a thousand doubts.
    what is working here?
    what isn't?
    a billion moments like this one now twisting in his gut like a black hole trying to suck him into another dimension.
    but he doesn't feel it so bad really.
    he could feel a whole lot worse.
    what's done is done.
    and this is done.
    he could feel a whole lot worse.

    9/6
    up out of the night.
    up opening eyes to see another day which could bring him closer to something.
    it may be a long long time yet to come but the time gets shorter with each breath he takes - with each heartbeat.
    he approaches it.
    he cannot see it yet.
    it is still out over the horizon but he knows where it is and soon he will spy it in the distance.
    a shadow shimmering in a mirage that slowly takes form and shape as he draws nearer.
    as the focus sharpens and a blur separates and comes into detail.
    he sees that it is really it as it steps from his memory and imagination into real life again.
    here it is.
    here he is.
    embrace.
    a kiss.
    merging.
    the distinction between two becomes one.
    or is this just another case of expectation being more than actuality?
    will fulfillment bring disappointment?
    a thousand doubts.

    drifting along anywhere under rainbow skies in a city paved with gold and sparkling jeweled walls which is where we were meant to be all along only our misunderstanding keeping us out in the wilderness.

    no more wars.
    imagine if that were true.
    and not just the big ones but the small ones too - the ones in every household.
    imagine if that were true.
    imagine what would come of that that all our meaningless victories cannot achieve.

    he needs to drown.
    go down and never come up again.
    explore the depths with open-mouthed awe in silence ringing in his ears as it all becomes perfectly clear as something one cannot see from the surface.
    he needs to drown.
    dive into the bottomless ecstasy beneath all fear.
    something forever.
    never forgetting the ceaseless wonder.
    remembering where the pieces fit.

    deep with blue out of the heat.
    he looks for more.
    he sees nothing.

    to always want it and never be with it.
    what would happen then?
    can he ever be with it or is it just a phantom he chases from place to place?
    always out of his reach.
    to always want it and never be with it.
    as soon as he gets close it disappears.
    was it his imagination?
    is this an old story?

    9/7
    waking in the middle of the night to the darkness.
    and to it.
           to it from him.
           to it.
           to it.
    whatever he has belongs to it.
    himself.
    he is a fool happy to be imagining it.
               it.
               it.
               it.

    he gives himself to it all he can without knowing what it is.
    is nothing it?
    is he a fool to let his imagination run wild and free?
    but he has always been a dreamer.
    what else is there to be - to join in their real world charade?
    let him go.
    let him go insane if that's what it means.
    let him dream.
    let him be damned.

    9/9
    dancing up over the line.
    in and out of his worlds.
    this could be anything right now at all.
    nothing that money can buy - though money can kill it dead.
    he doesn't care anymore.
    just let him go along.
    he's been asleep for so long - too long.
    he's been walking in his sleep.
    he's been doing everything in his sleep.
    and now he feels like he is awake.
    dancing in and out of line.
    up over his worlds.
    so as everything breaks against the light shining through the hole in his brain - or thereabouts somewhere.
    we die again and again as we stand and refuse to fall.

    9/10
    zero city.
    and this is not here.
    he is not here.
    where is he?
    all the time between time...

    bye-bye.
    good-bye.
    so long.
    saxophone plays humming along down some whatever street this is.
    trying to think of something to keep his mind off things that just circle around.
    rearview mirror.
    somewhere else.
    we were just wondering.
    and he's wondering about it himself up here again.
    strung out all the way home.
    it's a long way to fall.
    how does he face it?
    how does he turn away?
    it cuts deep when it comes.
    and he's afraid it's coming - it feels like it.
    his guts twisted up beyond pretzels into shapes borrowed from other dimensions.
    and he still has to wait for it.
    he's suspended on the edge of a cliff about to drop out of sight.
    and maybe he's so used to losing it all that he can't see nothing else.
    it might work out.
    but he doesn't know.
    he's just waiting here.

    he just tried to depend on too much.
    when is he going to learn that it's only him and nothing else?
    everyone is into their own game for their own gain.
    they don't want no one or nothing dragging them down.
    he's got to learn how to compete with all the rest of them.

    9/11
    the tunnel is getting deeper.
    the light is going out.
    where is he?
    he feels shadowed.
    too many people crying - especially the ones not crying.
    the pain is getting deeper.
    cutting into the soul.

    something is not being said for all the words and symbols of the many languages.
    something that makes all these words and symbols meaningless - or gives them their true meaning - or both.
    what is not being said?

    the circle is not complete though it has no beginning or no end - or maybe because it has no beginning or no end.
    it is unfinished.
    there is at least one moment more.
    that is all we may have.
    that's all we may need.

    the problem (what problem?) is one of design and control.
    design implies control.
    control implies design.
    design and control arise out of mass consciousness through individuals actually doing the designing and controlling.
    they may operate the process but they are as much expressions of the process as anything they design and control.
    a machine.
    he designs and controls a machine.
    he is as much an expression of the machine as the machine is an expression of himself.
    outside as much as inside.
    and where are we now?
    and who are we now?

    something that doesn't change.
    not static and absolute but what remains no matter how much it changes.
    turning as a wheel.
    he knows these words have been used before but he is working them around so that he may understand them himself.

    the imaginary city is imaginary.
    imagine a wall where there is no wall.
    imagine no wall where there is a wall.
    and the reverse of this as well.
    is there a wall?
    if so, how come?
    if not, how come?

    concepts implied into one another around and around thinking around and around again and again.
    does anyone know what any of this means?

