If I can just hold on through one more day, one more breath, one more day of forced fed reality and only get my head above the covers long enough to inhale and exhale and stand to do all those other things that I keep writing about and hoping to just exorcise from my skull, then maybe it will all be ok. At least I changed the damn music. The soundtrack was to the point that the cats knew all six of the songs. Sitting humbly in the doorway with crossed paws (you know the pretty little feline way of held composure), they see me click the music icon on the big screen and then they know, they know all too well. By the time the sax comes in they run, cursing at me, swearing at each other, and rumble wrestling past their water bowls in an attempt to get me up from this makeshift desk and turn the music off. The music never stops, nor should it.

Funny how only bad movies and jazz come in multiple parts with preludes and epilogues these days. As if there is nothing building up to or left behind from modern creativity beyond the bounds of it’s own presence and existence. It all makes me wonder too much, five a.m., sleeping on the couch; I could still taste the coffee, still see the screen, still read the words, still hear the music and the cats somehow can hear it emanating, exuding, from my head. Meows made mad by my music. The couch is not very comfortable. Laying there in the dark, crotch in hand, smiling at the ceiling behind my closed eyes, I resolve to change the music but never in exchange for a bad movie.

GET UP! DO SOMETHING! MAKE SOMETHING HAPPEN!

Life has begun to taste like salty cupcakes. Chocolate and sea salt may be fine for some but I like my salt big and my chocolate dark and I do not see my taste buds doing much for my brain chemistry union contract with my face fur if they were forced to indulge in too much salty chocolate; sounds like something from a French newspaper that is written by a lonely hermit and distributed to his two neighbors so they know how their cheese and wine production is going and how fat their duck livers have become. Such a sad range of Camus car accidents and never a disease or a Libyan agenda seemed better than to just frolic in the day dreams of motionless muscle disintegration and dissolve on days where the muscles wouldn’t be used anyway. I can’t even remember the last time I had sex. The last time my hair was touched. The last time a gentle fingertip ran down the side of my face and made me smile. To be untouched. When did Camus sleep with Salmon Rushdie anyhow?

Something to be said about the attractiveness of worth but I am not quite sure what it is. I rather swell on a tremolo bar of a synth playing something so upbeat that you mistake it for the romantic whimsy and gay smiles of the Romancing The Stone soundtrack. It is like crawling through the gizzards and innards of Reading Rainbow and never seeing the light of day through all of the fog thick happiness that never could be in you but only, and always, outside you. It seems like decades long ago that held the sweaty nights of 'fuck till you go blind', the mornings of 'start all over', the days when money was there and bills were not; security found in a false promise of security being secure, but it just did not work out that way now did it?

Chick Corea will cry me to sleep with his faux ivory ticklings that remind of the real ones that I used to sand out and bleach with peroxide that would make Courtney Love shave her head and take notice out of envy and accident. When the thick whining violins are not enough to string you up by your feet and make you want to puke out the world, when nothing could hit you any harder in the gut; the necromancy of wake up and fall asleep lose their bite and suck harder with each drawn gaze from neck to neck and back again. Stale gumballs that break teeth not bad breath. Not enough quarters, just enough death and seclusion. How hard it is to hang on and hang on you must for there is something for you to find in it all like a line from Joe Pesci in JFK, “an enigma wrapped in a riddle, etc …”.

Someone has pissed on my puzzle. The pieces don’t even seem to resemble anything that I know anymore. 10 million pieces, all interlocking and the only thing on the cover of the box is a square of red. Ten million red soldiers. It might as well be the miniaturization and deformity cuts of a communist army in the loins of Mao, the mind of Trotsky, the heart Kim Jong; “start up the tanks boys, I hear the revolution will be televised this time around”. My only little revolt, uprising, rising up - things I don’t even do anymore.

Nothing says lovin’ like something from somewhere and so the fade away begins, complete with spurs that forgot how to jingle jangle as they mime their way across the wooden boardwalk that goes into infinity and asks the simple questions that are only found in night time whispers from tots wishing and wanting to escape the sleep. They’ll even work on the puzzle to get out of the punishment of covers and comforters. Not much comfort there, huh?

I need recuperation from stagnation. I need an angel's breath to be spoke into my soul and to rise me up and make my Lady proud, to make the sun actually shine and not be some muted haze of what it would be from somewhere far beyond Pluto.

Dance to the kitchen to look at more of nothing.

Revel in the fact that there is no more coffee.

Look through my eyes that have grown flaccid with intention like the cloudy day reflection on a lake that no one swims in anymore.

Hold tight the covers and cocoon myself.

Soon I will bloom.

If not, there is apothecary money somewhere for dead buds.

Stand tall little soldier, the battle is about to begin.

War is loud and angry.

