Things you don't know. I don't know. Unless you tell me. Or someone. Like that I am. I am here. You see me. Or someone. That tree in the woods. Clapping. Crap. Room. Was where it was. One of us. One of them. All subject to recalls. Yours. Mine. The cause undetermined. I only see what is shown. The rest unseen. We will pray for rain. If I don't say you can't know. So faith is blind. And justice. Parents. Never to rain again. And what if there were none at all? One species wiped out. Then another. Wasteful. Not necessarily. Only on certain occasions. But even then. How to be if not seen. Heard. Touched. Not that way. I am what you tell me I am. Except you never said. I was not. You never saw. Directed elsewhere. I am what they said. But they never said. I am not not. We are. We are what they did. No one ever saw. Or said. It was nothing new. Lola gave us peanut butter. On spoons. Dancing on the table. Bare footed. Small. For that problem costs three dollars. We got it bad that time. All the time. But that was the only time with spoons of peanut butter dancing on the table. And the last time for Lola. they say they are writers. No one disagrees. No one says any thing ever. Maybe the rest are here but not really. Somewhere else. Like another room. It was windy. That's what he said. Dark in the closet. Without wind. Without air. There was no wind. Can't be. Unless he is trusted. Not lying. Spinning a yarn. None of the above will do. We are all cynics. Still we want to believe. We want to believe. To know. Someone to tell us we are. Not a thief.
It was never one of us but once all of them were phenoms, the good ones of blond-ed hairs and blu-ed eyes fat cheeks endless smiles lacy ankle socks and mary janes and then the rest of us, the ones you never saw or if you did unremarkable
planned out our lives according to the ones we had our own childishness hiding the missing -- what of it? We are a dangerous species no safe place for our love to flow. As if. There was never need of love, to become embroiled without fear of pain. Anatomy never a friend, yours or mine. Neither.
THe telepathy of words, the sounds they make unsopoken Aware consience brings only conflict There is no personal philosophy but narcissim And control.
Everyone had a roommate but us. To be alone, kept alone, is key. One alone will never be believed so much the easier for what it was Yet we stayed Were we waiting for them to show us our ends or did we never care? did we never matter so much as that?
They then were in the days of john birch the kkk mandatory sunday mass pretending i the disruptor still trying to dream through to the end. Whose nightmare it was.
Roaming the world through its sewers chipping round. some on, some off. There's a price to pay. Always.
Savoring a smooth cool barrel with all that implies. Infinite promise. Freedom.
A fascination all my own. Not any business of theirs they knew but looked the other way refusing our existence by those eyes averted
There are no more pioneers. Everyone knows everything yet no one knows one damn thing worth knowing Abominations that for nothing else can be when labels run out no longer marginalized instead simply ceased the being. It should take another two weeks.
the parasitics within they make us famous for things they say we should hide a realness of one of me that none can see. I am we are invisible to the naked eye
it is not rebellion certianly not in this strength only in isolated instances.
It's just that we wanted to go the same way
now over and through it is blood, burnt flesh a dry empty body waits to be used, reused, discarded, recycled Laying on, not near, absent use emptiness reverbates, then shatters
it's literature and drugs unrecognizable to all who wonder at the sameness All of it is nothing more than this
there is not more than a modicum of challenge but for the vulgarity of some life some live it was not a happy time but only the sameness hiding these violent loathing selves
there is nothing of importance here or there, only you. spiritual liberation is not yet liberation of any sort breeds fear like the wavering signals coming in over late-night radio snuck under the pillow of a stick-figure girl, a caricature is all and so neither can it be true what she thinks they were did or she saw felt. Empty lines never fill in
Nothing is until it is observed. They refuse to see what is in front of them. WHat is behind them. They refuse to be seen. Then we are not.
We were never explicitly loveable Synchronicity we once cried without knowing the mind foresees out future We weep for the aura of it we restrain ourselves Going off we miscalculated tongue-tied babbling Then we finished Would apologize Didn't know what to say Luminaries legends devils and saints. It wasn't just a baby's terror.
Words imprecise unfamiliar complicated imprecise artistic transliterations to illustrate any dreamers thoughts no mere approximations but only things indescribable for lack of words the use of which render bluured the dream Ayy dream
Making fun, ruinous fun
There is no art Only paint and words the subtlety of nuclear explosions And blood
i can't do any more writ ing be cause i have not to say and i might run out of room to say if once words come or thought to be and i don't have time to read every thing they say in response to my nothing ness isms
Morning to night walking round a thought in my head
Go ahead and say it the others In the corner sitting with their concepts, their precepts I sit but cannot know how it is they learn I understand none of it I tested their feelings and failed Magic is not i must but i can't
It is no matter that you again are sure to be absolutely right But then I came late, hating the knowing the making of a living and not just to be before that great committeee an urge to vomit my ending truths instead we shed those those things like a mocassin's sin in the jungly overgrowth Yet the index remains there for the committee for you waiting to be found
It is not just only you and me but there are others hiding in the woods, behind my cerebral cortex.
one of themm a father tied one rope fr the sky thinking like that he said is a sin but to be saying things like that worse than sin how worse than I don't know
Pummelled like a piñata a father I heard say said some breathlessly sin removes you from god your father wondering how many fathers to make just one life and then but only later if sin removes me from god then how can talking be worse than that?
perhaps that then is why even now our ghosts are bruised
When I leave I will go off as a note. Only one or a piece. There will no offerings. Of course providene and all that has a place. Things that have no name.
"Long ago and many years was my my music taken." Who would listen to such talk from a man like that? Much less a vaguness called girl.
Perhaps it just vanished like the tide. That one no longer able to be with that she gone so went the music Many unrecognizable by choice then became and the music simply departed it wasn't the farewell he hoped for
fishes bubbles on the surface only one producer of grand babies two two year olds i love you he makes a good hamburger beeps and songs and buzzes and all the other electronic detritus it's a whiz on sunday cause the lines aren't that long or young babel babbles bot never The Test only children and food and family that no one knows, will never be seen or maybe isn't even all this easy talk covers the not talking thant can't be and is not allowed some more full of himself than others and he's not even wearing boots still the fishes bubble so they for one or however many is there can leave alive or naturally dead
where you are is not where i am, else you might know where i am, or could be, or have been. the human leavings incapable of cleaning. wiping free of memory, of thought, whatever it is this consciousness we are blessed and cursed.
come to think of it i've no idea not only the place of absence but of your being as well.
we all are hid behind our personas crafted, disdain and aloofness, no more joining with another, no connection, no communication.
you write you say is enough is all you deign or have to give.
not that my selfishness was ever a secret i am human still i think though uncionnected yet still selfish narcissism springs to life anew
like you. like all the rest.
you may say or write or post as you will and i need not be commital, you expect nothing. i too fade away, making no constraints. it is after all nothing to do with me but only you
of time we have just so much. who am i to take of yours?
you're tight, yes, pretending other, but then i already knew. i am no one and i am not here