    9/12
    it seems that he is always waiting for something here and now.
    he doesn't even know what it is most of the time.
    has he blown up his image of it to fantasy proportions?
    how much does he actually know?
    does he expect angels from heaven?
    he can see all through that business.
    there is only that which is human.
    maybe this seems foolish to think about but he's found a lot of false idols in his mind over the years.
    he's been trying to remove them so he can see what's really going on.
    he thought he had most of them removed but is this another one - this feeling?
    so what is this?
    another level of deception - self-deception?
    he thought it was all dead.
    he wants to see what it really is.
    he doesn't want it contaminated by all this other shit he's picked up over the years as part of his multi-layered indoctrination into this world of lies.
    how can he ever tell?
    will he ever be able to tell?

    introspection twisting his brain inside out to see what's wired to what.
    to see what is and what is not.
    self-neurosurgery dissecting through the iron and ice.
    what needs to be turned on.
    what needs to be turned off.
    what needs to be thrown out.
    holes everywhere.
    digging.
    loose wires sparking alive.
    connections broken and reconnected sideways.

    and what to think next?
    and what ever shall he do?
    auto-destruct mode on hold but waiting countdown.
    spinning out of control toward random directions.
    can he see anything at all?
    does he know what he does see?
    what is what is not.
    it's not always as it seems and is constantly changing.
    and is this anything new?

    as he returns.
    what does he return to?
    now his life seems more empty than the emptiness it was before.
    it had possibility before.
    for awhile.
    the hope isn't gone but the possibility is fading fast.
    less than zero.
    what does he do?
    where does he go?
    now being alone is lonely.
    he's never been lonely before.

    and to go and not come back.
    what does it cost - or is it a free trip?
    straight through.
    or do the brain police eventually get you - eternity with checkpoints.
    how does he dissolve it?
    how does he grab onto what isn't real and let the real fall away?
    or should he?
    which is the real and which is not?
    what does he see and what does he not see?

    he always ends up with questions.
    in and out of fantasy.
    he just can't be sure of anything.
    it keeps changing and turning from one thing to another and back around again and again.
    sometimes.
    it's impossible but it keeps on.
    he can't figure it out.
    he always ends up with questions.

    9/13
    pure nonsense driving the bus under the weather bringing it all down.
    so it turns.
    so it turns.

    and so he's wondering how all these things work.
    everyone is told not the question.
    everything is in code.
    all the wasted mind space.
    it's time for some poetic action.
    illusion.
    we enjoy the ride for as long as it lasts with no one knowing where we're going.

    and he doesn't feel like he belongs to this world.

    and a long time has gone by.
    and a long time may need to go by.
    where does it come close again?
    maybe never.
    this world is far from anything one might imagine.
    the pain he felt before has increased.
    a knife in the heart.

    just waiting for his future to be reveled.
    how much can he expect?
    will he again be denied for reasons unclear?
    it could be today.
    it could be tomorrow.
    it could be the day after or next week.

    a circle of stars.
    falling.
    he's in-between this and that.
    he's broken.
    rising.

    dancing.
    when the walls come down.
    will we see each other then - all the images and masks gone?
    dancing.
    naked in the garden.
    rain or shine.
    radiating to one another.

    9/16
    well, so where are we now?
    just another day in the life and all trash as that.
    doubting.

    9/18
    18 worlds from now.
    will we understand each other even then?
    will anything be what it is?
    will we cry?
    will we laugh?
    will we be together for any of the moments we spend apart?
    will what we feel today even be here tomorrow?
    will anything be here tomorrow?
    something from nothing but a dream or whatever it is.

    fly into the wind to gain some ground.
    hard way down, so stay up as long as he can while his wings support him.
    then crash.
    he's looking up at the sky again.
    it's as though nothing had happened at all, yet he's not where he used to be.
    something on the wheel has turned a bit again.
    everything has its season.

11/15/88

    and the other's finger pulls the trigger of the gun the other holds in his own hand pointed at his own head.
    the other denies this.
    the other seeks to control his every action while denying everything.
    this is the freewill of his own madness.

    he is still young.
    he will be young until his death.
    all he has not done.
    all the other has allowed him to do.
    he needs more than tolerance, he needs encouragement.
    the other hates him and in order not to be hated he has to turn himself into someone the other will not hate.
    then he has done nothing.
    the other's hatred will still exist.
    he will have only sidestepped it.

    the other's fear of him has been the only emotion expressed toward him.
    even the love the other feels is fear.
    why?
    he has looked at himself many times and has seen nothing to fear.
    he does not see the monster the other sees staring in the mirror who stares at the other.
    what does the other see?

    and in the following night when the light is more clearly seen.
    daylight revels nothing but what we've made of our real world.
    no mysteries.
    no depth.
    surface.
    static.
    stability.
    no chaos.
    no motion.
    no clouds drifting by the moon.
    silver gleaming.
    that light of shadow.

    and our inner night.
    our unexplored lands.
    some say only madness lies waiting there.
    burning candles alone in a basement.
    crazy.

    and what are we?
    creatures of loneliness.
    apart from god - yet we are god.
    apart from ourselves - each other.
    in a world of walls where hearts are broken.
    smashed.
    against the walls.
    shot.
    blindfolded.
    hands tied behind our backs.
    alone.
    and those who pull the triggers from orders they don't give themselves but come from others - elsewhere.

    and in the distance - yet not any more so far away - he sees the world of our dreams come true.

    and now another morning.
    sun where there was rain.
    he has woken up.
    but is it really another day or the same one repeating?
    the same moment repeating.
    alive.
    how is he alive?
    how is he not dead?
    he does not know either.

    into diamonds shaped by the expectations of our minds.
    does he know anything at all?
    he does know.
    into the broken shards of sorrow unbleeding on the steps of the temple.
    jesus.
    into flesh with deliberate exact nails.
    the flesh, the soul - the nails, the mind.

    pay the price for life on this earth.
    there is no true escape though many roads and doors lead toward that end.
    no more poetry.
    no more art.
    no more music.
    no more.
    banish everything that does not face the real.
    pay the price.

    to be able to speak anything.
    to be able to speak to anyone.
    what love there is but to the others is absurd and foolish.
    love is expressed by hard work and sacrifice.
    love is a whip.
    love is what is denied.
    and maybe he's the hopeless helpless romantic - the moonstruck troubadour dancing on clouds.
    and someday they will realize what part dreamers play but will realize it too late.
    there will no longer be a dreamer among them.
    they will have cast them out as lazy vagabond dangerous demons who are really images in their own minds.
    the importance they hold and weigh their own ideas of their limited world when outside their walls beautiful winds of possibility which blow through one's hair and dance.