Especially so, when you are fighting yourself …

Every waking minute: a fast forward eyelid pull of full on jump up and throw down with gauntlets flung and face flap slapped; like skipping forward to the part in a game of backgammon when you curse bloody blue Mary crazy at everyone, tear off your shirt like Hulk Hogan, and begin eating the little hard marble wannabe disks as if you were Martini playing Monopoly in the tub. You all know that part of the game right? Right? It comes right after the other person cubes up for 64 and you still have three guys on the bar and you know you can’t win (it all went by so fast 'cause in your mind it was just one beer and a handshake in the porch lit sunlamp day light ago that you thought for sure you could win and it would all be 'ok' once the hot chick threw all of those weisswurst on the hibachi and the keg stands would ensue while someone went bra-less and someone else found a new way to put it on their head and call it a hat that no one had ever done before) and right before the part where you lose and throw away all of your Coltrane records in some sort of black out rage-a-funka-delica-obnoxious-oso event where you declare Dave Mustaine the leader of all men and if you don’t know ‘Hanger 18’ than you are some sort of anti-backgammon douche that needs at least cough syrup and certainly some Ritalin. Does any of that sound familiar? They must be Back East rules. I am quite sure they are documented somewhere. I know a burnt out surfer guy straight from the waves of San Onofri (right next to the nuclear power plant does he surf waves - like nobody’s business) that plays that way; with him it normally involves vodka - water glasses of the stuff, with minimal ice and no mixer at all (who the hell needs a mixer unless they wear pink skirts?).

I don’t seem too involved in many productions like that anymore, it’s mostly mellow ol’ me just looking for the path from A to B and the least resistant road. I am all about measuring impedance. "Give me an Ohm!" You probably would never grasp that by taking even just 10 words of one of my run-on sentence thoughts that normally curse the minds of small children and unsure housewives as they swirl like a dervish back towards the words only to realize that the words have done the hoe-down shuffle; nothing, once more, is quite as it seems - or really ever intended, for that matter, so the remaining 20 words in that particular sentence never get digested. I like, petition to, urge the readers to consume the words like flies; vomiting up onto each letter in order to digest them down as if each sentence could possibly be a buffet of never ending orgasmo literati embraced by a true use of the lexicon, the vernacular as it were, and all are happy kiddos when tucked in with words and colours and shades of reality that they understand. This is why it is the story of long haired flaxen blonde Rapunzel, not chair bound matted grease head Stephen Hawking. No toddler wants to be tucked in while hearing the tale of Stephen Hawking dropping a thick viscous lung-y down from the steer stick next to his chin rest and waiting for it to get just low enough that the plate mail wearing god of rescue can jump on and (like a frog with a furious hunger and libido) Steve can suck, fuck, loogie lunge backwards the knight. Plate mail and all, he is vacuumed up 6 stories and onto Stevie’s lap like a poster from ‘X-Mas with the Handicapped’; terrorists that shot Santa down and now deal with all the kiddos directly (screw middle men!). No, they much prefer that hot babe with the pale lemon juice locks that never quite could get out of the pubic lock belt and the tower of stone long enough to at least get to a Super Cuts or even a Fantastic Sam’s. Someone get on the intercom, “Moe Howard, paging Moe Howard! Moe, if you could grab your Capt’n Crunch cereal bowl, some hedge shears, and Larry Fine and meet us over at hairdo throne 6, that would be great! Moe Howard, paging Moe Howard!”

Nope, nope, nope. They don’t like those subplot run ons. Too much grey matter masticated. Too many of my favourite words and word combinations disco coked out around into the night of ‘which orifice was that’. They simply can’t keep up. It’s a verbal smack down of Jaco Pastorious quality. All I need to do is find Mike Nesmith and steal his green skully as Jaco would be proud. Yet Mike Barnacle still has no idea that he doesn’t appear on Chronicle anymore and the Globe really doesn’t like him; but ‘Birdsong’ plays on, even if it is Tony Levin at a certain playback point. Who needs a ‘68 Fender fretless P-Bass anyway? Not me. I mean these keys are certainly enough; certainly enough for me right now, these days, the ones that have typing done for me without nicotine on the pads. The keys are very upset that the worn down yellow warm up of shakedown and smoke down doesn’t occur anymore. I NEED a friggin’ cigarette. Jaco,you should give me a cigarette and I’ll pull out the knife and give back your hat. Come on, please, just one … just one?

Drinking down the coffee at two thirty on an unemployed night. I don’t know where I am going - I am not even live near a school yard and I do not know anyone named Julio and if I did we would have to talk about the other Mother Superior - the one who has the happiness and all of the doo-wop. No one can do me no harm! Well maybe the Columbian bean farmer is. Is Julio related to Juan or that damn donkey? Probably not. I recant! No one can do me no harm!

I have to get back to something. I need to get something done. I just want to stay up for ever and never close my eyes again because the days will move like old men in bathrobes, missing one slipper, and limping in an ‘oh shit! why is the linoleum cold under those toes and not the other ones’ sort of way. The kind of slow where a walker moves faster than the one pushing it, the one that needs it to walk. Eyes open so long, mind erased with a gummi stained in lead like a gangster who told Sam Giancanno to ‘go fuck himself seven ways to Sunday and twice if he was with that Andrews sister broad!’. The blood begins to flow like maple syrup on a cold December morning somewhere in Vermont that you would need six maps to get and inevitably you would still end up at the same boarding school with ski racks on every Jetta and Volvo driven by children in knit wool hats who bug you for contact with the outside world in exchange for Phish bootlegs that are seventh generation and dubbed over onto old Bread 8-tracks. Slowed down time. Time that has to hold labour rallies in your shaving kit because the stubble on your face can’t keep up with the Jones and you know you feel every micro millimeter poke out of your flesh and elongate before your eyes (which as I mentioned before never close). Impotency is for breakfast all three meals a day when it gets this bad. Did I mention that I want a cigarette?

