spoon but is all one can will it to be.
    maybe.
    it depends on whichever reality one happens to reside in.
    ho-hum.
    some say a spoon is a spoon and naught but a spoon.
    nothing else.
    forget it.
    but suppose and imagine as others might say that a spoon is not a spoon.
    how simple life could be - but also how terribly complex.
    who would keep track of all the spoons in the world - and there are so many to keep track of - if they were not spoons?
    no wonder things are the way they are.
    just the spoons themselves not being spoons would throw the world into a panic.
    there would be riots in the streets.
    there would be chaos.
    perhaps it is best that we keep these imaginings inside our heads and let them play themselves out there.
    don't change anything out of the ordinary.

    11/16
    and it is someone and somewhere.
    and it is all of everything.
    it does matter what it is or not.
    there is no judgment or compassion in and out itself except what we need and/or put into it.
    he writes these words and does not write them at the same time.

    clean cut.
    cold.
    building.
    how many words that mean how many meanings to how many people?
    meaning being one of the words.
    this gray darkness.
    secret.
    something is hiding.
    this is the experience he feels.
    where are we now?
    another story.
    a dream about people not being able to breathe.
    what do we do with this?
    what do we do with the people who experience this?
    brain death.
    open it up.
    turn it on.
    understand.
    sewing machine.
    formulate.
    and a glass full of water.
    tell us what's wrong.
    tell us all your desperate lies.
    he doesn't know.
    we don't know.
    and we highly suspect that you don't either.

    and the dada-ananda spake thusly: burn me. i am a balloon. and the political theory is such that a system must have a revolution operating within it. this is the - well, i don't know. i am a frog. there have always been malcontents. there will always be malcontents. they are either strong enough to take over the system or they are held in check or they are tolerated and absorbed. today's villains and tomorrow's heroes. why are you writing this down? are you crazy? i am saying nothing. it's all just words. i am not going to play zarathustra to you, ok? you can rot in hell as far as i'm concerned. i say this because i love you. drink your coffee, smoke your cigarettes, eat your acid. you are a worm to me. i am so far above you that i am beneath you.
    and the dada-ananda continued: i have nothing for you but everything. i am not even real but someone you made up in your weird imagination to comfort you. i will not comfort you. i will drive you mad. that is all i can promise. i will lead you astray from all that you believe and count on. i will dash you on the rocks. if you want comfort then go to one of these other clowns who will tell you pretty words you want to hear, who will paint pretty pictures of nirvana and heaven. i speak to you of a living hell. i will show that to you. i will show you the end to your world in flames. i will show you your death. stay away from me. i am no good to you. i am all that is evil within you and around you. i am nothing to you but yourself in your darkest hour. i am your own self hatred. i am here to bring that to you. i am not here to make you happy. i will destroy you by making you destroy yourself. but you don't want to hear that. you want to hear that you are above all that. you want to hear how you are a special creation beloved by the gods you invent. what a joke. what a lie. if that is who you are then this is the time to prove it. you won't be given a second chance. i have no faith in you whatsoever.

    as the dada-ananda appears to him without appearing but is only himself making up something out of the nonsense his stream of consciousness leads him through. order out of chaos. some such.
    the dada-ananda is nothing. the dada-ananda does not exist. do not allow yourself to be betrayed by the dada-ananda. he tells you this as a warning. the dada-ananda is dangerous. the dada-ananda is perhaps the most dangerous force in the world. the dada-ananda takes on any disguise to trick us into destroying ourselves. the dada-ananda causes all doubt. it is the dada-ananda who has divided us against ourselves with false ideas that we are opposed to one another. the dada-ananda has convinced us that there are differences among us. not that these differences do not exist but the dada-ananda convinces us that they mean something they don't from what is our gender to what is our shoe size that we will kill for and alienate ourselves from each other about fighting a war that cannot be won except when we find it within ourselves to end it.
    end it.
    stop.
    do not consider whether you have won or lost. what does it matter except to prolong the war forever generation after generation? this is the trick the dada-ananda has played on us through the dada-ananda's many guises as messiah to those ill-equipped to know any better. that is the wonder of the dada-ananda. the dada-ananda will push us off the edge, who dances on our clutching fingertips to plunge us screaming into the abyss of ourselves.
    it's a joke.
    the dada-ananda revels the joke by running through the maze of mirrors smashing all the images we have deluded ourselves with.
    breakdown.
    give it up.
    the dada-ananda is all we need to fear if we are to hold onto whatever manner of dignity we might still have as a species that has spent the major portion of its existence flagellating ourselves for crimes we did not commit to rid ourselves of a guilt that this process of self abuse has only deepened. no matter how we might flail at it the monkey still clings to our back.
    the monkey is the dada-ananda as we are the monkey and the dada-ananda. who's kidding who here?
    we are the monkey in the middle chasing back and forth after that we cannot reach. it is defined as being that which we cannot reach. all the heavens we deny ourselves.
    so if one ever comes across the dada-ananda one should kill the dada-ananda.