    and beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free in a fool's dance away from the straight forward minds.
    tip-toe along the edge following the heart's unknown desire.
    unknown because the mind cannot predict the outcome of the infinite possibilities contained within each moment.
    yet the mind is always grasping for literal understanding.
    the heart is open.
    the heart should be open - unless it has been betrayed.
    then it learns not to trust itself.
    the heart that can no longer trust itself is a heart of loneliness.

    down in pig city.
    down inside the favorite mind which kisses itself in the dark.
    where no light reflects.
    the river is brown green and speaks to no one.
    no one has learned to listen.
    who is no one?
    who is willing to be no one?
    no one stands alone.
    no one whispers one's own name into the wind and hears it return.
    why should this be something desired?
    the state of standing still in a raging storm.
    why not blow away?

    look at where we stand.
    look at where we fall.
    look at who we are.
    look away across distant seas.
    or not.
    why should we be anything other than another wave?
    flying up - diving down.
    singing a song forever.
    or not.
    why should we want forever?
    the dance is over before it begins.
    the illusion it creates is no more than a blink - not even that.
    or not.
    how can one be many?
    how can one be all?

    nothing but endless shadows.
    the shadows in one's eyes.
    the shadow in one's voice speaking of nothing.

    dreamy moon.
    baby.
    sitting in some late night place drinking coffee with conversation and sizzling grill with a song cutting through it.
    and his thoughts in a cloud of soft quiet sparks leaping through his brain.
    like the conversation.
    like the sizzling grill.
    once in awhile like a song.

    11/16
    and today as he thinks upon the disease we humans have such as needing to mow lawns neat and trim to achieve a delicate sense of mental emotional social balance.
    yes, disease.

    and he dreams.
    he dreams because in this world what he dreams cannot get past the state of dreaming.
    his dreams are blocked.
    they are kept within him.
    the others set limits of what is allowed into the real world.
    they define what is and what is not perceived as the real world.
    they invent the terms and the language that describe the definitions of that perception.
    he cannot get past dreaming because he does not have a language that will allow him to do that.

    the search for language.
    the killer searches for language.
    the rapist searches for language.
    the thief searches for language.
    the drug addict searches for language.
    they try to communicate with us.
    we will not listen.
    we only listen with certain accepted parameters of language.
    we force them to communicate with us through frustrated rage.
    how do we respond?
    we respond by frustrating them all the more.

    and it all rolls over him and he rolls with it with him - through it through him - around it around him.
    or something...

    11/17
    within the starving structures of the everymind.
    within the cold heart.
    within the lies.
    he is abandoned.
    he is lost.
    he cannot speak.
    others project their images upon him.
    the others.
    it is their world in which he is forced to live.
    starving.
    in their world he is always hungry.

    they cannot see.
    they cannot hear.
    do they exist?
    do they exist of something of themselves or only as obstructions to his own existence?
    his own existence.
    he finds that little connects.
    he sends out probes and gets nothing back but fear/hatred/anger response.
    and they add the word love to it.

    and he is hungry.
    and he is cold.
    and he is wanting.
    and he sees them providing nothing either for him or themselves.
    he sees them only taking away - even when they give, they take away.

    11/18
    into freeform blues and other poems about dismemberment with flashing color lights.
    #8 - two eggs over easy, whole wheat toast and home fries.
    coffee.
    and nothing much more.

    and with nothing to say or write about nothing and it goes on like that from there.
    and here he's at at coming up on 4 in the morning and wondering what might come next.
    hearing his name called and not knowing how to answer.
    no one around is calling it.
    no one here knows what it is and wouldn't call it if they did.
    he sees the fear in their eyes when they look at him - the fear reflected from their own souls.

    and it could be anything or nothing at all.
    it could be everything.
    drowning in a thimble of water.
    silence.
    people talking and talking and all there is is silence.
    they have too much to lose.
    and he wants to scream.
    he's got nothing to lose - but he knows the extremes they'll take to shut him up.
    it's just silence everywhere he goes and in the silence and beyond the silence he hears his name called.

    and with nothing left except the fading sense of his own existence.
    is it him?
    is it anyone anymore?
    everything has been taken away.
    the reason given was that he was too selfish.
    they have it all and he's too selfish for wanting his own identity not to be swallowed up by their control machine.
    so he invents his own machine.

    and across a flow and pattern against reason - a reasoned world breaking into pieces.
    and the pieces fit together into new forms out of which his machine is designed and built.
    the grass grows.
    the forests move outward.
    everything expanding again.
    the beauty of ruin and decay.
    that is life.
    that is living.

    and we - what of us?
    who do we become in this new world recreated?
    do we continue to struggle against it and try to rebuild the old dead structures?

    11/20
    and whatever it is.
    and wherever it is.
    and whenever it is.
    and however it is.
    and we can't let it go.
    we all need to let it go.
    one or two or a few of us cannot let it go.
    some of those who try to make it end up nowhere.
    and those who make it make it by preying on the rest who stay behind.
    holding on.
    we all need to do it.
    it will only work if we all do it.

    and now the great minds have discovered chaos.
    oh boy.
    but they still don't see it.
    they're looking right at it and don't see it.
    only if they can calculate it.
    he knew it as a child.
    he could grasp it.
    we all knew it as children.
    to become a child again.
    to remain a child.

    and how it comes and goes without our knowing.
    in our sleep - our life long sleep.
    fantasy dream of rationality.
    forgetting.
    what hope is there?
    he sees it everywhere.

    is this totally pointless yet?
    how long does it go on?
    or what?

    spent poetry dancing on shadows.
    what does that mean?
    and cowboy drivers in those big hats sitting in truck stops
    bright weird satin.
    bow tie smile.
    and some other guy in a raincoat.
    colorful.
    being grotesquely deformed in a perception of formulation.
    beautiful.

    and how is it reached in everyone?
    how to touch their hearts - their being?
    not to change but to transcend who we are into who we are to become.

    and look at him
    he's screwed it up over and over.
    he let the implanted information control action and motive for action.
    lost.

    in a morning town of cold and rain - but not too bad, more like chill and drizzle, but a coming on winter chill and drizzle.
    yeah -
    so he's drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes.
    and writing.

