Take Another Look











As if I think meaning is nothing if it doesn’t hold a key or clue to how to handle the future but if some one doesn’t know how to be in your life now how can you expect them to ever figure out how to be in your life later?  I mean how can you trust them to figure it out if they only show signs that they don’t try their best. You don’t care if their best is 20 percent, as long as they are trying, you can make do with 20 percent. But something is holding them back, they won’t tell you. Is it something you did? They flounder in an out of your life, making you feel so much better, so connected and alive for once,  then leaving you out in the cold to shoulder your own time bomb.

“I relieve you of your obligation of caring of me,” they say, but no can do. All I did was doggedly search for a way, single minded as always, ignoring every wound, but I  keep going. A determined heart and a reckless bold mind- I wish it were the other way around, with the determined mindset and a bold heart? Hell, I don’t know. Every part of me seems bold but also hesitant as hell. Either way.. It’s scaring me, What I mean is that I scare me but I don’t care about fear. It’s okay to be afraid. Like that little saying ever did anybody any good.. it probably has.

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{February 25, 2010}   Bad Influences

Note to self: Wrote this around Parker, who tends to bring out my vindictive side. He snuffs every tiny feeling near him out as if he were a waiter going around taking out the candles by hand. If you go back several entries you will see his own writings. Old, personal rewrites that he read to me. Go. Read about the rat, the hayloft of maggots, or heaven coming apart. The writing reminds me of handwriting so tiny you can barely read it. Writing that has been etched so hard that the pencil has broken after every word. I wrote this story today in his presence. Though the entry with his images is a tedious read, maybe it gives you some perspective on who he is. To this day, I continue to think I am immune to evil inside other people. Why? Because I close my eyes and count to ten? No. Because I know how to let go of what I’m feeling, or what somebody incidentally made me feel… Sometimes I feel it’s all I know how to do, let go and hold on. I just hope I don’t do it at the wrong times. I don’t know what is worse. Holding on to the wrong person; or holding on at the wrong time. If I’m holding on to the wrong person, I’m letting go of everything else just to hold to them. Time plays a role in all no matter how we struggle. I held onto Parker once, and now he will never let go of me.  Does he wait for me to turn to him in a moment of weakness? Does he dream of me calling his name, asking him to rescue me? Does he dream of the touch of my skin? I know I will never forget how tenderly he touched me. Neither will I forget how much he contributed to the opera of ash. The music he said was dangerous to listen to because it filled the audience with anger that was directed at them, making them the victim. If so I succeeded. I made an audience feel what I felt. What it’s like to be a hostage to Parker’s fanaticism and Irwin’s schizophrenia.

Is it true? After I hang around somebody does more than skin, smell, disease, or words rub off? As if I am inbred to suction up whatever is inside somebody else so that it enters my world as an image seen through glass. With Parker, I feel the vindictiveness. I even start griping around him. I will complain for hours, asking him over and over, why did this person say this or do this? He churns me like a wheel, getting me riled into a senseless rage about small qualities that are so very human. When he is here he begins to drip with sweat. It has no smell, but it drips onto the carpet or bed. It is the only sign that he emotes.

Outside of family, he chooses almost no company. Does he think that I am supposed to only forgive what he deems worthy? He worships the fact that he is a mothers boy and seems to drain some satisfaction from it. But his mother is tortured by the fact that her favorite son has never left home. He has only tried to kill himself, and now they might be what keep him on this earth. I don’t have to tell you that you never know. Remorse goes afterward. Would it really change anything as close and far as the future if you felt it beforehand? He treats everything so seriously. I wish he could laugh, or get me to laugh. I know there are people that are difficult to make laugh. But Parker is the only one who bottles the joy up just like he bottles the anger up. And both dishes he serves cold. Only tenderness is something he can express. But what does tenderness mean when it comes from a man of restraints?

Was this written by me, or by the me that I was when Parker was around? Easy to exhume the responsibility, isn’t it. But I mean it. Influence is strong.

I am a sponge to my environment, the people in it, the sounds around me, the air I breathe. Children tend to make me feel light. My cat makes me feel relieved. A person is a bundle of things, like a never ending pawn shop that keeps getting new purchases and selling items out. Their exposure is the most valuable to me. Also the most deadly. But I call myself immune because I think I let go of everything. My pawn shop might only have one item in it at a time but it’s always open…



{February 23, 2010}   no bail out

Jason’s hair curls down past his chin. If you were overly ambitious, you might describe the color as soupy dark. In reality the colors belong to an old dog with grey, white, and cobweb-like black patches covering the skin. He shoots his friend an anxious look when she tells him how many benzos she erratically consumes. She tells him she stopped cold turkey and how her nightmares mostly involve people stuck in their own excrement being beaten, the sound of hysterical screams coming out of an attic, and the calm clerk coming out to explain that she had only two, no six minutes to get ready for her appointment and that her mother had left them a deliriously frantic message about how she could not, under any circumstances, be late.

