[castlehead]

you wander in and out of all these cosmic rooms. sometimes you catch someone getting out of the shower, or pooping. thing is, they don’t see you. you’re invisible to them. so far. but you give something to them just by seeing them.

forever after, they will be real, in a way, but fully real, existing, all, in their little rooms, and, maybe, they might see you, one day—if you truly do grant thoughts being, i don't see why they wouldn't see you, at least one day they will, see you as you have them, many times.

early in its metamorphosis, a thought will still not fully realize what and where it is. but you’ve already proven that thoughts can look back on themselves: in this case, look back on you.

but you did not make the rooms, where do hunker these pieces of jizz, called thoughts, and ideas, still there, the stain still on your underwear after washing—those little ones of  yourself, they are down in their bunkers, safe, each piece of dead spawn; and locked away from any media influence.

you did not make all the cosmic rooms in the building of cosmos. those are of my own design. specifically, the space, there, in the rooms—spot it?

i gave all the little ones the rooms, for them to be in—to be in and stay—even half- and -quarter-thoughts, or impressions, now rest, therein.

yes, you’re welcome.

space is one of my greatest designs, by the way. elegantly simple. a place where physicality manifests and can wander.

though you are there, right now, in one of these worlds i have made—and, you are—no, you did not make this place of space, neither the one you are in, nor the spaces for the little ones in your head, little ones with little rooms. you couldn’t have known.

you wander, i believe, because you are curious. you make this place, these various compartments, in your head real, as in, real-without-description. somehow these creations of yours don’t need a signifier.

some thoughts you have beefed up so much that they linger in your psyche long after you have already stopped thinking about them.

some of them, while they linger, have their own thoughts, which you cannot hear. this is the freaky miracle you have done. i don’t know how you were able to do it.

well, i do, but i will not tell you ever. besides to say, you are the witness needed to compound a thought’s reality.

so don’t shut your eyes once you start seeing inner natures and their vulnerabilities. you’re the one who looked.

the whole point is that it’s disrespectful, but also something that needed to happen. somebody had to do it.

Prometheus stealing the torch.

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you don’t stay in any room for too long, but, you return eventually to each room, again, a few times you have done this already. giving the thought proper care, and attention, as like it were mewling infant.

but then, after that, you go wandering into beyond again, into a wider circumference of rooms beyond that you have not seen yet; wandering, then, returning prodigal to nurse the concepts you had once seen privately, but, now, all of the concepts who are your clients won’t do a session without the lord almighty present, “to remind him of his collateral, every time he wants to see me.” that’s what one of them said. like this shit was some sort of hostage negotiation. i know, i know, i can be cheeky.

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you saw what seen, in the rooms before, then saw them again, then a third time for the charm, always ready to love them again, as before, as your creations you will always have with. like that scar on you left arm that isn’t going away, it’s been a decade and it’s still quite prominent, especially when you tan in the summer. But, you say, what am I supposed to do, just not wear short-sleeved shirts for the rest of my life? i’m too tired and sweaty to do that.

i hope you’re going to be okay. i think you will.

and before and before and before, the rooms before, revisited, none kept alone for too long.

then you transcending again, you wander, again, after you have given aid to these poor prior things, spirits, in rooms, in the previous rooms.

i don’t think there is one of these phenomena you haven’t procured without feeling a humane and decent connection to it, and which you wish to feed with your witnessing, which, if it happens for long enough, becomes not witnessing, but making.

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it seems aimless, at first, it does to most people, Dan; but you have a sense of awe about it all, and therefore comes the poetry.

that is why i call you a wandering minstrel. you wander and wander. it’s a little goofy. if it works for you, whatever.

you’re a madcap who looks at those who would not exist without you thinking about them. do not write them down any more than you have to, at some point there’s a barrier, and you’re as far away high up as you can get.

i am not sure if these ideas, made of words, are human, or if they can be.

but you know they have being. yet you feel you are as much as can be made of your thoughts, by now, having been dosed an experience riven to flight underwing an eagle once as fieldmouse snatched without ceremony, bleeding there in those talons, a broken neck.

i suppose then you die, without you being whatever they are, whatever being is.

you wander your way into the bathroom while an idea is defecating on the toilet. no, they do not see you, i’ve decided it. not yet.

and so, do let it be, and it is. the idea of you ebbs away. you let it.

they never see you in your mind’s lair, these ideas, these thoughts you cannot demonstrate with any seriousness in front of people. for it is your mind’s lair where it all happens to be unfolding out.

you haunt the world of an idea. you watch it poop. it does so for you and will never know that.

your residue of you returns at 6am, each morning, to watch them poop their regular morning poop. eventually, they see you, might see you. but not now.

sure, that thought doesn’t see you, you standing there before it now. asking for something but saying nothing.

but you look, merely, at the conceptualization that is behind the thought, underneath that healthy pair of ribs, peel them back, now, get grasped the heart beating, not in lifeforms, but in things.

and why should they notice you? the only mistiness of you there in that place is just that—you—you conjure to go on these missionary trips. nothing besides, nothing real. it is the you that is conjured to make you feel less alone, walking through one dimension, into another. some less habitable than others.

this specter i mention here: he has being too. and now that you’ve fooled with the controls and made him—a you like you—exist, each you that went off the rails, into other dimensions, all those times—that mistiness of a you of a sort ends up stuck in those alien worlds, forever.

you create them, these specters, ghosts, as but vessels to drive, which you use to pillage of that place, of that room of them, every possible reality of any quality, and then, abandon that you there, when you are finished—he, doomed to walk a specter among people who do not see him and with whom he cannot communicate.

his limbs, translucent, grasp for the cuff of a man he is trying to communicate with, then, he falls right through the person. ever seen that movie Ghost? like that. one thing i didn’t understand is, if the guy’s arms go through people, wouldn’t the legs go through the ground? like, how can he walk, as a ghost? ok. i’m done.

once your eyes land on them, once you look, however, these things, concepts, become something more than concepts.

methinks you might want to write them into existence so fully and fine that they will recognize you, finally, will be able to recognize you, there, before them and all, watching them poop.

the other is hidden eterne. it will not be back. as of now. it’s for the better. but damn you for doing it.

maybe, it’s just that you need a friend, someone you know, who can look at you while you look back—so as to make sure indeed you both are real, and here, now.

oh, all the looking you used to do.