    and many days of time go by.
    and what?
    who?
    where are we now?
    sitting here thinking and thinking and thinking.
    oh boy.
    here we are again.

    burnt starter - maybe.
    it would be his guest hooligan reason to doubt.
    the more he doubts the more he sometimes understands - learn.
    deadend with escape clause - applause.
    cheer crowds of millions gather at the scene of the crime in time.
    displaced wreckage of a mobile world view at high speed chase death cut scene where flames are introduced as ultimate victory.

    nobody knows - maybe not even one who knows.
    forget what one needs to in remembering what one can.
    the cross of cold iron - black as night.
    waiting for butterflies to leap out wanting - needing - to fly fly fly.
    to worship as one pleases to worship upon what one has to worship - the divine holy image and the everythingness it represents.
    even ideas are images before it.
    but not the mind empty but aware and realizing the context of its thoughts.
    our thoughts.

    our connected random sparks of inspiration and information as we need it - though where and how its message comes is an unpredictable mystery.
    and the everyday.

    and the everyday event feeding into our brains in one long passing moment.
    by far the most incredible thing to comprehend.
    the question of what is here and now.
    and having to deal with it on a level that keeps one from looking too deep.

    and everything being as it seems to be with us as creator creating ourselves along the way with us as a point of light flash in the darkness on/off on/off in its own rhythm as its rhythm is time itself and it all comes back haunting life as ghost heaven on earth.

    and in a moment.
    and in a pause between one breath and another.
    and in the air.
    and in the flesh.
    and in the spirit.

    living.
    being.
    infinity with it all at once and all as one.
    we divide our world.
    we set the limits to possibility.
    we cut ourselves off from what we then call god.
    god and human being reflections in a mirror - a mirror of space and time.
    a moment's thought.

    alive.
    he is alive.
    but what is that?
    what is it?
    he breathes.
    his heart beats.
    his brain thinks.
    he eats and shits.
    what else is there that gives him the sense that he is more than that - more than the sum of parts?
    is it just illusion?
    fantasy?
    is he a soul?
    is he really something encased in the flesh?
    something continual?
    or is that just wishful thinking?
    a dream of god.

    11/29
    and we were talking somewhat about nothing and not really listening to anything we were saying because we were having dark grave doubts about whatever we were thinking about and we weren't really thinking about nothing since there was not a real whole lot to think about too much anymore.

    he wanted to kill someone.
    and it's cold and dark outside.

    just a pawn in a game of kings.
    the light that burns through our minds.
    the edge of the light in each moment.
    the mind of light.
    just pawns in a game of kings.
    the rapid filtering movement yet slow and fixing light of light.

    this is it.
    this is the moment.
    what else have we been waiting for?
    why do we continue waiting?
    is anything else going to appear in the world?
    this is it.
    we are here.
    it is here and now.
    we create the ghosts we are afraid of.
    we build the walls of this babylon.

    11/30
    some other time at the same time as now the salesmen lay down the holy rap trying to zero it in for another score on the big board.
    keep rolling.
    keep stumbling on feet racing downhill.
    to the river.
    splash!
    it all goes to the river.
    no return.
    nothing continues as everything continues.
    the space of moments.
    the moments of time.
    time eternal at one moment inside out and backwards.

    interplay of dream horses dancing living as our flesh and breathing and shitting into toilets self-actualized selves and helicopter salad popped into a host of rainbow influenced happening now and again throughout the time a tree to fall in the soundless crash of it has become.
    do not despair oh lovely one who is always there which is never.

    breathing.
    rain.
    thought.
    action.

    drink the wine.
    being small of distance - whatever that means.
    nice pie.
    nice pair of pants.

    the killer.
    the disguise.
    the god.

    the bright nazi head in towering realms of fantasy.
    the pie.
    the round face peering around the corner.
    the final opening before the revolution.

    being kissed into particle glistening out of thin air.

    11/21
    and sometimes.
    and some other times.
    whenever.
    and he doesn't know what all these people want.
    what they're working themselves to death for.
    driving themselves crazy.
    it could be easy.

    and windows - windows of illusion.
    and color.

    crack it open.
    the minds bends to the glory making up its mind.
    excitement.
    the rational seeks justice to cover its sense of loss.
    the irrational seeks love to spread its sense of fulfillment.

    measurement.
    and we grow tired of hearing ourselves complain.
    we are whatever we are.
    sleeping a long long sleep again.
    death in a kiss without love and forgetting the names spoken.
    just all the familiar themes and words involved.

    and what do we explain about whatever we want to explain?
    we know better.
    we are.
    this is what it is.
    this is the rapid movement.

    we are them.
    we are the body.
    we are the mind.
    we are the distant communication.
    the cold between us where our warm breath clouds.
    small clouds of breath.

    6 o'clock shoe.
    the imaginary city that glows in the dark.

    yes - all the questions and possible answers.
    the quickness of time and nothing seems to happen.
    and being a memory of one's own self.
    a series of broken mirrors - divided images in mix-match unity.
    describe the event and the event is lost.
    yet underneath and through it all there is the flow of rhythm - but not as we usually think of rhythm.
    he has reached what he has been reaching for though much more remains of the journey.
    is the journey ever ended?
    he has crossed the border.
    he is home - or at least in his homeland.
    he is in the presence of what he can only call god.
    sometimes this experience brings him to tears - both of sorrow and joy.
    the lines converge into this moment and radiate out again.
    and that means nothing.
    falling in love with every face in the crowd.
    seeing the frustration and anger that drives their action.
    forgive them, they know not what they do.
    like guns.
    in focus by remaining out of focus.
    breathing it in and breathing it out.

    and whatever it was as it was and whatever it is as it is.
    is this too simple?
    is it too complex?
    why doesn't it fit into what people are doing when what they are doing is what it is?
    it's all connected.
    why do we see it as divided?
    is he really that far off - either insane or enlightened?
    does it matter?