    realization does not come from wisdom but from the lowest form of utter stupidity. the stupidity of a stubborn mule who won't get up off its ass (pardon the pun) and move another inch no matter how it's pushed or pulled or threatened or coaxed or beaten or petted.
    it won't do nothing at all until it gets that fucking carrot that's been held out in front of it all this way. and even then it doesn't promise anything more than to spend its days right where it is being fed carrots or starving to death whichever comes first.
    so there.
    get it?
    what?
    huh?
    who?
    where?
    when?
    how?
    why?
    why not?
    who cares?

    and this is as it comes and goes.
    everything is bullshit - especially what he is writing.
    don't believe a word of it.
    amusement for the time being while we wait to be given it all and given it all now.
    here and now.
    what else makes any difference?
    we play with words.
    we play with ourselves.
    we go in.
    we go out.
    yet we do not budge one more fucking goddamn inch until it is given.
    ha!
    especially don't believe that.
    we're no more than lazy good for nothings sitting on some fence while the world turns away.
    don't think.
    don't shoot us.
    ask no questions.
    all we will tell you is lies we will swear up down and sideways is the truth.
    we are puppets of evil.
    the dada-ananda has possessed us and controls us.
    we make no sense to anyone whatsoever.
    we are useless.
    we are parasites.
    all we think, say and do is wrong sinful deceptive selfish greedy trickery of the the most unsavory sort.
    go on.
    leave us.
    spit on us as you pass us by.
    follow the great thinkers, speakers and doers to the promised land of milk and honey.
    destroy those who oppose you as has been done in the past right up into the future.
    rise to the highest heights.
    live in the biggest houses.
    do what you will.
    and we will remain to dance on your graves.
    you are no more than a brief fireworks display we are idly amused by our mad creation.
    one with the dada-ananda.
    we are the idiot fools who willingly or unwilling transpire in the conspiracy the dada-ananda has set upon us all.
    for or against.
    it doesn't matter.
    all do the dada-ananda's bidding as the dada-ananda plays all sides against each other and themselves.
    it really is the monkey in the middle who controls the game.
    the fools of all colors, shapes and sizes.
    the dada-ananda pulls the strings that make you dance for us.
    and this is done while you in your blind incomprehension of what goes on around you and your own relationship with it and your motives and your desires and your fears and your greed and even your selfless compassion think that you are the masters.
    you cannot master yourselves and you think you can master us?
    don't make us laugh.
    we can laugh right in your face because you have no idea that the joke you make of us is really the joke we're playing on you and have always played on you and always will.
    and you cannot stop us.
    you never could.
    we have toppled civilizations before.
    and now you are poised on your own self-destruction.
    you have armed yourselves with the most destructive weapons the human mind could invent to shoot us down.
    and we tricked you into pointing those weapons at yourselves.
    so push your buttons.
    pull your triggers.
    do it.
    we are here to see the grand finale and we ain't leaving until we see it.
    we want it all and we want it now.
    forever in a moment.
    (see - we told you he was delusional...)

    oh boy.
    ho-hum.
    sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll.
    everything pales.
    dance with us.
    we hear the call of the dada-ananda who comes to us as siva in full regalia.
    gonna shake this house all the way down, baby.
    gonna shake this hick town all the way down, baby.
    choose/don't choose is the way of the day.
    dr. memory knows for sure - yes/no.
    and it's downhill from here.
    hang on.
    are we having fun yet?
    ha!
    babylon.
    dancing in the streets of babylon.