The people had been talking about how Jason had “let himself go” and such.He was the perfect candidate for one of those before and after shots- he’d just have to switch the before to after abd the after to before. He’d gained about a hundred pounds- an effect of the Seraquil the doctor insisted he take to sleep. The doc didn’t tell him about this effect until the weight had been sitting there uselessly for about a year, despite the fact that Jason was an avid walker.

Jason also had several kids from different women. Now that they were approaching teenage status they all wanted to be cool the way he was.He wasn’t like the tightass grownups most kids had for fathers. They felt they could tell him anything. Jason lived in the moment.

“Jason,” the girl across from him asks, her smile fading. He’d been showing her jewelery and she bought two earring sets for ten bucks, with one more thrown in for free.

“I just want to do this cold turkey.”

Jasons eyes fill with hard fear and panic.

“You can’t do that love. It took me four months to go from four milligrams a day and look at me now! I only need one a day but I can get by on five a week.”

“I am tired of it messing with me. I used to have a photographic memory.”

She lowers her voice and leans in, tapping on her coffee cup. “Now I get forgetful.”
She pronounces the word forgetful the way a housewife with children would pronounce the word pedophile. The contempt is visible and Jason is shaken.

She sighs. She purses her lips thoughtfully.

“Jason, how come you always look so burdened by talkin’ to me? What’s the matter?”

A look of relief fills his eyes but the rest of his face still registers alarm.

“Cuz I just don’t know what to say! It’s erratic but you can’t go cold turkey you just can’t. Don’t you know how dangerous that is?”

“But it’s the only way that works for me. I wouldn’t know how to go down- I just know extremes. I take twenty milligrams at once and I still can’t sleep. So I take ten more milligrams two hours later-it doesn’t seem so much at the time. They are number two’s so it’s only fifteen pills.”

“Your body can’t process that much at once. It treats it like a poison, flushing most of it out so you can’t feel it.”

“I feel it. Just not until the next day..and maybe that is the methadone. I just don’t know.”

Jason looks around wildly to make sure nobody is listening. The girl, she don’t care.

“Just cuz you can hold your drink- or in this case pins- doesn’t make it advisable. Don’t model yourself on the man in the book any longer, girl. Aim higher.”

He hugs her and kisses her on the head.

“I love you,” he says.
“Thanks,” she responds, feeling slightly grateful for this open display but sorry she can’t return it.She has gotten so careful with her love these days. She used to dole it out to all her friends, freely hugging them and sitting on their laps. Then a truck came rolling, snatched her from her friends, and raided her of that feeling of carefree abandonment. When she returned she shook off their hugs and couldn’t stand their open displays anymore.

She kept her arms folded into herself, her smile turned downwards, her laughter locked away. Nobody knew how to reach the sonofabitch who was holding the key.

when she discussed a certain guy with Parker, Parker made the mistake of saying she had been held hostage. She never mentioned his name again to anybody. And since it was so unlike her to refrain from mentioning something that occupied her thoughts, nobody pursued the point.



{February 22, 2010}   AWAKE

Dreams and more dreams so vibrant. Take the veil of sedation away and I can finally see what is going on without being tied up with a hood over my head. That was the difference in dreams before. Now I’m sore and my eyes are not used to anything but the dark and the dreams are psychotically unpleasant if I play the plots back in my own head- so much sickness, for instance, so much was forced…but I was able to escape the usual horrors but I shouldn’t get too ahead of myself, a few days without the biometer that changes everything in my body- my temperature, appetite, mood, respiratory system, breathing, all so I don’t have to feel what? My own abilities and failures? Who cares about what I’ve been caring about for so long there was a reason and it is so like me to spend all my time dismantling the tiniest spark of confidence left. I think I scared Downey away forever, I mean my whole being patient thing was getting annoying so I threw a grenade in the mix I’m tired of games. It had to do with something relevant at the time…sometimes somebody floats so far away from you (but they might be hiding in the cargo silent u just don’t know) so.u cut the strings or you dive out in the water looking for them anything you do could be fruitless with the opposite approaches u are taking. And while I expect anybody who dares to be involved with me to take a very stealthy approach that could mean being lost at sea for a very long time since the only approach they accept is on their terms; terms they won’t and don’t share with me. So even when I do things on their terms they might not realize it because if they are assuming a stealthy approach it could all be blown to smithereens but I’m not sure of what I’m speaking.