    11/25
    into another sense of talking beyond what is said or not said.
    what is the difference?
    which communicates the most?
    or what is communicated?
    factory mind - preset mode of operation.
    what is the difference?
    what is the common element?
    he doesn't know.
    and the mind that spins out on its own.
    how are these two joined?
    how do they communicate?
    which is wrong and which is right?
    how do we get past thinking in terms of one being wrong and one being right?
    he doesn't know.

    and it being it.
    as it is it and it is it.
    that's all it is.
    it.
    what more needs to be?
    what more words do we add that won't only confuse what is?
    and why not?
    confusion is the point of understanding.
    it is confused.
    confusion is it.
    the universe is the expression of the confusion of it - of it trying to decide whether to be this or that.
    this and that both being it and it being both this and that.
    and this and that being equal but each appearing to be more equal than the other.

    and a time between what is and what is not with both at once being the vibration of it.

    11/26
    in a non-pattern of rhythm into strange that is at once familiar talking to himself glipx standing up from the crooked chair upon he sat he loosened his tie and winked at the children looking in through the storefront window.
    this was a time to be remembered though the remembering became the action of it and the creation of it.
    everything is based in it from jesus to shit, from butterflies to maggots.
    a pile of it.
    a pile of jesus.
    a pile of shit.
    a pile of butterflies.
    a pile of maggots.
    too much of it.
    not enough of it.
    it is too much.
    it is not enough.
    the wonder is gone.
    therefore the wonder is about to begin.
    pointless ruin followed by pointless salvation and both being it.
    and it being ecstatic ruin followed by ecstatic salvation.
    a good time had by all and no one who are the same as being it.
    we are it.
    they are it.
    let's be it.

    melting hearts on the table and the winner takes them all and there is always a winner as long as we keep thinking in those terms of those who are let in and those who are not.
    no one is allowed into the imaginary city unless everyone is allowed in - people across the spectrum.
    and blah blah blah.
    imagine nothing where nothing meets everything and becomes one and the same because the division between two things is non-existent.
    what is one and what is the other?

    it breaks apart.
    it always breaks apart.
    to go where it breaks.
    to break with it.

    11/28
    formed out of the formlessness it follows itself from one to the other hiding and seeking with the danger and the comfort.
    it is itself.
    it is also not itself.
    out of this simple paradox comes the multi-varied universe - the bits and pieces.
    how does one explain.
    what good does it do to see it?

4/17/89

    and as it comes and goes.
    and he thinks it's mainly the isolation that gets to him.
    and there doesn't seem to be anything he can do to get beyond that.
    so it breaks like the constant surf.
    and is it anything?
    what?
    so it breaks like glass shattering over and over.
    and he has no idea what he's writing about here at all.
    he's just another fool.
    what does it matter?
    he doesn't care what anyone does to him.
    he just wishes they'd stop doing it to each other.
    and to say this world is mad is to state the obvious.
    so what?
    it is what it is.
    it breaks like cracks in the thin ice we skate on.
    we point guns at each other's head and call that trust.
    fuck these goddamn people and all their petty power and control and authority bullshit.
    what do any of them know?
    yeah - sure...

    robotheads protecting what cannot be concealed.
    closed minds festering and soft.
    keeping away from any windows.
    breathing hard.
    stiff hand.
    television information and response.
    just more of the same.

    into the dark where nothing can be quite called by name.
    we are silent.
    we are closed off from one another.

    turning through spheres and each has its own conflict and those in conflict within it.
    the laws and the rules they invent to prevent themselves from moving out of the conflict.
    they eat it and breathe it.
    and he is the same as them - only more so.

    as it begins with it.
    as it ends with it.
    sex.
    as the beginning and the ending are the same.
    as this has nothing of any use or purpose to their everyday concepts of what is and what is not real.
    who cares?
    what do they need that he could give them?
    they talk and talk.
    revolution.
    change.
    talk talk.

    eat the sound.
    degenerate.
    become the nothing/everything.
    sing the song of the heart the mind can forget.
    a shoe.
    it's a shoe.
    a shoe and so much more.
    and it's not even a shoe.
    where it begins and where it ends.
    and it begins and ends at the same point.
    that is the point of infinity.
    what?
    what is he writing about?
    who is knocking at his door?
    who is calling out his name?
    he is only imagining...

    following a crooked path.
    an invisible line that can only be seen by imagining one can see it.
    outside their world.
    outside their vision.
    invisible.
    it is invisible because it is so fucking goddamn obvious.
    a joke.
    a change of plans.
    a song and dance.
    or is it only him?
    huh?

    on the brink of being on the point of being on the edge.
    now.
    become what one already is.
    the dividing line of self and self.
    no one sees it because there is nothing to see.
    no one sees it because they are too busy looking for it.
    needless mystery.
    riddles.

    oh yeah - let's hear another love song with everyone still dreaming that such a thing exists they keep dropping in money in the damn machine that keeps the fantasy alive that keeps them dropping in money in the damn machine that keeps the fantasy alive that keeps them dropping in money...
    junkie monkeys drunk and drooling over themselves and sly innuendoes slithering like snakes out of their mouths with a dry laugh.
    or something like that.
    it sells - who cares?
    as long as they buy whatever product is delivered to give them that edge.
    and he hopes all their wishes come true - all the wishes that deny what they really want.

    fuck.
    forget it.
    just forget it.
    he gets tired of trying to twist this all out.
    nobody cares so why should he?
    it's all such a mess.
    the more he tries to get out of it the more tangled up he gets.

    and it never quite ever gets resolved by and by and the nothing and everything of it all.
    just thinking too much.
    instead he should be doing this or that.
    instead...
    instead...
    and he breaks down and he holds himself from breaking down.
    he survives.
    here he is surviving.
    oh boy.

    and so many people trying to be who they think they should be and not making it.
    and who does he think he should be?
    he sure ain't making it either.
    and why?
    money?
    sex?
    fame?
    fast cars?
    big house?

    lick it.
    how simple does it need to be?
    yet our complex brains and our complex thinking about complex dada keeps on and on about whatever we keep on and on about.
    break through to where it returns.
    and it returns with a big fat loud flaming crash landing.
    a thousand times.
    a million times.
    lick it.

    twist it around every which whatever way it goes and look at it from every direction we can turn our heads to keep from facing the fact that there is nothing there.
    another sneering face passes by.
    too cool to be true.
    a man among men.
    a woman among women.
    another wall.