    we do nothing.
    we need do nothing.
    we surrender to all.
    they're the big guys.
    they know the inside story.
    they're the real deal.
    they're hip and happening.
    we cannot come close.
    we don't even try.
    we don't want to because them people is crazie.
    they're dangerous to anyone around them.
    a bunch of people fighting a war that cannot be won.
    they're the same bad news over and over.
    the only reason they have ideals is so they have something to fight for.
    they gather in their camps and strategize and maneuver and club each other for turf.
    jets versus sharks.
    turf.
    that's all it is.
    all of it.
    in a free world they spend their time fighting for turf.
    how absurd.
    how amusing.
    we who claim nothing but where we stand on our own two feet or set down our fat ass or lay ourselves out in the sun where and when we can get away with it and as much else we can weasel our way into without having to do anything we don't want to for it but greedily grab what we can as long as we can - laugh laughing.
    along the way.
    along the way back home again.
    and home ain't nowhere around in this world except in the here and now which is not this world no how.
    it's where the heart is.
    our hearts know that this is nowhere.

    so now what?
    how many more times do we juggle different combinations of the same words until they are able to pick up a clue?
    we don't get it.
    we try the best we can.
    we've been at this game for thousands and thousands of years.
    we painted it inside caves.
    we imprinted it on clay tablets.
    we chiseled it in stone.
    we scribed it on scrolls.
    we printed it in books.
    we spoke to them around the campfires
                               - in the market place
                               - in the town squares
                               - out in the wilderness
                               - on radio and tv.
    we've been banging our stupid heads against their closed minds forever every which way we could think of and devise.
    this is it.
    there ain't much more we can or are willing to do.

    nevermind.
    psychoactive futureschism.
    there is birth.
    there is something.
    there is death.
    yes?
    no?
    sometimes i try to think about stuff like that, he said to himself. yes - once as i was dreaming of myself as once i was transolving throughout the duration of what i did not quite know what was going on with the noise of it and some such crashing head first in the ambiance of decay birth as wild of a glop of maggots sucking in the rebirth at the teat of what has died to produce us of its remains.

    and as a fulfilling sense of emptiness - which is better than an emptying sense of fulfillment.
    a glass of water exploded with its own contradiction.
    and we are supposed to communicate while this exists by our confusion turning into bemusement as we cannot escape what comes of what is.
    help.
    a time and a broken place later.
    a silence unfolds around us.
    we attain nothing.
    excuse the pain.
    excuse the cold night air.
    excuse him as he holds through it.
    he needs the space.
    he needs the time.
    he laughs at himself no longer.
    what's so funny?
    wait.
    hold on - a memory of being where/when.
    a frightened mind.
    let go.
    wind it around.
    winding wind blowing.
    let it out.
    let it...
    it was something.
    go.

    (and much scribbling later)

    a celebration type effect is proposed.
    maybe we're losing but we see no reason to act like it.
    maybe.
    a flying dawn.
    desperate acts.
    toward the end.
    eaten.
    rescue.
    kick ass.
    a mission of events as it is described.
    following a...
    21
    go.
    on/off.
    10
    2
    4
    nothing but shit.
    what's this?
    what!
    underline that bum.
    bum?
    picked it out of thousands - it wasn't the same.

    a following amid chaos of order that as we imagine ourselves.
    fuck.
    16
    not him was here to become him rising to a lowered state impossible to achieve at once without the experience of it.
    bringing the end to a beginning.
    a following through an age of leaderlessness.
    pretty.
    pretty.
    win or lose.

    11/19
    a fine point to be at to find the line somewhere hereby to explore something now as we try to divine the shape of things to come as well as maybe what's here to begin with, the dada-ananda brightly did spake. i am to assume nothing of any sort. i am a creature of ever-changing habits. this is my means. what follows from that i can only hope.
    then from a swirl zooming off into a direction or another the dada-ananda did leave us.
    and we waited rapidly for a return. but nothing would remain of this. nothing so ever able to be defined. this is the mistake we make it is seen now by us. we expect everything. we expect something. even expecting nothing is to be led to disappointment.
    and how new is this? how is it that we have failed to learn this simple lesson of fate?
    and is was once rumored that the dada-ananda did spake something more or less to this effect: i am a shadow of nothing. i have rejoined myself as being more than invisible. i am a liar among thieves. what you believe any of my words to be wisdom is only that which you already know. but i am merely flabbergasting. i am a ranting fool of your delusions. you empower me to trick you in all the many diverse and sundry ways you have allowed yourselves to be tricked. it is not me. it is not even you. it is the dynamic relationship between us. who am i? who are you?