{February 22, 2010}   humor

I used to write things that were funny… My writing has not been funny in so long. I wonder when it will come back. Sometimes there is a lot of shadows and seriousness and there is no way to chase it away. In fact the worst approach is to chase it away or try and scare it from coming away. In those moments I think you can’t be a predator or a victim. You have to stand very still and wait for the spider to crawl off you. Or you have to just make a run for it, take the risk, jump off the fence. But there is always something you can do. Even if it means making the fear go away by doing the last thing it expects. I used to be considered “the free spirit.” I used to have something to laugh about an awful lot. But there are these manic days that seem to be cursed by all black and by this paralyzing thing that nothing will change and that… I don’t know how to put it into words unless you read that thing I wrote that said “fear is what…” and then there were many different scenarios. Fear is when you can’t find the right word to put down, lol.



{February 22, 2010}   Those Damn Tree-huggers

A friend says he’s not the only one who gets this way, who gets angry when he sees evidence that somebody did something that will hurt him; I try to hide my gratitude when he tells me that he also finds himself thinking, is this all they can do to hurt me? Well, I can hurt myself a lot worse and I will, just to prove that they aren’t as good as me in this arena, and that if I wanted to, all that would be left in front of me is a puddle. But even if forced into a corner I would choose to hurt me, not them. Never them! I choose to treat them with the care of an infant but this is how they repay me, the only way I know how to react is to take the ante up further, put the knife where I will bleed out the fastest. Then maybe they will know  how it feels to be hurt even if Oshiro says that I am not teaching anybody anything, that they won’t feel anything. When my friend tells me that he finds himself thinking this too there is a moment of lightness amidst all these threats that we condone ourselves with. We giggle like children, seeing the idiocy at what’s at stake as the weight slowly melts, and also feeling understanding for our own behavior from somebody else, something we don’t find very often from other people. Why? Because we are not other people and we will never be other people and still I try. I think he finds more peace in not trying, but me, dammit if I don’t get them to admit I was right.

Maybe the guy that has the whole world at his fingertips in terms of hurting me won’t be able to sympathize, maybe he won’t understand, maybe he will use words like insane again because that is what feels comfortable and nice. But they won’t be able to close their eyes. No, they won’t. I feel so relieved that I am not the only person that goes down this competitive line of thinking, and ironically, the person who got me going down this bad road, is the one who always tells me how silly I am for going on it. They are the one who reaches their hand out and dusts me off and calls me names. But mostly I sit out here and they don’t come outside. And definitely not anymore. If I think of the total picture, I am not making things better by trying to create anything. But these are emotions. I couldn’t hold back when I felt like that just as much as he couldn’t hold back from erasing those things that hurt me. He can’t blame me for feeling hurt and I can’t blame him for hurting me because we were both just doing things people do. I just wish…. I just wish I was with him. But then my friends go on their rap about how he isn’t good enough for me but  I want to shut them up for if I had never listened to my friends I wouldn’t have broken up with him in the first place because getting nothing is better from him than getting less than nothing but than I see through that too, because that is crap too because the truth is that he does leave women three months into the relationship no matter how special they are and nothing I did was going to change that so I need to move on too, it’s just I’ve chained myself to this tree to show him that I am not going to leave with a fight that I really did care, that i care more than anybody will ever care, and nobody can win in this war of who cares the most about him, that he will have to saw this tree down to get me to stop. Even if I go to New York and the deal goes through and I become famous I still won’t stop with the metal handcuffs and the tree. So he can move on all he wants to but no matter how many things he does to push me away I still can’t cut the cord. I just found the cord again. It had been lost for so many months, how can I let it go again?



{February 21, 2010}   Erased

I saw Downey had erased his favorite pictures of me and I went to the bathroom nauseous and my legs are trembling frantically. I started to vomit. All I’d eaten so far was oranges, but I could taste their acid everywhere. Orange splatter doesn’t look so good in a toilet. I don’t know why I’m so upset. They were revealing photographs, maybe not to me, but to him? But they were memories, and you don’t destroy memories. I don’t like it when memories are destroyed. What else makes up a life? I hate how gestures can have the power to make me throw up and cry. There were four of them. Four of them shredded through the shredder machine. Never to be seen again. I feel ashamed. I want to erase my account. I want to erase myself. It’s that easy for people these days. Click, and you no longer have a boyfriend or a friend. Click, and you no longer have to look at their face. Click, and all the messages in your inbox are gone. Click, Click, Click.