    and this does nothing to get through.
    mustard.
    he might as well write mustard as much as anything else.
    or napkin.
    or ceiling.
    or jambooie.
    all is all - and all is nothing in a blink of an eye.
    a nod and a wink.
    smoke up the chimney.

    and does anyone know anything about any of this at all?
    tables of people as far away as the moon.
    it breaks.
    it's all going to break.
    chosen words.
    converting the windows into whatever shape we need to deny their existence - fit the decor.

    and why bother with people and the way they think?
    if they could understand anything about what one was saying to them one wouldn't need to say it.
    forget it.
    just fucking forget it.

    another dead dream.
    all about how it...
    nevermind.

    a word without meaning.
    circle.
    poetry written on walls hung with fire extinguishers.
    gotta work.
    work for nothing.
    money.
    how much money does it take to finally end the overwhelming sense of overwhelming isolation?
    how much?

    and how much he loves to dwell in this dada.
    he knows.
    he knows whatever and it ain't enough.
    when is this enlightenment thing supposed to kick in?

    periods shut off with pain driving nails into the skull around his brain.
    the brain feels no pain, they say.
    the brain feels no pain.
    the brain cannot see or smell or taste or hear or touch or sweat or shiver or eat or shit or drive a car or open a window or write anything down on paper about all the things the brain cannot do.
    does it matter?
    small change.

    the brain itself not knowing of itself and there comes a time when we...
    yes.
    no.
    maybe it doesn't matter.
    maybe nothing changes.
    how can nothing change?
    maybe.
    he doesn't know.
    does anyone?

    over the fields of the dead.
    villages.
    death.
    blood.
    eyes wide open.
    seeing nothing for the first time.
    as nothing changes.
    as nothing changes into everything.
    maybe there's no such thing as nothing.
    maybe there's no such thing as everything.
    maybe nothing and everything are the same.
    but that won't buy one anything.

    squat.
    blue.
    development undergoing sleep.
    don't think about it.
    don't speak.

    how much?
    how come?
    disease.
    rhythm.
    hope.
    driving a car.
    opposite.
    fuse.

    and what is it really about? - as if anyone wants to know.
    what is this masquerade of created stuff?
    this substance of nothing changing.
    this void where anything can exist - as long as it follows the rules.
    this mouth that speaks of riddles.
    the buddha farts.
    is that a joke?
    is anything a joke?
    why do we laugh?
    parade.
    jesus loads the gun.
    jesus aims and fires.
    jesus.
    how come?
    how much?

    straight line theory.
    hole in the head.
    mystery.
    yet stumbling in the dark.
    we are not what we have yet to become.

    this is an ongoing and undergoing project to write the ancient writings of the byblia dylexikon. this is done via the means of realization that our present understanding of the relationships of things in space and time is not "up to par". in fact it isn't anywhere close. therefore and ergo we proclaim here and now the new explanation of the same old story. each age has its mode of interpreting the ever-changing constant truth of it all - or whatever passes for truth in any given age. the realization of this comes to us by means of us just making the whole thing up. in other words, the whole thing is bogus. now some who might be reading thus far may find themselves creating a problem with that statement. they may feel that if the whole thing is made up and bogus then it is meaningless and pointless. they are still under some delusion that writings of a spiritual nature should derive from some authoritative source. they are so far removed from themselves that they can only accept the "truth" from an external source. this truth of theirs must be some sort of universal and absolute truth. others will understand that whether or not there is universal and absolute truth it can only be known as it is individually perceived.
    our truth is a bogus truth. it relies on no proof to be true as well as not needing to be true in order to be true. to those who need proof in order to know truth the only proof that we might provide is that there is no proof, therefore it is not true - which is what we stated, isn't it?
    this is where imagination comes in as since we used imagination to make this all up imagination is needed to understand it. without imagination there is no existence. through imagination things are known that cannot be known any other way. the advantage of knowing through imagination is that what is known is known to oneself. this frees one from the control imposed by those who want only one truth for all and all for one truth.
    though that idea provides safety in numbers it does nothing for the individual whose sense of safety does not come from numbers but from oneself and more often than not the numbers are against one.
    as the one truth must be rigid and impersonal in order to cover the most ground - the lowest common denominator - it cannot be applied to each individual. then each individual finds oneself having to question their own definitions of existence and such like that in order to fit them into this one universal absolute prescribed truth. this brings in guilt.
    to us any god or whatnot who would impose guilt for whatever reason upon those it creates isn't much of a god. any guilt must ultimately rest with that god itself as those it creates can only act within the limitations set on them by their creator, even if these limitations are what is commonly referred to as freewill - especially freewill dependent on faith as the path to fulfillment and being judged to be good or evil and those who are to be accepted or rejected.
    who thought up such a thing?

    and somewhere maybe jesus still walks the earth, but not here.
    let's go surfin' now.
    everybody's learnin' now.
    come on a safari with me.

    it all burns with strange fire.
    it twists like a snake in the grass.
    he keeps trying to think but can't get to what it is.
    the mysterious mixes with the real and he cannot tell the difference between the two - or three...
    oh boy!

    this comes as it comes.
    this comes as we make it up.
    our realization comes through our imagination - through our ability to imagine ourselves realized.
    we take authority and responsibility for realization to ourselves.
    it is we who decide.
    awareness comes through the human mind and imagination no matter its source.
    we as human become aware.
    it is only that which we understand that is truth.
    but there is no truth - there is only theories.
    truth is obsolete.
    it's yesterday's news.

    the heart knows more than the mind yet the mind directs the heart into understanding.
    the heart will only chase itself.
    the mind will only build empty boxes.
    it is the balance that leads to the field of flags which is the center of the imaginary city.

    the path to the field of flags is long and treacherous.
    it is not even a path but a thick jungle we must struggle through on our own without direction.
    there is no direction to the field of flags.
    it is true that all paths lead to the field of flags.
    but it is true that all paths lead away from the field of flags as well.
    there are many blind who lead who measure the correctness of where they are going by how many people follow.
    the way to the field of flags is often in the direction we feel we must not go.
    direction is only symbolic movement.
    movement is only symbolic direction.

