It's like a dream
inside a dream
inside a lost laugh and a blood bath and which wall was it that fell to the ground and which cry was it that went to the town and how do you know how far you are and how do you know just where you are and where did you get that beautiful scar was it snowing or raining or frying or fainting or being sliced with a knife on the best night of your life by a man dressed as your wife but wearing no shoes, no tie around you neck hanging you from noose or corner office and where did the time go
this all used to be fun
this all used to be exciting
it's dead now, no one has realized it yet but were all dead already, we've died and this, this is a perversion of life, the dead must be dead not bouncing about like rotting marionettes goddamn it who is pulling the strings and when will they put us rotting back to the box it's over already and that's why it feels like nothing because it is nothing a great big nothing of a death after a great big nothing of a life.

And after this if I slip into a nonstop waking nightmare and forget where the crack in the ice was that I pounded skull and fist to as my skin and lips became blue and another warning story born for nascar dads and soccer moms to mourn.

Village Idiot, position to be filled, by some skilled applicant whose not worth laughin at though some might when you find that he doesn't go out at night, full of fear, the coast is clear though it's filled with rocks, seaweed, lumbering, lazy, lusty couples with hands down trunks, pipes down skunks, christ downs monks and the giants win the super bowl, down to the wire, the letter, the post card from the tire yard of all your lost summers and miserable winters, cold, old and told what to do, spat back at you from the tv you can't turn off, not that you'd want to, tonight Ashley Blue and Lucy Liu will 69 for you on pay per view, don't touch that dial.

And so on and so on Jesus blabbed all nite, keeping the party guests from ever truly relaxing, he just kept going, parable to parable, story to story, lesson to lesson, it was awful it looked like the party was ruined.
But it wasn't.

There are somedays where you just can't create anything at all. Which infuriates me.
The only way to mark the passage of time is with constant creation.
Presumably what you create is different, fuck, let's get big ol' sloppy hearts on our fucking sleeves today and lets say, sure, everything you create is different, even if it is mind numbingly similar to whatever actually original work your hoping no one knows about that your blatantly ripping off.
it's different because it was done by you.

I keep feeling like somebody keeps pushing the reset button on me, I do comedy than I don't, then I can't, then i can't remember how and I write, then I don't, then I can't and I collage then I don't, then I can't, and I read, then I don't, then I can't.

I can't keep up with myself. I imagine that very few people can keep up with their desires, I imagine those who do, to be psychopaths.
They seem satisfied to me.

So what is it then? Is it ok to spend the day jerking off and playing video games?
What's to be said for discipline?

Oh its easy. The answer to all your questions is simple. What it means to you. that's it.

Am i doing the right thing?
Should I do more of this?
Less of that?
Whatever it means to you theres no time inside of time to stop time and figure out what to do with your time find out what it means to you and spend your day any goddamn way, I think I realize now as I'm writing this, I get upset when I waste the day because I probably won't get many and theres probably a lot more I should be doing with my life.

The Dirt, The Earth, The Past, The Future

I am going to write now, because finally, I feel that I have a pen nice enough to use for writing, just writing. The king of pen that makes a shopping list seem loke a priceless piece of pop art. That makes every word hang on the page, like some pristine Dylan lyric or some such selfish nonsense.

Fuck Bob Dylan and fuck your relentless worship of him. All he does for 30 plus years is act like a holier-than-thou asshole and pile giant piles of money around himself and for some reason we've determined that this kind of childish behavior warrants being labeled some sort of spirit of an age, well maybe he is now that I think about it, what else were the 1960s really about, if not making money?

I keep getting drawn back to money. For a long time I thought that everything was about sex, and to a certain extent, I still do. Of course, this isn't my idea, but it's one of those things, like those 3-2 magic eye books and posters that used to be so goddamn popular at malls and as presents for other kids you didn't really know that well, once you see the hidden, magic, 3-D image, whenever you looked back at that fuzzy red picture you automatically saw that dolphin leaping over the wave or the happy clown, it's like that, it's like once you start to think about every aspect of your day, life as being entirely motivated by base sexual urges and desires, well, then, that's it, that becomes all you can see, sometimes to a plus, as when you correctly pick up on the drunk chubby girl's subtle flirtations and score yourself a blow job in a bathroom at 3 a.m. and all you have to do is finger her a little bit, she's so drunk that she's imaging the best fingerbang she's ever had in her life, meanwhile your drunkenly just barely finding the clit, but sometimes this heightened sense of sexual awareness can ultimately be detrimental to your life, cause and beliefs, such as in the inevitable family function, where you are forced to view with unblinking horror what Jack and Bill would describe as "naked lunch", the act of realizing what's on the end of your fork, you, your family, the act of realizing that it's sexual, all of it, you exist because your mom and your dad got all breathy and lusty and he forgot to pull out, or she lied and said she was on the pill or they tried after drinks, dancing and other stupid cheeseball lame shit like that to actually create you out of misplaced religious duty and confused feelings of fear at the possibility of disappointing parents and the almost constant overwhelming desire to be accepted, to be looked at as a fellow, normal, just like you person, friend neighbor, just like you.