If it all moves so slow that you can see everything coming would you really need to work again? Would you ever, under those circumstance and circumlocutions, need to ever write another word to confuse them? Would codes still be needed? Would words cost a nickel like they used to back in the days that not even that slug of an elderly bastard with the walker was around for?

Would I be as prolific with deer blood and my granite wall blog on the side of a cave? Would the berry juice stains really be worth it while trying to convey these ideas? How the hell would I get away with some of these sentences if only using pictures? I tend to think they may all look like one big hand, middle finger extended, giving the nomadic pack of sloped forehead fire starters the bird, or the pterodactyl as they called it back then.

And onto the bottom of page two, top of page three, and I have nothing but chest pains for you baby, nothing but chest pains indeed.

I am getting too old, too tired, too disillusioned with the allusions.

Too much fun in the mind of exploding mindlessness.

Tomorrow I get to write again.

If I am good and do what I am told to do, I might even get cookies and milk.

Stephen Hawking killed Santa Claus.

And all I want is a friggin’ cigarette …

All six songs (that's right six, I forgot one before) have returned to prevent me from reading or even being able to take it all on as a serious venture to which something, or anything for that matter, may evolve from all that is involved. To dream of the days of being svelte, having smooth skin, and thinking of aviation as avocation (such a silly man I have become even though I do not feel much like a man these days - a point of useless turn around - a cul-de-sac of coincidence and fruitless endeavors).

To spin around and just have faith, to nose dive down into the nitty gritty (I have sort of the beard now, don’t I?). Stale coffee death breath that exudes the raunch and filth of decay in one easy going greasy gust that does not seek to be cleaned or cleansed. Not knowing what tomorrow is never mind what it will bring. Thoughts of ‘never to be’ and ‘never was going to be anyway’ dance around like little children who have the bubonic plague and don’t even know it or need to know it because the game is going just fine. Pierre is out and only Francois knows why. Where is that rubber ball going and why is Pierre eating the chalk to the tune of ‘Sur le Pont D’Avignon’?

Mornings are getting harder. Sleeping is worse than a nightmare could ever dream of being. Old women and dogs and shoe dwelling children have more sustenance in their cupboards than I. I couldn’t even snap a penny in half and rub the two sides together never mind anything made of a silver amalgam or bits or whatever people rub together to emphasize their wealth or lack there of.

I am faced with the ever maddening third shift as an option come the end of the week, bearing on the fact that the women conducting the interview likes me (she certainly dug my baritone on the phone this a.m.). I almost went insane last time, I had my nervous breakdown as a result of the undesirable shift. It contributed highly to the dissolve of my first marriage. It helped break down my mind like a demolition expert trapped in a Tetris field exploding the falling fate block by block as opposed to laying them down gently and in geometric harmony. I picked a bad time to quit smoking cigarettes again, a bad time indeed (but being broke helps when it comes to the craving to store stop for a pack of my lovely little mistresses).

I shouldn’t write so long and tattered. My lengthy little pieces upset people. I wonder how people actually get through books. Oh yeah, there are not significant pieces of prose written these days or at least written with any sort of common rally of ‘need to read’. Twain would be writing for the back page of Time. Tolstoy would be on Prozac with the rest of the Russians. Burroughs and the boys never even would have thought about the Ginsberg connection to getting published - they would all be getting loaded and pimping out their MySpace pages in hopes to be voted up in to stardom on VH1. Bukowski would be at AA meetings all day and would be self consumed with coffee and some twisted religious commitment to celibacy. Salinger would have been far too afraid to leave the house much earlier on and probably would have been overlooked for lack of conversation with other human beings. Hemingway would have been bored with what being a man these days means and given up probably at 17 or so. Fitzgerald would have probably blended in just fine but no one would be reading him anyway - they would all have him slurring away on a pod cast listed on i-Tunes as something far more popular than it really was or is.

Too long. It’s too long already. I can hear the critics as if they are all holding each other’s elbows in some faith lock while standing on my toilet; the bathroom fan echoes carrying in their punditry to my ears. Delayed and chorused out so hard that Dick Dale would puke. Geddy Lee is in there (he is pissed that I hate him - his only motivation these days). See too long. Too much. Not needed. Everyone wants simple noun-verb-single adjective statements that are easily conveyed using American Sign Language (as opposed to Balinese Sign Language which is much easier to interpret while watching the hands dance in the bottom right circle feed).

This is how most would like to see it:

Life is bad. I feel yucky. Things are not cool. What do you think?

Except I would have to carriage return each line in order to space out the true, real meanings of the very deep lines of easy mental digestion. Puke! Good God, could you imagine? Oh wait, most do not need to; those lines are everywhere, all over, like devil loin lump seeds hoping to bear the fruit of the ever present short attention span that has throat choked away any redeeming intelligence and conversational ability that we have as a society (on the whole that is).