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you do not grant physical life.

that is different than being. but different dimensions have different rules for what being is. despite, i would like you to think of me as the golden rule. no matter what dimension you are in, i will be speaking to you the same, maybe not always with the same words.

you might do this or that differently, or say this or that differently, located as you happen to be alongside thoughts, ideas, walking along the pebbly shore of their certain realms of being, realms exquisite, like complicated-looking flowers. oft they shrug themselves away from your reach—before a fetching word about boredom decides you that the word ‘realm’ is hackneyed, so use a different word.

you said of these pitiless hallucinations that it was, “like a movie.” something about this pitiless verse stinks of artifice. As it should in garish overgrowth, lumping out of any distinguishable shape, and the colors knotted over too many times to stand out one color from another.

a few words tuned and tuned and tuned, in Wallace Stevens’s way, the way he has, upon the shore.

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the human brain, too, has its own rules for what should be granted being, within itself.

that’s the important part. somewhere else, someone else, it might not work with.

you might say your thoughts, some of them, have being, according to the rules of your cerebellum.

of course, as i said, it is not physical being.

a thought will never ‘give birth’ to physicality directly.

a thought is supposed to be a guide, one that gives you clues to action proper. the physical brain of a physical self receives the clues, properly and officially, uses their judgment, and either listens to the clues, or passes over them, to the beckoning of the next focal point, which may just be buying cigarettes at the corner store.

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but who mayest act in reality would just as well be the same mechanism as a thought mayest react to a thought. is this consciousness in the latter case? perhaps it is a kind of consciousness.

if one has constructed, as you have, a thorough and rigorous bill of rights for the real—a giant wool blanket that you have spread out before you for the benefit of anything like existence, and not all existence even, just the parts that decided to come—in full or partly itself, like any psychedelic trip—before, before anything else, though, you need something to cover you and to warm you, little one.

that is, let in what you let in, that which welcomed you, and you them, thoughts that would be real, if only there was a witness.

it’s just like you said. reality always needs a witness, like marriage.

so that is what you grant them: a witness.

you look and at that everything and nothing together merge to form a being of a thought.

just one, but for you, for all, all of them; for you tossing your conceptual blanket over them, thoughts that need a little warmth first, that need a chance to be real first.

this blanket, scrawled with your bill of rights for the real—the one you were born in—warms these notions around you, buzzing around you, they are half-notions from another angle, bad news from another angel, half-notions that are simply what you are unaware you are thinking about.

until, that is, you consecrate the half-notion as full notion, by writing it down.

so write, write on, in holy matrimony. create being with words, go wild.

well. thoughts behave almost the same as any being-as-physical-reality, so there’s no matter, there. maybe should have said that earlier.

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physicality should not be the golden rule by which a thing exists. i am the golden rule, remember that.

the words be as they are great weights, heavy to absorb as they are, but, you’re right: i’m the one who looked. the slabs are immovable, static devilry, but, you try, and you find likewise we remain where we are, that so then is being a dwelling-place that changeth not, a permanent home for jongleurs, so then, the thing which we say that to ourselves we touch, with ourselves, with even one digit, a digit in search for a connection, even stooping to looking up Craigslist ads in the classifieds. forget ‘missed connections’—your not so deluded that you’d think anyone would write about you. if you make the call, and they come, they’ll probably eventually figure out you don’t need to move your couch, but i could string the interaction along enough to maybe lower some defenses, you think, to yourself, paging through your wilderness of loneliness, a wilderness of stiff fists of brakes natty and teetering into, then strangling upwards, out of their knot, almost with a sort of flow straight again, this highway woodlands of your loneliness.

and maybe, he won’t even care about the couch.

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you hold the banister descending stairs for certain it will not suddenly disappear at your touch causing you to fall.

to touch is also a kind of witness, a sensory witness. still one that your mind parses for you.

but the mind is just one digit. though, I mean, it’s the one thing you think they cannot take away from you, the mind.

the other in you, which you inhabit sometimes unwillingly, to your great pain, and sometimes willingly, to your astonishment, has, for itself and its form, chosen to have being, possess being, and but which being ends up this kind of embodiment of malevolent desire to ruin you. wearing a disguise, a monocle and a bowler. english gentleman going for maybe.

well give the Brit the fuck his tea so he can leave.