{February 21, 2010}   fear

Fear is what comes at us at the strangest times. It’s the thing that jolts you awake when you find yourself lying in a pool of your own vomit, in a place you don’t know. It is the animal coming to swallow you whole when you show up late to your new job for the second time. It is what causes you to break the law because you are afraid you might lose your prosecution case. It is what halts your breath for a second or two as you try to speak up in front of an entire auditorium of people who hate you. It is what makes you lose yourself in sleep for days at a time because the prospect of waking and having so much to clean up is shaking you down. It’s the friend you don’t want but can’t get rid of. It’s the enemy you never knew you had. It’s the shaking that arises after you text somebody because you need somebody to talk to, and even they don’t text you back. It’s the sobbing that emerges when you invite a married man over to your house, and only his hands can soothe you from falling into sharp pieces. It is the only thing keeping you from jumping off the roof of the mall, and it is the only thing keeping you from not jumping off the roof of the mall. It is what causes you to pee your pants in the first grade just because the teacher created a new policy, saying too many first graders used the bathroom pass. It gives you nightmares over and over again, trying to send you the same message and failing. It is the moment you stop nodding off as if you have been inhaling poisonous gas this entire time, as you remember somebody saying that medications mess with how much oxygen intake your brain gets, and how your body gets tired of the switch being fucked with all the time and your body not knowing how or when to intervene. It is what comes over you when you learn that you are losing your memory and that you will have to wear diapers as you grow older, using up the last of your pension fund. It is the surprise on your face when the only person you relied on laughs in your face and tells you they never wanted you around, they just liked your money or your body and they don’t care for it anymore. It is the moment you look into the mirror and realize you are getting old. It is the time you see your daughter running across the street, barely noticing when the car stops so she can keep running across. It is the moment you can’t save yourself, much less your own offspring. It is the moment you realize you are about to lose your kids and there is nothing you can do to get them back. It is the moment you pick up a gun to gain control of a situation and your hands begin to shake uncontrollably. It is the fifteen irritating voice mail messages left on your machine that you don’t want to listen to. It is the flood on your hands that you can’t bail out of. It is the mortgage pressing down on you and there is nobody to hold your hand. There is usually a place you to go to when you are that afraid, but what happens when that place stops letting you in. Then you have another fear. The fear of the 86. Being kicked out of the last place of refuge you had makes you quiver in places you didn’t know were capable of that kind of movement. Having to actually use those two quarters to call out for help and hearing no answer, not because they didn’t hear you but because they don’t feel like answering. It is the helplessness of having to leave a husband that makes demands you cannot meet anymore because they are beyond your scope of comprehension. He promised he would never go to a strip club, and now he says that he needs a third girl living with you for him to have sex with, and you don’t say anything, you don’t leave him, and your son grows up afraid that nothing will ever change. It is the hesitation  in a policeman’s trigger before he gets himself shot by the criminal he didn’t want to have to take out. The primal cry of a baby that won’t stop crying in its teenage mothers arms. The shivering of the hardest man in jail, trying to remember the sound of his mothers voice. The puff of a cigarette that helps keep denial at bay until one day the cigarette doesn’t work anymore.  The lovely plush of a needle into a vein until the blood clots. The only thing that circumvents fear is the absence of fear, but for as long as you use drugs or sex or people not to  feel fear, the fear will come back to you as soon as you don’t have your blanket around you. It’s the sensation that something went wrong and nothing will change it. The worst of all is being given a chance to fix it all, and fucking it back up for the ninth or tenth time. It’s what people like to harshly say stupidity, as if by treating it with an iron fist, they can beat it out of their lives for good. It’s the lie you swiftly tell the welfare workers who come in asking you about the bruises all over your body and you tell them, no, of course you fell down the floors for the tenth time. It’s the dreams you have after of leaving home and never coming back again. It’s the moment you turn from a victim into somebody that has to batter other people for making a mistake.



{February 20, 2010}   it’s on me, bitch

She used to invoke fear in me.
That is how I can measure what steps have been taken; know how different things have become.