So to those who read, I breath a nicotine free air that is really much more acidic and thick than any smoke I am used to taking in. I feel like these lungs are breathing very unfamiliar incense that not even Rasta guys in Greenwich Village would dare to sell to anyone stony enough to still buy incense that isn’t blessed by a Baba something or other in a land so far away that it would make Columbus spin up and take ship leave notice of ridiculed hope and misguided desire.

Funny thing is, is that these pieces don’t really take me that long to push out. It is like greased up newborn slalom or bob sled rides blurred out by axle sludge and Dexedrine. The longest part is the comma and semicolon edits; occasionally the parenthesis or bracket birthing, all of which is done immediately post-post and sometimes the following morning if I just can’t get to the re-reads that night.

I will keep spitting them out.

I will press on with the press.

I am the flower found on page 22 somewhere in a dream of a picnic that day dream ate it’s way through a walk in the park.

Pansy, rose, carnation, or lily.

Never to petal or pedal fast enough, at least not for some.

The others gather with guillotines and thirteen knot rope.

Read on, as I sing 'Y A Un Rat'.

Pierre still stands chewing chalk ...

How deep are the claws, how long are the nails, that would pumpkin carve your way out of a cement grave with one of those drug store steak knifes intended for orange fruit not beef? What are the clothes that you would wear? Would you hum a tune (an evil little girl scout whistle that would get you down the trail)? Would you dance? Wiggle? Waggle? Boogie-woogie? Read something that I may have written? Probably not on all counts. It would all take too long.

A silly little lemonade of now flavoured ice and then tasty lemon that fluxuates and fluxgates between and betwixt the stars of bad complexioned men with manicures somewhere on a late night drama commercial sought out with closure in twenty seconds and wishing it was thirty. The umbrella is still holding back the sun and taking from you the days, the thoughts, that were meant for candy coating or at least the chocolate kind found between the thighs of Beyonce and anyone else who could whet Willy wet dream a wily way of seven ways to Sunday.

I am about to lay down the cigarette beckon and pick up that of being able to smell and not one of us could imagine what that means to this three pack-a-day smoker that was diagnosed with preemptive emphysema when he was 20. Will it effect the writing, really affect it? Will all of the stone crotch guardians of Greek and Roman need and nurture hold onto my lungs as a sacrifice to wearing the white robes and scratching my beard so often that I could be mistook as an Italian women masturbating in Portugal? Probably not but the question was sure worth the asking.

I made a comment about Fergie shaking something or other on a TV show tonight in a pair of painted on white thigh high hold ups that could hold up any Exxon-Mobile in mid-western America all while downing a slushie, slurpie, or sno-cone delight of slush puppy sadism. All of the kiddos came through the looking glass and crossed the mother back breaking cracks and hopscotch lines in order to tell me I was ‘fucked‘. I shook each and every one of their hands and began to play four square like they were the North Vietnamese and I was John McCain wishing I was Sailor in ‘Uncommon Valor’, complete with ballet and hand grenade necklace medallions - oblique totems of chest dangling destruction. The two way mirror could not hold us back through the bad breath of malt liquor mornings and mournings that no one would care to care for.

And still, to this day, Maxim will not embrace Patrick Swayze in that film. Ok by me, but not by some and they gather high in the hills and hold weapons tighter than lovers that make you cum again and again with no regard for the chemical imbalance that they may be creating or careening down a browned out rock slide of unbleached coffee filter cones that make the coffee taste good enough to hallucinate to while tickling an anus or drinking acetone from a jar marked ‘Gerbers’. Angry men flip out all the same, it doesn’t matter how much you tickle their anus’.

All of the women are left without a finger to wash or use a ‘wet-nap’ on (especially under the nails - those damn nails tickle and pickle and itch and stitch and bitch and scratch and snatch and catch and make laughter and ecstasy attributes of pain and vice versa all the way around) and the simplicity of ‘why’ is found somewhere within the binds and bounds of a Bazooka Joe comic that no one will ever unfold (and not just under the nails that scream for soap in a Palmolive commercial requiring the cleanliness of under nail constitution and custodial attention), that simple one time, and find as a fortune that not even Fortune Bubble will print in order to cause mass media frenzy advertisements in order to get on the ball with and encourage sales bonuses from little boys wearing tweed trench coats and butterscotch framed glasses that say, in no more than three fashion statement phrases, “You Want ME!” This is what gum smuggling does to the mind of a young white boy that lives in a fantasy world of Ice-T’s ‘POWER’ tape and all the while has no access to crack or anything like it beyond his father bent over at the gas station with a 12 pack in him looking for the hole to stick the fuel nozzle in while his Wranglers give his ass up like a Dexedrine whore in a tube top counting out dealer calculations and configurements to a man with a sandal wood mustache in a suit with suede elbow patches who is pressuring her to confess to the dirty smack sold to a black blow job machine (somewhere between Lynn and Roxbury, but found in the elitist Lynnwood on a night that normally does not call cops out from a Dunkin’ Donuts to claim afro slut bodies from tannery ponds that never knew what drugs were but craved toluene all the same) as a form of redemption that would only make Marley proud in a certain Angola sort of way that already made Jimmy Cliff send her a ‘hot pussy‘ Christmas card the year before.