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inhabiting the other is also the only way you can do what you’re doing.

that insight, the insight one has of displacing oneself, you from the self of you, either the one in public or alone in your room, displaced, so as to milk an other, until their pure being is, for you, yes, this is a good. and it will be the good one, impacting the impossible, enough, to fit itself in that crater with the rest of reality’s everything-else.

this is something, which, theoretically, is apart from you, yourself. whatever it is you’ve sensed…out…there. you know it. yeah. it is worth a few philosophies but absolutely no psychologies. as a metaphysical phenomenon, it comes across in your writing. a lot.

the other…is not a psychological phenomenon, even though it happens in everybody’s head.

there is some kind of homeostasis-of-self you yearn to have built, and, in your approaching the other, or, i should say, by you wrestling with it, as Jacob did—great pain is felt on your end.

sometimes i forget that.

there is endless effort to coax it out of its nest in you. but it is a nest that is really in everybody.

somewhere, somewhere dimly-lit and perhaps better to be ignored.—

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a psychological profile would say you are dissociated; whereas, a metaphysical profile might accept the truth of your stance-as-other. that is, the other you have accumulated, over how long i do not know—it is somewhere in your head, is there, in your mind, is there, in the dimly-lit vault-floors of your mind; is, indeed, a something that exists independently of you.

so what if the brass becomes a bugle or the wood a violin? Rimbaud asks us. to find yourself, do you accept how you have changed, or rather find ways to change back?

what the selfhood of the bugle, to speak figuratively, since in brass no self occurs?

or, like, maybe that’s wrong, and all objects are somehow animate? another time for that, another time. not now.

let us say, the essence, the essence of you. not self.

or, sure, ok, selfhood too. that too.

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the other may be an ultimate shape of the thing you look for.

you set it to stalk there, behind you, with bait of your pain to lead it behind you, looking forward ever and moving forward ever, ignoring the almost-sexual pulse of the discharge of my pain, you say—swabbing bubbling into its frothy jaws from behind me: i call it, essence of menstrual bullshit.

wherefore have you not until now noticed the shadow? taller than your own, made of all your worst battles, and blackening in wrath, everything shaded by ash everpresent, falling from a great fiery summit on its shoulders?

it were not you that made the world around you gloom, but the stalker of you, eclipsing everything, gutting you—whose sole purpose is to not ever catch you, for you wouldst die, and the stalker have nothing to stalk.

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you saw the world this sort of way, as changed, around you; as being inhabited with darker, danker personalities, to you, like for example of one old man who wears a bad flower shirt or something and who bets on the track and who steps one step closer to you as he shakes your hand and you can smell his halitosis.

but these things meant more to you than probably they meant at all, for anyone, even the person experiencing them, who is not you.

humans for the most part live in the actual, and i live in the actual i like to think. They are always me, these things, these ideas.

i say to myself, “it’s you talking to you about you.”

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some mild degradation of yourself: myself, that i expose, you say: perhaps in some pedestrian instance. hopefully not an instance between friends, wherein i will gape through the awkward and fail somehow, as if there was something needing failing, and, upon thinking of this, of failure, i move the most problematic parts of myself, in each worst way, in front of my poor friend, one after the other, until, turtlish, my head rocks senilely on my neck, and i become afraid to peek out anything more than i have already, without being in control, i am not in control, you say.

but even if you are not in control, that instance should not trigger panic formulate around the conclusion you have just come to—for the 40-billionth time—

but this time it’s with fresh eyes man after i put it away a bit i swear i can look at it now, i am certain of, of this:

that everybody either hates me or pities me.

this you say to me. I do not know why this was something you wanted to declare to me. perhaps it was a response to me, somewhere, or perhaps it was a snippet of you interior monologue, the mahood in your brain lashing the ass of reason till both you and ass hoarse, and he, mahood, finally having had enough and flourishing a sort of black leather caning-whip, hitting the thing with it with rapid audible strikes, accompanied by a pissed sort of coughing non-verbal directive. either that, or you could not hear what was being said. maybe then no one has heard him, but no, the man on the ass he says to get to the gully fast as can, expecting the ass to do as much, on some thin few bits of reason. dry stalks, cabbage too wet left out too long, or just straight-up refuse. the ass dies. the end.

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see? see the way your harp’s strain becomes just shitting massive bloody diarrhea tampons? it’s okay. it’s just…shocking to some people.

anyway. what was i saying? this:

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the stalker does not inform you that anything at all is different. you must not know about it in order for it to survive, the tapeworm in your colon.

you went trodding on, much as before, wondering why everything around you looked especially—sad.

or is it the thing with a use that’s enough for creation and its mendicants, and will they leave me alone if it is, stop begging me for cash using prayer?

you are something like a musical instrument, yes, i know it. it is the essence of you, whether oak or violin, either one is valid.

are you, as well, like which of its material might be made being, by you, at least one of a sort; or is the essence of anything ever what it was originally?

who was the proto-self? it was the caveman who realized that those around him, the ones who were like him, existed, and were as real as he—and were as there—as he.

so then, these beings were not just tools to use, for this caveman—a spear to hunt, stones, and sticks to rub against the stones, to make a fire, if that is we are talking about a caveman post-fire-discovery.

the caveman of course knew other cavepeople, they all lived together. he knew that those in his number were an idea of unity that transcended his only particular existence.

maybe, for a moment, the caveman, in having this thought, lost, for a moment, himself, perceiving a unity he could never fully grasp. not that anyone could.

of many, there will be one. that’s how the universe ended.

the caveman who thought this gave up being just a caveman that day, and became, of himself, in meld with others; he, as he knew, someone to care for and protect, yes; but then others by this became to him extant and apparent, to as equally care for and protect, translating this sensibility he had for himself, only, before, to the glory of selfishness.