She approaches, begging for a deal, but it is all a play to her. She blinks her surprise at the way I don’t try to shrink back.She tries to blot out her dismay and bewilderment like a person who had their face tattooed while unconscious- when they awaken, in shock, they frantically try to remove marks that are there for good using any means at hand.

I remember how patiently I waited for her passed out mumblings to stop. How I would try and patch them into sense. The only time I relaxed was during the pauses. I’d gazed through her hazed, unfocused eyes trying to make it to her inside. I used to believe- that I remember. I believed in her rehabilitation and is this my fault that she hasn’t gotten better, that her tricks have only gotten worse, more sloppy, less in control, but she was not expecting me to be somebody that would make anything difficult.

Only I still don’t know how to fight and I don’t want to draw attention to her or pull hair or dig my fingers into her skin or kick and yell. I want to count my losses and go, the difference being this time I have no wounds to lick for she doesn’t yield the hot poker stick anymore.

I am the one! The one that got you kicked off, that cut the line from your cliff! I am the one who gave the police sniper the sign to shoot.

I wrote the letter that finally did you in. My words were the words that convinced them you were a lying, thieving, conniving terrorist.

The first time I saw Keisha I mistook her for a twelve year old cancer patient.It was as if she had no hair and we always met in the cancer wing. Her eyes bore out of her skull like a death rattle.Now her ass is so large it takes up the space of two garbage cans when she leans over and she wears glasses that are copycats of the ones I used to wear.

She remarks that my hair is darker and I remark that she is larger- you must understand she was just a small little thing, skinnier than a rod. She says something about she doesn’t want to repeat this charade of mine which has irony seeing as she used to call me fat- my my how we’ve buttered up, must be hard to get at that last button buttered up like a girl in a gingerbread house waiting to be stuck in the oven, you should be afraid for it appears you are ready. Her insults never had that kind of imagination but what they lacked in creativity they made up for in delivery. I wanted her away from me and I got it.

Only later did I hear there had been a bed for her in some treatment program- getting that bed would have been akin to the person from the ghetto getting a full ride to an Ivy League Institution. But my letter cost her the bed because they kicked her out of the program before she could get the bed. So, they supposedly caught her saying something in line about selling cream. They wouldn’t have paid attention if it weren’t for the letter. My letter.

Today she led me through a haze that turned out to be a maze. 15 minutes she had promised. I didn’t know what to do when she suddenly stepped on the bus, and my hands, burning from the bills that had been snatched from me too soon were what steadied me as I climbed on and fumbled for a copy of a purple transfer that was stashed in my wallet.

I hadn’t realized just how much I had mellowed out in the last few years until, in retrospect, I noticed that my heart had not bounced off the walls from wild, primal fear and terror. The kind she invoked in me every time she asked me for anything.I ended up jumping off the bus ten minutes later in a bad neighborhood, sprinting across six lanes of traffic to get to a bus going back in the opposite direction.

Screw the sister that was supposedly going to fix things and make it right- part of me doubted it would be anything less than a war zone. And though she kept changing what she claimed she had said five minutes ago, the words were not changing in my head. Her promises had not unwoven from thread to cheap plastic given the span it takes to turn the TV channel from one show to another. The only thing that changed hands had been money, and boy did it bolster her ego.

Suddenly she says the only reason she isn’t busting my lip open is because we have known each other for so long, but this could change, she warns me as she uses her phone to either ask her sister for a favor or pretend to ask her sister for a favor.

“If it is so easy, just give me my money back.I don’t need anything from you. Here’s what you claim you can get from anybody.”

“No,” cries her shrill voice as we frantically push the elevator buttons, looking around for witnesses and security guards. “It can’t be done like that.”

“I want my money back,” I curse.

As she continues to discount the proposition, starting from a strand of the truth and ending in make believe, I’m shocked at  the time I once spent in her company. Off to classes with people who do nothing but study and practice. But then, those binges of racing time, slowly melted away, turned into a composite that made up a year, or two, spent in the company of whom? Of what. A nice balance, I think. People who  live in academia and plan on never leaving academia, and people who have only ever lived on the street, who believe they can only ever live on the street.

As if one morning I randomly decided to study the make up of sick sociopaths: I wanted to get them to love me; I wanted to find a flower in the desert: I wanted to enrich the soil a little: I wanted to see if it could be done. I hoped they all softened under the radiating beams of lamps put up so they would not be forgotten.