Ten year old girls gather with gimp bracelets and key chains that scream “summer camp“, in no uncertain terms or words, and hope that some day they will know what moist panties mean and buy the gum and the songs and the rap and the love and the coded notes and the hand numbers driven in deep with flesh ink from a pen that has never even heard the word ‘flesh‘ before it‘s cap is taken from it, all the while making Bic a pseudonym for ‘hot sex‘ and not just transcription or something French you relate to or convey with ‘Le‘ anything - cars, bags, douches, gum, cigarettes, tampons, cologne, or pomme de frits grease.

Something in a foreign tongue would go down just right, right now (and it did if you look back just one simple line - too bad that most protagonists in Eagles’ songs never did). Something that would make Borat cry or drive Sam Kinison to arrive dead at the 20^th anniversary of the Kaufman-capades that are found somewhere between the Ganesha on my leg, the Andykaufmanlives.com website, and the bizarre funeral itself (which constantly awakes Gary Larson to the sound of ejaculating cows and headless fish wondering why the worms have become the factory bosses in a building and production line that makes cans to fill with tuna - something tells me this might piss off people who have suffered from the Pittsburgh steel situation and have now donned red hats of acidity to accomplish the validity of them being known as members of the ‘rust belt‘ and not something that Michael Moore as shat out in a delusional state of left over cannolies and canopies and dufus-like redundancies only fond of and found in the scrapings of a beef stew can purchased at your local grocer or market nation wide).

I think that may have been a stretch or at the very least gone on far too long for the average reader. I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to the consumer of my literary attempts and offer them (you) a simple explanation: “I DO NOT HAVE ONE! Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha! IF SOUGHT OUT MENTAL REDEMPTION IS WHAT YOU ARE SEEKING YOU MUST LOOK BENEATH THE LEFT WHEEL OF MY MORPHINE DRIP PUMP WHEELER AND WHAT COULD EASILY BE DESCRIBED AS GUM MAY BE YOUR NEW APOLOGY AS I DO NOT SEEK FAME OR FORTUNE FROM THE THOUGHTS OF THOSE SO LIKE ME THAT THEY WILL GO TO ALL EEFORTS AND ENDS TO ACCOMPLISH DISASSOCIATION.” Thank you very much, thank you indeed.

With all of the braced out lisps of what one could say and then never a syllable would duel fight armour guard shakedown, a gilded metal ring chain link, chain mail, pat down stripped out orifice search, of onomatopoeias that only dream (in wet bed sheet splendor of paper mache stuck sheets of white finger kindergarten snack glue granules) of pretending to be a palindrome and the best they can do is a bit of alliteration (of course under the right stage lighting) and the misrecognition of being an antanaclasis.

This is where I have found myself, somewhere between noun and verb and all of the lap dances that happen on taste buds when you guzzle down the dust of pixie sticks. A meaning to crawl out of, a day to claw out of; rage found in the most friendliest of faces. I went out too deep today. I found someone that does not need guise or distraction as a shield to fight the lancing. He is, and always will be, the boil that everyone nurtures into full blown cist; a man that could bring your smile up above the ocean line and drive down through the periscope the notion that ugly, drowning, and demise are things that may, or may not, appear at a picnic frequented by debutants and third string bassoon players (that wish they were first chair oboe blowers that never found the habit of chewing gum attractive) delving deep into the glib and trite hobby of envying Dallas Cowboy attendees that can only be described as socially jejune. He flew strong off the handle and took with him the big innocence of eyes that have known no difference. He raped down the day as if he were accompanied by four other men all with barbaric weapons, like pikes and bolos [and I do not mean those trendy Stevie Ray Vaughn tie things that men still wear (but dykes wear more often) under the delusion that someone, somewhere, thinks them to still be cool - they are not and if you were to call up K.D. Lang she would tell you the same regardless of what Melissa Etheridge would say (behind her Ovation, under a window) while holding her ear away from the phone and her doodled, poodled-out perm of a bad hairdo that even Rosie O’Donnell won’t wear since the cancellation of ‘Stand-up Spotlight’ - remember those flashlight intros that held more hope than any cover of ‘Rosie’ or her atrocious atrocities on ‘The View’ of verbal vagina bash out (call Kirstie Ally or Kelly Rippa and they will BOTH back me up and do so with such a smile that Regis or Ted Danson would trade in anything they ever knew as famous in order to by me a Dodger dog and talk shit upon that Jersey bitch!)]. Funny what day time TV and too much ‘easy listening’ FM can do to a man, huh?

I am not too sure what any of my nights mean these days beyond the obvious fact that day will become night and day again with no incarceration needed to get off on the soap box whack-shack rituals of masturbatory escape from what the light may hold outside the walls that never let day in to begin with. Sax solos breathe harder through walls that colour match suits worn by women who hate men and love their briefcases in some sort of frigid revenge that only hurts their libido and clitoral calamity (or lack there of) because the pale drab milquetoast guy is going to go pay to get off (or even drive through toll booths jerking off to women with fabulously weaved coifs that would make groomed rams jealous while asking for tokens or coins that slide from jelly jizz hands that slip slide coins out in a fashion reminiscent of clown mouths that vomit out toys at fairground con game skill fucks that bile around stuffed toys that you wouldn’t even give a hated child to choke on) and the femi-Nazi will only vulva vibrate to a clitoral cacophony of naugahyde and legal pads illuminated through the labia tainted stank of no.2 lead from the briefs that are alphabetized between the now and then that doesn’t matter much anyhow.