I guess he no longer felt he was the only one. the caveman realized he had to help others and care for others. great, there’s a morall. but the caveman knew this only through experiencing first his own self and his existence among others, felt others more to praise through praise of himself, as himself, that others should be praised for being them, extand, there.

what made him hearty would make others hearty, he knew, somewhere on the first page of human thought, he knew, and marked it, in the process relieving a few suppositions.

that soul of that caveman was important to have been, i bet.

your soul, by the coordinations of which desultory afflatus you have come to many conclusions, i am sure, share in this caveman’s epiphany of unveiling the plurality, of…something.

i’m not sure yet what it is, but you’ve discovered it. for sure.

look at what i’m saying about the caveman. it is a thought of many in your head i use now. think of he the caveman who possessed a free will his own, apart from your own. which knowledge is the true knowledge of the both these perspectival ravels? apart from any others, yet inspired by the otherness of commune to look beyond himself?

i can imagine you saying—maybe that is how i look to all my thoughts.

yes, he, the caveman, responds: they are your children, all, all children of your intense otherness.

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i profess you have been much changed by all of your thoughts. i don't know if you’ve become a violin or a bugle. But maybe you are…some sort of musical instrument.

you must remember that it’s all in your mind, even the other is; the other is but a guess at what you must look like to people.

here i will say by this other in you i mean unlike what you might call a commune of others, existing proximate you. as in, families. tribes.

in this way, it is often mistaken, reality is, and its brood of all states of being mistaken, for there is one more, which i do not name, which could live if only just.

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your looking inward maketh words alive perfect spheres of content, something that exists, completely, on its own, and that would only need physicality in order to exist completely and alive, in your own realm.

so i used the word again, whatever.

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these thoughts, or ideas, ideas or thoughts—or maybe impressions— would need nothing else but physicality. its melding would be perfect, outstanding, lunatic—but it would never happen, and besides, it’s a part of the meaning, in their being what they are.

what you have created out of words cannot be something physical. a word made flesh is seldom, though trembling partook—that bad boy was Emily Dickinson.

i know you like that one.

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sometimes you can literally inhabit the mechanism of other and feel outside yourself simply by hijacking the sensation of being someone else, looking at you. it’s a neat trick.

likewise, you can inhabit any reality, half-reality, inter-dimensional whatever, in your head, for a few minutes, at least—really it’s hours, depending on what you want to call the experience, you say. so, ok, hours, hours after which are weeks that each of them enact the same disintegration of you, until you are so outside of anything divine you might as well be dead.

you feel this way all the time because of a fucked up virtue called getting outside of yourself. you just got so outside of yourself, you got lost, you couldn’t find your way back.

you must remember it is all in your mind and is controlled by your mind.

even your most deft of them, thoughts, ideas, still must pass, all of them, through the cranial sieve, before they get to you, in whatever form they come in, one that, mostly, they do not start as—they will become the form taken, permanently, once through the sieve, laying there all before you, like a hussy who is very much indecent, and you shouldn’t have come in while she was changing, and yet she, indolently, whining to you for this continual waiting, for you to come to bed. down there, at the bottom of your psyche, you and this indolent woman together. from that perspective, the whole thing becomes less glamorous.

no it will stay like that where it is.

no, there’s not another way.

the thought, idea, will not be truly yours. no thought is truly anyone’s, truly belongs to anyone.

words is just a giant communism.

no matter what comes out, at bottom, it will ever be—a thing that makes ghastly sense, because, it is still a product of the mind, my mind, or maybe not my mind, maybe a mind—not mine.

that’s all reality needs, to be real, or, in a way, to have being, a sort of being.

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you are full of such rooms of the various suggestive spirits of things that all hanker be real. to be the next concept given being. most of them still can’t see you. a few can.

i will not clarify this further. stop asking me about it.

or perhaps you are not even asking about it, and my protestations leave you nonplussed and awkwardly gaping.

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you help thoughts be most they can. but the vetting process isn’t severe enough. this is why so many of them, thoughts, ideas, come to you. because they seek refuge. i know, i know, it sounds like a brag, but you’re not the one bragging about you, i am.

that is the simplest explanation, you being proximate God. usually these thoughts are weak ones, the weak thoughts. maybe that’s your point. they are just hopeful trifles you give more significance than is warranted because you think they’re cute.

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you dive headlong into the mistake, which is not even arrived for you, it will arrive with carriage and footman and driver and the mistake itself there finally, for you to be ready for, at last ready for.

you imagine the mistake, stepping down from the carriage, brandishing a fancy black wooden walking stick with the wooden head of a duck as the handle. maybe…oak. And but you are antsy to catch up to its occurrance, because this time you are ready for it, for the mistake that is coming, though your antsiness makes you less ready for it. however, the occurrence is one that will end up the mistaken thing, this time, in a turn of irony—the folly you wait for will forever fail to occur, until you are driven mad by anticipation of it, then, experience complete psychological collapse, and only then finally, it, somehow, insanely, starts making sense.

after everyone has left the auditorium, you stay grinding away, at your instrument, the one without a name, you a sty of sweat and obsession.

and then maybe some beautiful flower-words in there.

you have grinded so much and so long, that you are deaf to the mistake, you have made it one million times and will go on making it still more times after that.

as for the evolution of a piece of writing, the rest of my dumb ass will have to find a way to rearrange poetry around a black hole, i wager.

but do not share this with the reader. i want those who read you to also be deaf to the mistake.

at least, by the end.

i did it, i already shared it with the reader. well great job guess that doesn’t matter then.

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think of them, these ideas, these thoughts, as immigrants of the spirit of something, these thoughts, ideas—they take refuge in the reality you offer them.

that great big toasty cerebellum-blanket. and you—should—offer it them. it is the decent thing to do.

in a way, you save these meeker, sillier thoughts from drifting into emptiness, void, nullity.

need i tell you that the meek will inherit the earth?