Your dad probably fingered your mom, to get her wet, to get her ready for the fucking. Are you thinking of your parents as you read this? Am I thinking of mine as I write this?

I'm not. I don't have parents. I don't believe in them. It might sound childish but that may be because the sentiment is so simple, I didn't ask to be born. If you bring me naked and screaming into this disintegrating world of terror and hate do not expect me to pucker up and love you for it.

Parents are arbitrary. You want to put all your stock in theories about kids with shitty homelives who grow up to be kiddy fuckers or wife beaters because of it go ahead, I say bullshit, I say those fucking assholes were always kiddy fuckers, they were always wife beaters, life just handed them a beautifully simple excuse and they chose to hang on to that excuse like a badge of pride.

I've seen kids who came to school with shiners instead of little brown lunch bags with notes of love and reminders of soccer practice tucked inside, grow up to be loving husbands and fathers and I've seen little spoiled pieces of shit, waited on hand and foot by doting rich parents ( or representatives thereof, a nanny or butler for example ) grow up to be serial raping, junkie scum fucks who you'd actually pay good money to kick in the face, to see those hateful little eyes swell up with blood and see the blood drip to the floor, that's the bad leaking out, if it's in you, you can get it out, you can bleed it out, it's what I've been saying, it doesn't matter if your parents are crack heads or doctors, there is something inside everybody that is different, just a thing, a way of viewing the world, a way of taking in information, everyone is given a threshold of how much they can take, we don't know, it's not our fault and it is our fault, is it just faulty wiring that makes us skin some one alive, hanging on their every scream like an apostle with ear bents towards Christ on the cross waiting for an utterance, a message, a punchline, something, is it a chemical imbalance or is it something deeper, more elusive than the genome, something written on our souls, something no amount of medication or therapy can ever put right, something that can only be cured by the swift expulsion of an awful lot of blood, into a bath tub, preferably, if you don't want to make the mess anymore difficult for that poor neighbor/lover/friend/parent/pet that finds you.

So it is your fault. You know the only cure for your evil fucking urges is a straight razor down your wrists, down the street, not across the road, you don't want them to talk shit about you as you hover over your body like all those cliche television specials, floating in the o.r., if your bad it is your fault that your alive you can end it and should but won't and that's ok.

if all the bad people cured themselves of their evil there would be big traffic jams, we'd all be waiting while bulldozers pushed the piles of bodies to and fro waiting for the funeral fires to get this batch and the sky is black for years it's soot and ask and skin and it wouldn't happen like this, evil isn't real and if it was, it's self realization of it's own nature and subsequent "curing" of would have to be taken as a good action, thus the evil has been revealed as secret good, not evil at all, if evil were real it would say that it was good, not evil and it most certainly would not commit suicide an inherently good act, it would linger, not be lifeless, be active and forever and if evil were real it wouldn't be real and neither would good be which brings us back to now to the point.

I saw sex in everything. Now I see money in everything. Sex and money are the only real things. Good and Evil are bullshit, silly, meaningless distractions, the stuff your late night television programs cum over, lofty concepts that help people feel bigger than they are, feel like, there is good worth fighting for, evil worth defeating, meanwhile, in actuality, there is sex worth having and money worth making, it's all there is and all there was and get down on your knees, moan softly while twenties are shoved into your thong and tilt your head back and take it and love it and worship it and never question it, tears are streaming down your face as the future chokes you with it's cock, one hand on your throat, the other on the back of your head, not releasing until your lifeless mouth falls to the ground, with the semen of lost dreams crawling slowly past cracked lips and mingling with the dirt, the earth, the past, the future.