Call a cab and watch the yellow of it bleed through the traffic and wet stain the street worse than you could imagine it to ever do or cause; pastel tourniquets needing to stop the street lamps as the meter runs up and on into the intersections that you would never dare walk through without some sort of guide to get you through, yet the Puerto Rican guy knows just how to bite that rubber ringer of arm band tie off - teeth make great stop signs regardless of the need to freshen up or whiten up or cavity down (white cavities, mmmmmm). A house of cardboard boxes that leave you mazed (amazed), and miazed (corny), out pretending you are the tissue toy of Kleenex pull and push and postscript passé pounce but with the vigor of the moon on your side as it gleams and careens through the sky with it‘s silver like white light of bluish blunder and bereft of blemish - clean like the water that no one has ever drank from a faucet in the 21^st century, not even once in the thirstiest of moments and hangover depletion. Pull from the faux cotton sleeve; one and the next, one and the next, one and the next. When will the box stop vomiting out the disposable stitch of putrid cabbage press paper puke? Maybe yes if you pull enough.

The caffeine keeps caressing the temples like a shiatsu head demon and the days don’t end. Pressure points poured out of crystal vases to rid themselves of plant food hoar left behind from a packet of directions you followed in order to subdue a lover who felt so bad one day that you could never make her feel better no matter how many songs you sung, how many books you read, how many lines you could quote from movies that would make up her own personal file on IMBD and no one else would ever think to CC that list as their own out to anyone who could see through the Playboy After Dark veil of satin silk lace that can just cover the nipples enough to make a boy watch static and hope for a break from the scrambler that molests the box like milk in eggs that make salt and pepper fluffy enough to avoid the pancakes which make you stupid. Yes, that’s right; pancakes make you stupid. Eat a stack and try to avoid it. You can’t. It is like a succession of Bond films on AMC when they have run out of novelty hosts and themed run downs that no one would give a tit or tat about, never mind two shits of bus stop quality build up.

I really don’t want to end this. This prose, these words, have become my new lover that shakes around just so and tells me of how she set up Marion Barry and the like with little cameras that would make men who subscribe to ‘Popular Mechanics’ proud; tiny little pin hole cameras that are watching me now as I type and do so even more frantically in order to impress the viewers that will laugh on cue from Bob Saget or Tom Bergeron; neither rain down impression of quality good enough to notice beyond the non sequential crap that they have put out (one has blue stand up and those butt ugly twins of kiddie/tween rubbish and the other had Hollywood Squares and local Boston television - nothing impressive there). Please don’t leave, I think I have another clip of cloth fiber intertwine fuck coded money love in a clip somewhere that I forgot about. Please don’t go.

Yet the money has oragamied itself into random patterns of escape in my pocket and to tell the truth it is all one dollar bills anyway (call girls prefer denominations beyond cabaret lust - just ask one if one twenty is better than twenty ones and she will dance furiously above your head trying not to drip anything down on the bridge of your nose even though her piercing is glimmering in the light with the liquid love that can be found in any medication aisle for ten bucks a slippery tube all the while screaming, "Twenties! Twenties! More Twenties!" in an orgasmic voacl heave with her hips). They fold this way and that like Adam Sandler’s snake drinking beer; each one clustered together awaiting the resurrection of Steve McQueen and the best motor bike ride of their lives. No more singles! This is a legitimate business and if you hope to do anything more than smell it you better have twenties or fifties or a jackpot of denominations that they don’t even print anymore. There is something to be said about cotton money; when you melt it down it burns away like a foul Marlboro stench in a night with no saddle because that costs extra.

I guess another night will hold me in the repeat of a five song jazz album.

I can let go long enough to come back fresh.

A familiar find, a reminiscent resound.

Something that gets that night to day and back again.

That is what I was writing about, right?

Or maybe not …

Don Quixote throws down his lance and Pancho Villa is nowhere to be found, except in ‘luded out nightmares of what Cheech Marin used to be in a galaxy far, far away. A simple existence of never shave and bladders of wine and horses that smell better than the dirty whores who bed down next to you in the soiled quilted fabrics that would be left smoldering after a blaze if held too close to a fire that no one should be burning anyway, due to the warnings on the signs that the news keeps showing at five o’clock, never mind the labels that should have been stitched somewhere conveniently next to a seam someone would surely have to sew up at some point of ownership, probably at least twice. Something that would make the Man of LaMancha proud without him ever knowing it.