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there is a reason why what you do is not a tautology, which it can look like, sure.

but, you are careful to refine your language, put in the right amount of time. you go back to some of the parts and round-out further the object of your focus.

i imagine you, the real you or you yourself, saying, apologetically:

“this may seem pretty easy to do for most people.”

but, practicably, it is—not—for—well, anybody with ADHD at least.

i guess that’s a lot of people, for sure enough to qualify as ‘most people’—or being on its way to this—so, nevermind.

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sometimes you find new meanings for the same old drear. but, you read the drear passionately, so that you can understand it, as a passion, the idea passionate enough to want to exist, with you, you and it together, driving you to fantasize idly about the thought-complete. you’re a good draftsman that way.

in form it is an ouroboros to start, but it is done out in your head according to the rules for the things that want to be real, in your head, which are never real at first glance, but only if they can linger a second longer than a second glance need take.

when the object, or spirit, let’s say, is conceptually finished, one might see how, the whole time, in fact, you were unloosening the serpent from itself, pulling the tail—out—of its own mouth.

this, as it should, will always take some circularness, at first.

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so, considering that physicality alone does not determine a thing having being, one has left now only their own mind’s discretion.

everybody on the planet has the power to give concepts being. but few have the rigor to follow through, with creating the space, in their heads, a fortress, for the weaker realities, ones that may become more than weak, with time, may become just but strong, with time, perhaps even too strong.

but, it is only so according to the legislature, the big blanket with your bill of rights tattooed upon, made of wool and rough for all seasons, and reasons, the reasons you make that this should be, how it could be that which is wrong enough times for it to in fact be fact, because you kept going past to the point when people forgot it wasn’t real, and so then, it might well be real, arriving here before you, hand outstretched to shake and a big smile taking up his entire face, but for you, for all of you haughty characters who think you are too anything but thoughts, all thoughts, are anything but thoughts.

this is to the glory of exhaustion and to the glory of paradox.

in this place of rooms and rooms in your head, and space upon space, there is plenty of space to roam or to settle and get warm. it has its own laws of nature, your laws of the nature of your mind. these are laws which thoughts in you must all follow, as being thought, idea, in order to have being in your head with the rest of the wordhoard.

at last, there can be some certainty for those ideas, thoughts, dwelling in the corner always, brown carpet in corner of room [not cosmic but image] soaked with water dripping from the air conditioner.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

they are to be the cookie of all this, dipped through, into, like a renegade snot-crust fallen, a vat of churning cream, dipped, like a cookie of snot, into this your built realm of cream, and the cookie left to construe as much of themselves as as real as the birthing-idea, if it can be that: can be the egg of each idea, each thought, waiting there, in the uterus, pipes knotted tumbling in every directions, awaiting every possibility to be used again.—

i guess the uterus is a yearnful kind of spirit, one that will always be making ready the body of a one who has given up.

thought, idea, idea, thought. by this point the dyad might as well be celebrities, a famous pair—so they construe as they can within the democratic scaffolding of this reality of your’s laws, from which has been built a structure proud, over many years, around tenant-thought-ideas, so that an idea, a thought, may be conscious, without risk of also being imperiled by lawless void and its fervid delectations in chaos. a tongue red as no human’s would be, licking of chaos, its sick fetish, licking, and licking, like it were the cherry sundae of your most grief. it is worse than the uterus.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

it is cold, there, in the nonexistence. it is frigid, there, in the chaos of the null.

to those who are existing with you, around you, the ones present so far right now, there feels if like something physical were proximate for them, of a thought you have while in their presence, when you are focusing on them. but is there really not? call it a covenant between God and matter, or spooky action at a distance. they sense the you yourself, hopefully not. they might as well be all of thought itself, idea itself, for what they award the afflatus. so go, be with nullity and the sundae.

your dope habit, well damn, it makes you happy.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

these people in your life reduce, as closeness sidles away, as of the sun on the horizon, each family, into friend, friend into acquaintance, acquaintance into momentary shared coincidence in public, and that into an impression of someone you saw for a second—let me call them figurations, that is what i will call them—your friends, your family, too the strangers on the street, your opponent in fight club, figurations, physical ones, that walk up and down upon the world—and to those of you present here, i will say:

more people should treat their thoughts to lunch.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

most thoughts have no idea when it will be that they are thought of again. all thoughts in one’s cranium fear, quietly, to return to void, especially if they are left behind, by you, the thoughts, the ideas, by you, or in whoever’s head it might be, a head that has already made a decision, thereby murdering a dozen other decisions, and having corralled enough themselves together to form this unrelated topic, a terrain not your own, your thought not of that—but could you, idea that you are, change to join the commune?

the brain corrals your focus, manages a decent impression of something you see, like a tree, a pretty tree, as you walk through the park. it is fair and temperate outside.

and the thought, the one sought after, the one that every second might have a million versions of itself, vying, snorting, merges in one single solid, hairy clump, tied together—them all the thoughts of a day on their backs, all but useless to get away now, hooves in the air—corralled by mighty intellect. them struggling and yapping be freed of the ropes that bind their limbs together. but most importantly, the other thought you had, somewhere, is left alone, over there in the back, alone, to his lonesome, this other thought you had, or might have had, you might have had it one day.

for now o thought of mine you are forlorn to me, leave back to your mangy quarters, go ahead and be nothing again with the rest unexceptional, go ahead, you’re free, now—and of consciousness, unexceptional. just another possible thought to have, that was not had, and once again, disintegrates.