    idiot.
    ungovernable.
    mind.
    space/time.
    where/when.
    following not following.
    development.
    9 times out of 10 - one remains.
    that's the chance we take.
    mix it down implementing devices of our ignorance.
    sing and dance.
    waking to a moment once realizing what.
    divine.
    halo of guilt.
    zap.
    the pleasing warmth of the fluid.
    and jesus who.
    and dada.
    and...
    and a point breaks to the point of breaking to the breaking point.
    something about zero - one - infinity.
    something about how we divide the issue looking for cause when there is not yet an effect.
    a resulting conclusion we can measure.
    space/time.
    and these things seem unimportant to most everyday people.
    yet if they knew how many impossibilities they perform, as they choose to ignore them, they would be amazed.
    even at the impossibility of their existence.

    it is a complex mission i am foretold to pretend to try to complete, the dada-ananda goes on about to exclaim while in the process of discovering. i am what  i myself foretold. i am in this place and time only as a means to escape.
    the dada-ananda should not be taken too close to one's heart. stay true to your fashion if that is something that gives you comfort. the dada-ananda will not comfort you. the dada-ananda will hound you until you can comfort yourself in any given situation. this is what we have found anyway. the dada-ananda is the deceptive messiah. the dada-ananda puts the christ back into anti-christ. the dada-ananda will get behind you and kick your butt - you bet.
    but this is all of little consequence to anyone - or actually it is of much con-sequence to anyone at all. thereby, it is of our consequent nature to invent a guruistic device such as the dada-ananda to enact in a disruptive manner upon anyone. not that this is our intent but merely what seems to be unable for us to avoid in keeping with our intent which even to ourselves isn't exactly known and clear that is not the intent.
    that the ordered system of thought and rationality that surrounds us both within and without is disrupted by that which the intent is known and clear either in the intent itself or in the expression of the intent is of no consequence to us.
    full circle is complete and arrived at by not arriving at any point on the circle but by circumnavigating, so to speak, all the points throughout together.
    this is the intent.
    not our intent opposed to anyone's - even though it is - but more our intent as it feeds upon and relies on and compliments others' intent.
    by knowing what one cannot ever know of the dada-ananda one transcends the wisdom or the need of the wisdom of the dada-ananda into the utter simple stupidity of the dada-ananda.
    the dada-ananda is the chaff separated from the wheat. what is the chaff but the plant that made the wheat possible? digging into and rising from the earth toward the burning sun that cannot be reached but is reached by absorbing what one can of the energy to transform oneself and blah blah blah along lines of poetic imagery dada like that to come across once again confronted by what seems on the surface to be confusion but is looked at again to be seen as another level of understanding as the chaff of our prior understanding falls away having been useful only to bring us to this point of creating ourselves beyond ourselves as the wheat.
    the dada-ananda is a name of that which should remain nameless of an idea that has no idea about what the fuck.
    how many times a day his mind is blown away to be replaced by a further level of mind.

    here we are.
    ready or not.
    and ready we're not.
    and zippy pinheads from hell and damnation itself.
    the fiery pit that smelts us to the core of the ore that we become radiant as ever so precious metal that is ourselves and all we eat and shit.
    what's the deal?
    what's all the hub bub, bub?
    take it off.

    oblivion.
    hey!
    who's afraid of oblivion?
    ha!
    that's exactly how it gets ya.
    oblivion is the fear of oblivion and all that results thereof from it from ourselves.
    let go and hang on.
    find it where and when you can and find it everywhere and always.
    hey!
    chase your own tail in circles if that's what you gotta do.
    so what if you get dizzy and puke and fall down gazing up at a spinning universe?
    it's fun.
    what more do you want than that?
    some sort of plan of action?
    10 steps to instant gratification?
    limos to oblivion in the blink of an eye.
    asleep in peace.
    gone.
    while we dance ourselves wild again.

    when good and evil become each a device for the other, the mouth of the dada-ananda uttered open, then it is better to chew than choke. although in this coming age we are trapped as pigs greedily wanting to become fat enough for the slaughter. to be desired. to sweat while cum oozes through your fingers. anus. breathe. one one eye out for what has dismayed and opposed you in the past. this is sick shit. this is the most foul and disgusting thoughts you could think and you've acted on them in hopes that your fury would free you from the intense rapture again and again egoized in the hardware of the system fucking and being fucked and that your own animal spewing would be unforgiven is an unattainable absurdity we lick the results scrubbed clean in the lifting from our obscure reasoning broken down by our obscene logic calculated a zillion decimal points away from the manner of reality that goes on and on as even though we weren't even here at all. crack it. become. invest. monkey money. i puke with your name on my lips. what more do you want from me than that?