    so what is this other than deception?
    it is none other than that.
    yet without meaning to deceive it deceives.
    there are those who do not know who they are.
    there is confusion.
    it is our idle amusement.
    to those who become confused but who will not admit that the confusion is within themselves.
    they did not build centuries old series of civilizations for nothing but just to be confused.
    or did they?
    who wants to admit that they do not know what they are doing?
    we will.

    they must project their confusion on others who do not follow their confused state of reality.
    we are the scapegoats.
    we are the ones sacrificed.
    this is how they maintain their dreamworld.
    life imitating understanding.
    they seek death.
    they seek that which never changes.
    that is their paradise.
    they call this eternal life.

    their eternity does not begin until some future time.
    our eternity is here and now.
    our eternity has always been and will be.

    they say eternity is not within human fate or understanding.
    we are not human.
    we have allowed ourselves to become human in order to enjoy eternity.
    our movement is directionless.
    our direction is motionless.

    they fail to understand that they already possess what they are fighting and struggling to gain.
    if heaven is not here and now then what good is it?
    the moment is our eternity.
    it can end at any moment.
    we enter into the imaginary city.
    we dance in the field of flags.

    but of course this is all nonsense.
    we view it that way as well.
    the only difference is that that does not bother us as it seems to bother others.
    should we deny it?
    why?

    they want it to fit into their absolute truth.
    it never will.
    so it must be wrong.
    they want to be able to add it and subtract it and multiply it and divide it.
    they want it to always come up with the same answer.
    this can only be done if we deny most of the reality around us.
    the whole idea of creation is to not come up with the same answer twice.
    this is what keeps it going and fluid.
    otherwise it would stop.
    stop dead.

    any time something acts of its own free they will think it needs to be fixed.
    something has gone wrong.
    everything must be kept in line.

    but back to the point...
    is there a point to something that is nonsense?

    the point is pointless.
    things that do not end because they do not begin.
    kill the dog that does not bark at ghosts.
    dancing in the field of flags.
    every word is too much and not enough.
    we choose what we want to choose.
    what is left is nothing and everything.
    the creation of the universe is god trying to hide from itself.
    or something like that.
    god sleeps.
    god drools on the pillow that is the void.
    the drool forms into heaven and earth and all the things between and beyond thereof.
    god is the mythological face of it.
    it is it.
    it is nothing and everything and all the ships at sea.
    it looks at us as we look at it.
    just do what's gotta be done as quickly and cheaply as possible and pick up a paycheck and go home and watch tv.

    it breaks where it breaks.
    the light and the dark come in where they will.
    and there is nothing that will protect anyone in the end when it all comes crashing down.
    all will be dead weight to us.
    all that we hold onto will only prevent us from moving when it's time to move.

    all the empty pockets.
    all the broken hearts.
    all that a thousand civilizations have brought down upon us.
    safety in numbers.
    kill off the odd ones.
    drag them through the streets and hang them up.
    as long as we are safe and warm and never have to look at what is twisted up inside our souls.

    the bogeyman.
    the big ape.
    ha-ha.
    human history.
    and trash like that.

    many moons.
    we are from many moons.
    we are of many moons.
    too many wide-eyed children have looked behind the curtain.
    big deal.
    hands in pockets.
    mouth in grin.
    let go.

    and what to say to who?
    he doesn't know.
    he is no one.
    he is nothing to them.
    he is everything to himself.
    he doesn't care anymore.
    no more than they do.
    falling from a sky.
    dreaming about the dream shattering into a million pieces like the many moons exploding.
    asleep away from the divine eye winking in the blink of an eye in robes fashioned from the thoughts traveling between one moment to another.

    something against the divine absolute formulation we spoke aloud around in circles of circles of us speaking about something else we were maybe only just thinking of thinking in that moment or two that we remember.

    into a tailspin dada hell screaming in wild delusion of self self self - etc.
    no more names to sing with.
    no more wind in hair.
    waiting for the end and beginning to come.

    the eternal dialogue of dada stuff in his brain like a computer trying to figure out what is true and what is false.
    how can he do anything else?
    some of it spills out down onto these pages.
    what does that do?
    none of it comes close to expressing what the real thing is.
    the total madness of it all.

    from the deep dark pools of tranquil depression - the screaming isolation cell - the skies of euphoric flight - and on and on.
    how does he know which is real?
    are any of them real?
    and on and on.
    and no one speaks.
    if they do they are asked to leave.
    if they do not leave they are taken away.

    free form spontaneous reality nailed up into boxes sculpted into static form rigid and unyielding.
    their mono-ideal.
    never many.

    twisting and turning around and about inside out up and down and sideways to and fro and on and on blah blah blah etc. dada.
    how do we describe who/what we are except by being?
    yet we stop every step of the way.

    the idea of waves.
    the idea of anything.
    sky.
    mountain.
    desert.
    computer.
    clock.
    coffee cup.
    paper and pen.
    doo-wah-ditty.
    clown.
    laughter.

    a thousand and a thousand and a thousand and a thousand gates.
    every which way toward a common place where each is their own and we are all together.
    where in the hell do we find that?

    images trapped in images of themselves we believe are real.
    and he is trapped in this more and more in whatever this all is.
    drop it.
    but he can't.
    it spins all around in his head and he can't get it out and he can't get himself out.
    and he just laughs.
    and he just cries.
    and he'd like to kill each and every one of them.
    who cares?
    just get out any way he can.
    by and by.
    and everybody talking at him yet he doesn't see any one of them in here with him.

    life and everything is such a joy.
    gun in hand.
    pull the trigger.
    by and by.
    he should hold onto the world?
    he should care about anything at all?
    burn it down - all the twistoid people hooked on any drug.
    it doesn't end.

    and with pen about to run out of ink.
    please be pleased.
    down on this street.
    down on eye to eye level with these fools who call themselves human.
    he hates them at the same time as he loves them.
    they tear his heart apart.
    and so it remains the same.
    so these people sit here and rot.
    and he could get away very easily.
    but what about them?

    and why does he go on?
    is he kidding himself that anything he might do will make any difference?
    anything that will happen will have to come from someone else.
    all he can do is wait.
    it needs to come from them
    it either does or doesn't.
    do they care?
    does he care?
    how long does he have to wait?