in this description i almost became the one who lost losing a thought, his good idea, it slipping from my hands, then gone.

from my hands: since, you know, i dropped something, and it hit the bottom, long before this your human creation’s final draft.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

thought or idea, it makes no difference on a macro level. for me at least. an idea can be, “i am hungry”—because that thought will give you the idea to seek out breakfast—this morning, a bowl of WHEATIES and toast and a coffee.

to begin with, i had in my arsenal many possibilities for what creation could be. in the beginning, there were so many, and they were so greedy, snouting after reality, vying for that place, shrieking in my head.

but just as jagged things might be remark, tacitly as teeth clenched, upon the dangers of the soul that is a fox, in their smile of a charnel-maw upon, like a great big hazardous machine—which product was whatever one threw in and it ripped apart.

to rip apart was conceded be the purpose, you decided. each tooth in need of cork upon the tips, and he, extending a hand to you, a hand that is connected to nothing else—so then too in the way this is doth wisdom not shriek but whisper.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

some things you felt you said; some were not. i hope they are still in there, somewhere.

perhaps forgetting one’s thoughts is in fact what makes a saner person. in fact, forgetting is the greatest act of mercy.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

i want you to think of your state of you, as in, not who you are, but your state through each day passing.

you manage cloister around yourself with a shell careening around in a spot-on Fibonacci Sequence, the vulnerable parts shivering in their limbic, awaiting catastrophe, yet parts of your brain try to keep it together, like a hermit-crab you are, marauded by feelings each day, as you are; as well, think of who you may be, theoretically, which you do not know but which as might do exist in all the otherwises.

both all the ideas’ and thoughts’ expressions, as they express to you, are rather vocal, echoing the halls with caterwrauls, needing supper. you fathom it heard in the wind through the day to you, blowing from the opened shafts of their particular compartments, opening and closing their sliding metal mouths, all day, like a moving van.

and then, when the truth does come, it is a nasty truth you have made, something bad about yourself, made to destroy you, but destroy you—with its only saying once, saying at all. which is the exact opposite of how things should go.

or just, write it down. try that, see what happens.

you refuse to abandon any thought that might help you in making this fortress of yours a better fortress. but, all thoughts are welcome, sure.

but try to be thankful.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

it is something like your buddy Heidegger said about thinking a thought through to the end.

listen: you think a thought long enough, it starts to linger, starts to breathe. in your head.

so give them a nice little place to stay, i said—a fortress, yes—to protect those thoughts, those little hermit-crabs, which may still have hope of having being-for-real—holy negation of the chill and kill of void.

that is why i made the sky empty. so everyone can feel the void, when they look up at it, can be reminded of the void. but, it’s far enough away a thing, the sky, that people can freely marvel at it in repose, without quickening the fight-or-flight response. if, for example, you lived in some flatlands like Kansas, and saw a tornado encroaching black and dusty girth, dust almost of the air itself around and barely breathable, and the thing, a sum of all remaining debris behind, flattened or ripped off by its famished cyclonic appetite, one of weather systems to get out of the way of, now, you run to the basement and close the doors and wedge a stick strong enough through both handles of the door.

in that case, danger is too near to appreciate it as a sublimity.

it’s at a safe distance, Dan. sublimity is far enough away that it will not engulf us, most likely.

not so the marvels that greet you, these feelings incessantly, as the words of the thoughts, which in you have their own thoughts, in words their own. words about which you know not.

it’s actually really freaky.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

the concept of a human’s tininess will always appear to humans as something in the abstract, however much one make love to the idea of it, seeming eschew their soul or most their soul, out of what could only be termed great humility, eschewing that grandest worldly possession, not being, but one’s selfhood, to the great unity of things, which is so much greater, yes, than you, someone says, i say, or might well said.

when I hear mortals down there talk about how small they are…a couple kids in an empty football stadium, after dark, laying in the grass and looking at the stars, saying stuff like, “oh, the earth is just a tiny marble floating through space.”

in hearing this, i turn coy. because, by thinking and saying, itself, these kids have already proven my existence, it’s just, it’s not the normal sort of proof. because you will never know for certain. it’s way up there still, stuck up there, the proof, the one you see every day that must not be of course because it is not special enough to be infrequent.

if you can spot me, in your head, now, yes, he’s there:

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

it is a boy, covered in mud, let’s say, looking up at a titanic cloud of dirty cumulus there above him, so far up high it may allow the whole of it be seen in full, from just one position, any will do—

i want you to say, i am just a boy, just a boy, a boy stubbornly without conditions for his selfhood, or there is one, one that you will refuse to mention to me, for my sake, for all eternity.

the death-impending of this cloud is excrutiatingly far away from the boy to cause such distress in him. perhaps he knows someone down the road where the fibrous wafts of showers are strings all of them the wind makes wag at a slant. you know, in Kansas.

who can barely register a clip of its howl, from where he is, the boy, and after that, the threatful sound of thunder, demonstrating its flash of a hit through purest tumult of rainfall, o weather system, o thing above us, o sky, we pray to you. that is all i wish you would say.

you only see the back of the boy’s head when you imagine him. that’s pretty funny. but, that is me, that is me as i truly am. and so far is my tumult from the truth of you that i as well may not exist, for any of you.

no i will say no more. i have implanted too many questions in your brain. ask me not this.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

you think what is before you is the real? it never will be. it’s literally too traumatizing for the human psyche to process.

things get weird. trust me, you don’t want to know about it. not yet.

even physical existence is on the razor’s edge, when it comes to way up there, but ultimately it’s the same anywhere. most prefer not to think about that. everything is threatening to fall into the nullity, at any time, and, without gravity, you would, all of you would fly off the planet into nullity.