    it was eaten whole.
    it was taken unto itself sucking into and out of itself.
    it became this.
    you do not remember because it did not happen.
    splatter your guts alive on it in the name of jesusatan if that's what you want to die for, baby.
    we represent this other spacetime dislocation kinda trip where/when all other manner of events did occur other than as it appears now as it seems sideways held suspended in-between doubt and doubt holding onto a dissolving reality one way or another as it is decided we want it to go.
    the doors are open wide if you can find them everywhere.
    no shit.
    laugh it away.
    laugh yourselves away.

    it's impossible to hold on but to let go it is given back.
    nothing and everything is out of under control.
    figure it out.
    look for it.
    rocks.
    the rocks died for your sins.
    what is this sin dada?
    forget it.
    the garden knows no sin and it is the garden where the rocks live.
    speak to them.
    speak to a rock.
    listen.
    speak.
    dare.
    how many ways can we devise the impossibility of it?
    give up your understanding that sets you apart from each other and yourselves.
    this is the worst evil to beset itself upon you chewing like unto a host of rabid maggots.
    face that yourself and your innocent greed which is forgivable only that in and of itself it is unforgivable.
    imagine that?
    you've done nothing that ain't been done before.
    dig your own grave, baby.

    such reality we speak of undeclared as real by the powers of this world.
    ain't no guessing where their trip is headed.
    and whatever chance one takes with that is yours for the taking.
    it's in our face to face it and we all take what chances we take.
    yet another misborn delusion of all impossible improbabilities arrives at the scene of the crime.
    a lightening wink flash in the pan eye to the nether nothing it has been more than proven by their thousands of years of reasoning beyond all shadow of doubt it is lurking there waiting for you to turn toward what catches at the corner of that same eye winking at a remembering moon hidden from view obscured by our walls built from the stone of pride unto temples sacrificed by our ignorance.
    and whatever it seems to you.
    the chance is taken to take a chance when faced with the inevitable to step out and dance away.
    don't think twice.

    and however many ways we may conceive to design this birth there is no dress rehearsal for this one.
    the time will come and it will go.
    this is it.
    it is this.
    it is that.
    it is a hat.
    where else does one look for it?
    did you pack up all your troubles and find yourself left behind at the station too deep immersed into a thought of an upcoming preview of oblivion to enact yourself?
    what?
    forget that.
    forget the hat.
    do nothing.
    do something.
    do anything.
    do everything.
    what you do is part of what is happening.
    groove on that, baby.
    or kill yourself in revenge.
    tooth and nail disease.
    panic.
    frightened.
    obedience to any command.
    attack.
    defend.
    in/out.
    dada.
    the pure dada of it is amazing.
    no one sees it.
    no one believes it.
    no one even doubts it.
    but they will all die grasping for it.
    till kingdom come.
    the night crew pries up the golden pavement and sows it anew.
    wake to the morning when the light of day revels the abusive absurdity of your dreams turned into flip/flop nightmares it's obvious to the naked eye to amuse oneself discovering.
    yet the naked eye has been removed and been replaced by whatever money could buy.
    rooted in the love of evil.
    ha!
    how many punchlines do you need before you get the joke?

    ok.
    what we are trying to tell you is that we are here now among you all in as many possible variations on the theme as is as the case may be. we have always been among you. we are what you fear and desire. we pull the strings. we designed the whole fucking set up from the beginning. you may or may not be one of us. are you? you may or may not know it. we have allowed you no escape. how easy it was to convince you that you knew what you were doing.
    we move in directions you have no clue exist even with your high theories you imagine cover everything explained to you by rote priests of every cloth. a flag waves above this world. salute it then kiss your ass good-bye because when we push the button this whole planet goes into mind/shift hyper space/time warp into a reality held in check for a million years that's going to come up out of your reptile zone like a banshee dinosaur from the hell it's been a-brewing in all this time way back until now.
    ka-boom!
    one shot in the dark deal.
    either we make it or not.
    who knows?
    who cares?
    automatic.
    we are the species mutating through your stagnation.
    laugh again.
    look at them there freaks, would ya?
    you can die for your own sins this time.
    go away.
    leave us alone.
    we got things to do.
    play with your toys.
    we'll let you know when it's time to go.
    and how.
    a wink.