What makes you smile when the lights shine too low to effect your eyes? What makes the desert wet? What can dry out a lake? Who knows all of this and how it should be in the interim? Not me. Not you. Certainly not Andy Kaufman or Stu Unger. Neither one, alone or put together. Silly little men dance in Tom Robbins' mind screaming obscenities out about Tom Wolfe and nothing is left but a bus ride that none of us will ever be on again and only the kiddos wish they knew what it meant to be anything involving a Sunkist t-shirt and feathers attached to roach clips as some sort of cosmetology device that would divine and define the cosmos. Never an answer found, but a party was to be had; no pacifier or subwoofers required.

This melting pot of what disco did and where the hippies fled and why the revolutionaries became silent and now hide behind lobbyists that once sought out miracles to get into shows that were more electric than the frying of Tiny Davis in a Floridian spectacle of delusion and revenge served mighty cold; as all revenge in America is served, except for the revenge that is then punished.

Shaved head visages with cigarette filters gather rubbing their hands and their beards (which only grow in as an antonym to what the top has become and in order to conflict with the being as a whole; a sort of yin-yang reflection of what men in black suits wish they could be). They rub so frantically and fanatically that you would think that Michael Jackson or the Catholic Church were sponsoring the endeavor of touch with an ad campaign and some sort of publicist that was frantically seeking out clip boards that have long been used as rolling and snorting tables and then burned in order to hide trace evidence. Cats hide in feline caves of belly aches and denial, yet serve as door men that need to be shushed and pushed from the gateway out of where you have found yourself being. A silly sense of sobriety wrapped in ribbons and revelry, all called out at dawn as a reminder of where you could not go back to now; the place where the hedge funds have your soul.

A hippie counter culture Republican? Well, maybe that is what it is. What was Ruby Ridge? You tell me, even if it is in a song that no one will ever hum during drive time or use as a melancholy intro of pseudo upbeat nonsense to bring in the rhythm of talking heads, and I do not mean the ones that stole Klaus Nomi’s clothes. How far off could delusion be if Don is lost? The lance is down and the horse hurts and some where there is still the loot that someone on a Hollywood set, [wearing tight, tight shorts (the corduroy ones with man-of-steel ball gripping power and prowess) stands taking roll call for the extras that could not be bothered enough to stand up unless it involved receiving their checks], can not find even if the map is in phonics and set to ebonics and swirled together with a bit of idiot proof universal symbol language that we should all be able to recognize.

Red - stop. Slashed circles - do not do. Blue - handi-land. Yellow - s.l.o.w…d.o.w.n. Two fingers up (pads faced out) - peace (or victory if you buy that theory - which I happen to buy into and do so with a loose wallet mistaken for the crotch of my fifth lover, a big breasted girl named Kristin who could not control her mammalian protuberances or the areolas that found their majestic home high upon those jiggling flesh masses in an Amherst night so far away that it might have well happened while I was a zygote). One finger straight up (you know the one) - a simple misunderstood gesture of ‘please leave me alone and to my own wares and wants’ commonly referred to as ‘fuck you’ or even ‘fuck off’ (which I thought was more of that flat hand perpendicular to jaw biting while palm flesh pad seizing like a fish out of water as Mike Patton sings to the piano that no one is playing since it is a sound bank in a keyboard, but then again what the hell do I know). The fabulous two fingers (same as above but flipped around so the knuckles face the receiver and normally the two of them bob up and down and gyrate around in a action commonly referred to as flailing or cerebral apple bobs like a legless, armless man in the water - or a pool of ice tea depending on which parties you still frequent) - FASCIST! Yes, Rik, I remembered you too!

Lost in the desert decaying like Morrison puke, his sunshine vomit from a cacti that most do not have access to these days but those who have tasted the fruit are still there, buried deep in bunkers wondering what religion could pertain to their ever fading mortality as they debate the great 21^st century drug-scapade and what it could and would entail for the players (and I am not talking about those black box cigarettes that some of you may have sought redemption or recreation in back when it was still ok, never mind cool, to smoke one - or many as many of you, us, did and have). No guides needed. No tokens in a box. A simple hand of aces, back to back, would get you through a night of teardrop smudged black ink in a notebook, a diary, a memoir, that no one will ever read or even lay eyes on in a gaze found some where between the purchase of Nikes for the Hale Bop and the Managuan roller coaster complete with refreshments that cry out for bizarre big sunglass rapes and meth shots, ala Kennedy and the craziness found in a Texas whore house with women that have never, and never will, shaken the hand of Jackie or the last remaining child - nope, not one simple pass by in a Christmas time mall even. Oblivion and denial walking hand in hand like some sort of fat ass Reiner rendition of Central Park in fall without the Connick soundtrack. Drink the juice now, consume the Kool-Aide. "Ohhhhh, Yeah!"