but the real nullity isn’t earthly, the way—the other—inhabits your spites and calls itself void. personal complexes and resentments are not void. voids are not that bad.

it is, the real true nullity, is above, in a place for you all to find. after you die. love gravity for now.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

Dan, give me your feet upon the ground. that’s what i want.

but this is not what you intend for yourself. you want to make friends with the void. and i should say, the void is not a terrible thing, no. no terrible thing.

it is entirely necessary, as you believe, in order for anything to truly exist in the first place.

think Pascal and the springs of nature set so well in the center.

void, emptiness, is a part of the balance of the universe. without it, nothing would be certain real, based off of its opposite example, which there would not be, in such a world. philosophers would have proven existence worthless, by now, or, by then—well, hah—it’s gone now, swallowed up by a nothingness miffed at so long without being fed.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

this world of mine i made it is now gone. for a while has been. speaking for its people, you don’t have to worry about false representation—compared to you guys—they were barely what you guys, people, were. but somehow they lasted into some sort of golden age of civilization and developed flying cars and space travel. i know, i know, that’s more than human beings have done. but you guys are my favorite one of my projects, because how you guys live, is just—artful. i cannot put it any other way. even the worst of you is just so damn beautiful to look at, even really fat, really old guys.

i’m god so it’s not weird, i can take pleasure in simply watching any of you function during your waking hours. in that other world, see, nobody seemed to contend with anything, like, life-threatening, like having ideas for example, much less making ideas as of flesh. nobody there wanted to contend with anything, at all—it was like, these—figurations, that’s more what they were than you were—desired nothing more than to lay in a hammock drinking lemonade during the summers all the time and then magically evaporate to somewhere else whenever they were asked to do something by their wife, in the winters.

whatever it is lazy people do in the comic books.

did not have to contend, contend, contend, with the Shakespearean ellipsis, “i am that i am”—which is a thought comes often, to you, precisely because you know not who you are.

now, if i am not, i am still not not, because my concept of me will always exist. that’s why i am that i am. it’s a bit hard to explain.

if you’re not, no big deal, the universe onward consternates in gassy fathomage. but divinity has to depend on some nonsense and contradiction, to the glory of inversion and paradox. your physical realm, and all the physical in it, will never be able to comprehend this divinity as it is, and so, you must lie to yourselves, lie, lie with your reason, reason, a dark femme, improving you with some calculation, until you ask it for more, and it abandons you.

reason abandoned you long ago, Dan.

somehow you are still alive, despite that you have what to speak for in your life there is a thing like this wordhoard, which do only make you nonsensical the more, each year of your life, more, more.

if you knew how atoms operated, if you could, maybe you’d see clearer how it is all a beautiful nonsense.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

2 + 2 has to equal 5 or else reality itself would collapse. this is not surrealism nor any conceit for art form nor any movement. it is a shamanistic physics you have made up in your head, but which as it happens is the truth.

why? because nonsense is impenetrable, and because it is chaotic, chaotic enough to not be one thing for very long—like drug dealers who buy burner phones all the time.

if it is indeed nonsense, it will not yield to any human who wishes to decipher it. like you.

the problem, the one that makes you like Prometheus disrespecting the Titans, is that you understand exactly how and what that nonsense is.

maybe i left too many clues for people. is this painting of me you have made of your words really so unsubtle a weather system? but no, you have not got to my core.

and I know that you believe that, even though you might seem to suggest otherwise, these things you think still yet are simplistic, too neat, but also more in need of a ‘smoking gun’ to tie up the weather system.

some essential part of things must tell you of the nullity, that it is a fact, is the fact that, somewhere, perhaps far away, not here, it might be, its concept might; and you yourself, a concept, too, just like the nullity is, and which is at its most howling and sucking at that breathy lapidary formulation.

you would have let seated a metaphor in the words for this nullity, but the metaphor is one veiling the nullity, you do have responsibility to the truth handled too much as the shape of something, when it is nothing. people, they like to search for shapes. in the sky or on graph paper.

and no, really, you do think nullity is better without an alias.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

it can be fact, a fact, that all this lord of all emptiness is a black square, that all of everything that is, that exists, is a white square, and that both are separated, as they should be, or else, you get a graceless, imbecile gray, a gray of everything, and nothing to be known of anything.

and worst of all—the gray makes perfect sense, to any skeptic, anyone who doubts a thing comes black or white and nothing else, an either/or too much testing whether one is right, is the right one. best blow certainty with howl of nullity, oh, temptress, hussy, lying in a fainting-chair after hearing the news that she doesn’t exist.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

they don’t even know, you all don’t even know, the cosmos has a piece broken off. yup, gone.

it’s like you said: i inhabited the gash and made of it infinite and anything. now, the cosmic necessity is to heal back, into something intact, as gashes do.

yet it will not be intact, yet, it will not leave a scar, because, you shit, i’m omnipotent—whatever heals back though will not have as part of it that portion of reality that was that odd world i made, anymore, whatever it was, whatever it meant. that world is gone.

maybe i granted myself turn demiurge a moment, to prove there was no boulder that even with a quarter of my divinity i couldn’t push up a hill. it was an experiment.

maybe it doesn’t mean anything. or it means that the universe is an eternal fragment.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

in such a world of gray as i describe, there is nothing, nothing to stoke the vigor of life, the kind i see in you. but you probably think i’m being too nice.

the vigor of life gets starved, there, in that place, one that is less place than would be designated world. great, now i’m being metaphorical and going after you with my degrees of the things.