But they needed to be hard to survive- it was all they thought and it was all they’d been taught. Their first and last lesson of every day, the steel had been drilled into them every morning of every day- show mercy you get your head bashed in. I forgot where they came from–

something they spend every dime trying unsuccessfully to do.

The only rush of achievement these people know is the taste of blood.

Too often it ends up being their own.



{February 19, 2010}   Images

He turns, he is tired, he no longer likes it, he say. It’s too easy for Parker’s voice to turn from understanding to snobbery, as if it’s his right to take something when he is incapable of appraising its true value. He’s too lost in the latest formation of how pot grows to fathom what the books he reads mean anymore. He won’t turn on the Fox channel to watch the best show of the season because he says Fox is evil. If I ask him how he will contribute to the evil by turning on its channel, he doesn’t answer because there is no answer to such a stupid question. When I show him the beauty of the girls vision within a story of subjugation, love, and strength, he doesn’t seem to understand how a person can make mistakes and be intelligent. “They must be two different people” he loiters on demanding. “Her inner monologue was intelligent, but her life was stupid.” Doesn’t he look at his own life? “You still live with your parents at the age of forty, surely your monologue is more intelligent than your life.” “My father threw me through a window once.”

Read me your writing, I ask.

“I’ve departed from imagistic school. But there was one image that used to preoccupy me yet.”

“There was this big white globular colony of maggots in a hayloft of a farm. When I was six or seven I remember the day it climbed up. I remember the sunlight coming through and I saw the blob, the halo of maggots, and I started thinking about how it was alive; it put a chill through me insomuch as I don’t know how it weaseled it’s way onto the farm. The thing that sort of brought me back to life was how I could see the beating of a man’s heart in his chest.”

Read me another, I say. I want images. Give me images. What haunts you?

“Ideas running into the framework of a conversation. I thought I told you how preoccupied I was with heaven emptying, and images of rivers spanning the world, cats eyes, things inside of things, but I am much more concerned with trying to communicate simple ideas with fidelity.”

Images, I ask.

“Diamond cut diamond; heaviness of snow and rain set out over the land
heart aches over people losing land for the first time. Fiction has you. ”

“I kill a rat: I find its leavings in the bedroom: its wet circle of urine on the blue counter pane. I kill it with a pool cube with all my weight grinding against the floor and it makes little cries for a long time. Years ago Mark and I hunted a mouse in the same room.”

A marked room, I think. Why do English majors insist on this dangerous separation as they try to take imagery from language? Even this imagery is stilted, like somebody afraid to write. Each word barely written for fear that it is not good enough. As if emotion cannot be felt through writing, as if it can be hidden if you make the depths cryptic enough. No, Parker, I can feel the the beady eyes of somebody peering out only looking at the beads of sweat forming underneath his brow. You said you saved shards of glass from the window because your father, your mother, and your brother would deny that it ever happened. You sound so sure of their denouncement, and yet you say you are pleased by your life now. Pleased is not the word you used, but I feel I know you well enough to put words in your mouth. After all, most words aren’t good enough, so perhaps you would be pleased that I took the time to decide for you.

“I was in the spirit of the lords day walking in the likeness of a man as he instructed me of a fear. I must have you for a time you and me together: we’ll accomplish this errand: it’s a matter of will, of volition: only you and your decisiveness can finish the job. How am i supposed to get out of here, I asked? Don’t fret as machines will carry us through. The inhumanely difficult lies with you.”

“It crawls with fevers, brain toxins- the minds electric chair and the beggars in my skin. The beastly man I became in my place, this abomination. The feelings twisting in the most itchy antichrist epilogue for their attack upon government- 8 million children on Ritalin- nothing exists that is easily reckoned. Nothing fenced is the single engraved drive; that sensuality of nothing is the zodiac seen through gargoyles reigned; transpired. Sandpaper with demented eyes. Purgatory can be known through the known exited links of the demarcated. This insailed huddled sanctuary. The night is the ball; a slight octupus of light with herded capsules. The tongue of this land is painful to hear. The disclosure fruit of abortive gun-making, the failed suicide repeated. ”

“The sweat of the father of men is a badger laughing without count. There is a father of man and he is laughing, he is a random cog for his pressured laughing are games of combination of ironies and diagnols and veins. The new values are outside, the combination knowing all things in that perfect information- talent touched by his talent of revolution with palimpsests looked here for small irony. People dwelt here in their antiquity counting money passed by amid new styles that laminate his games, all worlds and times and men within his days. Dream time passages brought about that palindromes wearingly will expose.”



et cetera