Between the killings of this black man and that black man and now all we have is Sharpton and Jackson gang-banging Gloria Allred against some sink caught on a cell phone camera and posted on YouTube in some sort of dysfunctional three way that Tony Clifton calls a 'menage-moi' and all that is left behind is a toilet tissue, a stained Kleenex, of Jim Carroll’s as he looks to get back on the junk so he can compete with Rush Limbaugh and all of the current Oxy and Hydro-codone junkies that wish they were as close to Tijuana as I am or the men that stuff themselves into Styrofoam peanut boxes of pepper and cardamom in order to mail themselves across the border in some Norwegian box truck marked with the sign of Maersk that will get them in the hands of an angry black man in Long Beach who wants to bail out from the docks to listen to Snoop or Dre and pound the white bread shit out of some neo something or other from Huntington as they pretend to skate in their flannels on boards that have iron cross decals on the bottom of their slide ride bellies, while their extended chain wallet protector weapons weep at the thought of leaving the pier and abandoning the protection of the surfers they claim fortitude from. All we have left is Jesse covered in blood, hands smeared just so for the camera, on a balcony no one remembers beyond the soul of James Earl Ray, and his words that only the RZA may understand after a chronic bender that would make Tommy Chong look like Frank Zappa (thus making Meth and Red jealous, but producers do what producers do - just ask Busta and the boys, I am quite sure they all know, while the dreds slap Raekwon and the other posse members jiving this way and that) and we all know what kind of trouble could ensue from that in a parking garage that no one listens to music in because of the Newport Beach police and all of the cameras that are secretly focusing in on some tight ass camel toe chick in riders over at the Goat Hill Tavern while playing pool in the position that all twelve year old boys masturbate to - it spells trouble better than Travis Tritt; all the while I am dreaming of moving to Texas to find all of the ex’s that George Strait left in his wake as some sort of siezure resulting from the fiddle work of Vasser Clemens and all the boys with voices so sweet that the Tabernacle tossed them aside and the boogi-woogie bump bars of Clint Eastwood and his son playing out in Honkey Tonk Man took in. The tuberculosis is a side dish, please focus on the entrée and the dessert; the desert dessert found in a Tennessee whore’s pillow talk about the dog and the iodine and the stairs and the socking jaw; thank you Jed.

Standing tall in a swingers club that Jack Ryan, not Jake Ryan, frequented while suffocating in a vodka spritzer that you would never think of guzzling in your most dark hours of desperation found behind the falsetto nose of Nicole Kidman in The Hours that she wished she could live behind after comments of glib and couch jumping. Yet, VH1 still echoes so hard through her house that the sub-zero fridge has heated up behind it’s Halloween costume of faux cabinetry and seclusion found in a shit stain that even Napoleon shipped off the island of St. Helena, who I don’t think is a saint and if she is she is selling cosmetics on QVC late at night while donning a fake face comparable to something used in the film FX or utilized by Sam Raimi in Darkman, which Liam Neeson still questions even after the Spider Man films.

I just went to piss out what ever it is that has effected me and made me piss fluorescent like a bad night at the Mudd Club. I think it is those Centrum vitamins (from A to Zinc and then all the B’s - which do make me goofy like nitrous and opium tar), but they appear to have worked through the urinary libido of my transactional system that processes the best, the best and only the very best - two scoops of B in a piss shot like the Raison Bran sunshine man pissing for a job at K-Mart and hoping they do not find the Soma from a week ago where he hallucinated a prom queen guzzling jizz from a goblet that he had filled only to awake in an IHOP with his pants pissed in and a less than fresh and fruity (never mind root ‘n’ tootie) breakfast in front of him while the ammonia wafted nasal bound. Silly , huh? Nope. It happens. Just open your eyes.

I looked down in the bathroom basket of waste (and yes it IS bright Orange) and I saw Lindsay Lohan on the cover of a Cosmo from April 2006. It all seemed right in the world. Brittany’s beav everywhere. Lindsay in my trash. Paris wishing she were Nicky. Me, wishing I was Nicky’s tampon. Two a.m. viewings of a Steven Spielberg movie that no one remembers from 1971, "The Duel". Some Michael Gross wanna be with a mustache from his Sci-Fi Channel days of the series ‘Tremors’ (which still makes Kevin Bacon cry and Kyra Sedgwick beat him with a wet broom handle to Nine Inch Nails songs while she refuses him acetaminophen, never mind ibuprofen) dressed all goofy riding against a truck on the CHiPS high way of Charlie Manson hell out in Laurel Canyon (with thoughts of Brian Wilson in mind eating masculine and cocaine as a breakfast snack at 6 p.m.) and never getting anywhere because the front of the truck looks like the one from Jeepers Creepers and the push button radio dial is entertaining enough that it gets you to the part where he orders a from a restaurant menu that actually has listed a cheese sandwich that is not on the kid’s menu and he spells out rye, R-Y-E, and then upon it’s arrival is pissed that he does not ask for ketchup. That is half way through the film and that gets you far enough along to wonder at 3 a.m.

What am I doing awake?

Would I be better off being Ben Stein’s Nixon jockstrap paperwork before Jimmy Kimmel was even a wasted backseat chin mess of felatio?

Would I be better as the lance, fallen in the sand?

Would I be happier as a part of a British documentary no one ever saw?

Would it be cool to just be me?

I asked John, John the Baptist, and he answered me plain,

“If we let him go on like this, everyone will believe in him, and then the Romans will come and take away both our place and our nation” - John 11-48

And with this I reflect no longer for the headache must supersede the need to read onward or upward and the sheep have lost their shepherd time and time again.

Only now do I understand and for all of you who know, I thank you.

Cisco kid was a friend of mine.

Pancho came and drank the wine - it was good wine too.

And I am here, unemployed ...