    just more and more images piled on top of one another and he wants to break through them all but he can't.
    they all split and double and split again on and on and a few dozen zillion more times.
    and he wouldn't mind if they didn't each cause so much pain.
    they burn in his brain.
    smoldering and once in awhile burst into flame.
    and these people - how dead can the get?
    they zombie through this life.
    they do nothing but fuck with each other.

    and in the space hereby state concerned message idiot basic reserved whatever remaining days interested reality worldwide freak out changes these being before be like dosed gonna daddy of them all cycles one moment turning over certain wandering moons ago if it's true nightmares the toilets friends backing up revolution breathed shit down political and this is it?

    on waves of flags and jazz like that.
    hello?
    hello?
    what is this?
    where is he now?
    wandering through the maze of mirrors and the people who live in the images of themselves.
    the cracks are cracking.
    poor dizzy brain spinning in it and around it.
    2+2=4
    2+2=4
    2+2= wait - what?
    yeah, and stuff on and on like that.
    and he's sitting in this place in nowhere.
    it keeps happening though.
    somewhere on the wind with these moments of life passing by.
    how poetic.
    he doesn't know how seriously he should take this.
    he's afraid to and he's afraid not to.
    he finds himself laughing more and more as it all kinda goes by.
    it makes the others nervous.
    and he doesn't get any of this.
    he never did and he never will.
    booga-booga.
    zap!

    and it cracks and slips and slides.
    and it comes and goes so much sometimes it's both at once.
    but we rational folk know for a fact that that's impossible.
    everything is divided between this and that.
    everything has its place.

    5/3
    or so it seems on the surface with the surface being endless and extending beneath even the surface and all that is obvious but too few of us seem willing to follow it out and as far as the individual goes following this out is just fine with the shaman bit choking mouth but then the conflict with the individual against the rest of the human race who are all snugged up tight in the safe cocoons of defined regulated reality which to call it reality is sort of a joke because it's not really because it's a fantasy to protect themselves from reality which is boundless.

    and who's kidding who?
    his reality is nothing.
    his reality is dada.
    his reality is not their reality they feel obliged to remind him of every moment of every day and day.
    forget this romantic subterfuge.

    and how does he feel moment by moment?
    it's on.
    it's off.
    and it's them or him.
    it's for or against.
    we stand our ground and take no prisoners.
    it's easier to fall than it is to fly.

    and in our sky and with our sky and in the image of the sky in our minds we worship some other place rather than the here and now.
    we remove ourselves from ourselves.

    just stay away from them.
    keep as much distance as he can between where he roams and where they stand.
    their ways are lies to themselves about who they are and who they might be.
    it is no benefit to him and he has been damaged by it enough already.
    he does not want to fight them.
    if that's the only way they can see it then let them win.
    dream away from their world to find his own.
    here and now.

    just a joke.
    and they take it so seriously except what they should take seriously they take as a joke.
    blues for all the fools in the world.
    and the screaming songs of their chaotic minds clenched teeth.
    the sharp line that divides the one into many - dividing each from itself.
    blues for an old friend who used to be himself.
    and he used to be someone else.
    remember?

    and nowhere to find the time and place where we can be together one as one.
    two struggle through shapes of one another never finding the way across the division between ourselves.

    a contest.
    will against will.
    one determined not to be the other.
    never give an inch without taking back two.
    no one speaks freely.
    no one really speaks at all.
    the windows are all closed and locked - the shades are drawn - the lights are out.
    everyone is asleep.
    no one looks outside anymore.

    and so it keeps twisting down upon itself and it's easy to go down with it.
    he has nowhere else to go.
    he's tired of grabbing onto nothing.
    this is just a dream.
    he wants to wake up.
    he tries to touch another and they cringe away.
    who do they see him as?
    what sort of monster does he appear to be?
    he is amazed that he frightens anyone when he is terrified of them.
    mutual fear.
    it keeps twisting down upon itself and it's so easy to go down with it.
    this whole life ends up being nothing.

    the words don't matter.
    the thoughts don't matter.
    the feelings don't matter.
    we use the same words.
    we have the same thoughts.
    we feel the same.
    human is human.
    but we get hung up.
    we refuse to see the similarities and argue endless about the differences.
    dada.

    to do what he wants to do.
    to do what he doesn't want to do.
    to be able to see it all.
    to see how it's all tangled and not be able to untangle it.
    to not be able to show his face.
    to always be hidden behind images of who people see him to be.
    to have them treat him as that image - mostly with hatred and anger cleverly disguised by their social enactments so they can keep believing that nothing is wrong.

    the eternal life of each moment.
    each moment that is one moment dividing itself into an infinite number of moments and as long as it keeps dividing it sidesteps the paradox of this being impossible.
    it's all impossible.
    it's not that the human mind does not understand.
    it understands perfectly well.
    it's all impossible.
    it's all right there at that point of realization that everything is impossible that the human mind becomes the mind of god and can take the wheel.
    huh?

    to become.
    to become nothing.
    to become nothing as everything is nothing.
    wait.
    wait in the moment for the moment.
    this is it.
    no one seems to see this but him - or if they do they say nothing about it.
    he screams it.

    plasma dada.
    continual nothingness confusion with each and everyone at the helm of a ship that crashes itself.
    by and by.

    into flame.
    burning sense.
    positive/negative.
    nothing no one except whoever and whatever it might be in some phase of this moment we may find ourselves in.
    now and forever more.
    this is it.
    what else could it be?
    we don't know but what we see is it disguised as being something else and he doesn't know what that something else is or where it's going but everyone else seems to believe in it or just maybe need to believe in it or something.
    or maybe no one believes in it.
    no one seems to be all that happy with it, that's for sure.
    even those who appear to design and control it - though that appearance is deceiving - don't seem to be all that happy with it which is probably what is behind their need to appear to design and control it.
    then there are those who have dropped out of it altogether or as much altogether as they can who obviously aren't all too happy with it either.
    and then there are all the others who just follow it because it's comfortable but they don't seem that happy either.
    this would seem to be what we all agree on but we blame and fight with each other.
    so what is going on?