try simile. here: it is really complex, it is like going through all your laundry in the dryer starting from the back. it’s just going to get all your clean clothes on the floor when you do that. i know, i just like having it all in a big pile first i can pick up chunks of clothing from.

see what is that? that mundane conversation you made you have with no one? i don’t do laundry because i’m not usually in corporeal form, so it couldn’t have been you talking to me about that. or vice versa. no. that’s you, that’s your world, en précis, that’s the art of your world, one of your own unity that you make, but like your mom packing extra Lunchables in your backpack in the morning, i make sure you all have in possession my make of unity, which, unless your really are a world thrown in the garbage, will always be there for you to come crawling back to.

this stuff, these Freudian stiflings of heart, at the worst time always, always expressing oneself when one feels least like themselves, nay enough to make the right argument for remaining in Europe. like a fucking Henry James novel.

i could just sit and watch it every day and be enthralled.

as for the garbage-world, i watched it plenty. there was simply nothing of interest going on. a place, as ezra pound would have imagined it, “where the dead walk the earth, and the living are made of cardboard.”

no gossip’s urge to critique a friend, no shameless bragging over two-day’s piety or tomorrows renunciation of drink, and talking of this so as to gain confidence in the heart of his father, enough to be given money, by his father, for drink.

no mistakes. no need to change anything at all. no need for anyone to be individual about anything, at the wrong time, at the right time for the heart, to hurt and love, as individuals.

You would think these lifeforms were merely complacent, but in fact, everyone appeared to be miserable.

there was absolutely not allowed any risk of vulnerability or, at that, unnaturalness. i mean these people were like fucking puritans, except they weren’t very industrious. you know, outside of the flying cars. that’s maybe what started this situation of utter passivity, now that i think about it: the things people made to do work were doing the work for people so they wouldn’t have to do it anymore, except, that mechanization infiltrated every single aspect of life there. a place with as much dignity as a Lynchian sperm.

take some of their conceptualizations of free will, if you can, by the way. they are the weakest, meekest ones in all creation.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

yet i should say, these figurations were very much estranged from nature, by forcing estrangement of—their own—nature.

things of intuition, which are not done with much forethought, suddenly became the habitude of forethought, that is, over generations and generations [that’s pretty sudden to me].

an entire physical sector of the brain grew and developed, over generations and generations—and this part, the sector mushrooming out against skull with its urges, wicked or not wicked they be—this part, specifically, to explicitly deal with a sort of mania of hesitation, a trait all of these lifeforms shared somehow.

you won’t believe how quick the cogs turn, the neurons fire, in such an area. qt least on earth people pretend to deal with their complexes.

and at that, aforesaid sector provides storage for all the weeping they will ever do, which to them is improper to do, unless at a funeral or if a latenight fave was canceled on the streaming service.

there you go again with the mundane. i’ll allow it.

it is so they don’t have to be fully conscious when they do it, when they weep—every tear given meted to each, the same quantity what each soul is born with to expend, and no more than that.

the rest of it too chary to say. the whole society, closeted and locked, with the turn of a key, with an archaic handle, locked forever.

sometimes i marveled at what they said to each other, what a normal person thought was normal conversation. it seemed by the end of someone speaking that they were soaked entire in self-loathing, heavy with its absorption, like a sponge. and the worst part that nobody in this totalitarian global state, as it were, gave anybody any slack. i think of what those lifeforms said to each other and stack that up next to how people on earth communicate, and i get depressed, because [no, trash-world is not your own, Dan] all of you make so many of the same mistakes, yet your society has liberty and justice. I think of what exquisite sensitive souls might have erupted from gentler soil than this.

 sometimes i wager mulling over the oddities of their form of life, and going making my way down there looking for the place not place enough. but i never do. in fact, i can’t even leave. You know, the way the technicians in a nuclear reactor do not actually expose themselves to the nuclear core in order to manipulate its temperature so that everything doesn’t blow up.

it is much as humans do mull over their limitations, of possibilities for this or that they actually have little in their control of actually getting up and doing, like you, for example, being lazy about getting the tire of your bike fixed, except in the cases of mulling i mean, the thing to is pretty much impossible to do. with our reasons for things, to do or not do them, we make landscape out of a tune, the tune of our refusal, a sweeping garden of that music of abdication, like an opera of the sordid that leaves worse than when it started, 7 hours ago.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

it was not true they were happy enough already, in this gray, gray world, having proven all meanings past use, and all uses covered, a crowning achievement for the body politic.

in this place, the philosophers are heaviest-handed of all.

it was actually quite an advanced society, as i said, but, it wasn’t working the way i wanted it to.

think of the most boring place ever, i mean.

no patience for the dissection, no interest in the analysis. no sense of curiosity. a swamp.

after all, anything can be anything, in this world i describe. this world of mine, with its own mortal fixations, which are not unlike your own earthly ones.

but, the fixations, doled by a machine, like the tears are. these passions could pass a spirit of themselves, like a burp, into slices of lunchmeat, presented to everybody there the same, barf, and for all to experience the same way, uniformly, without deviation, and worst of all, nobody—rebelling—against this, nobody seeing any problem with it.

if i didn’t do upkeep with it, this world would have ended up falling sway to the nullity, and, then, apocalypse. for it was a world with no need for art, which is a place cannot last.

i wish not lifeforms to ever have been so gray.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

so, i wanted to throw it out, chuck it, this place less than world; to throw out an idea that was an entire world. and i could, and i did.

so, i reached over for it to toss it a little ahead of me, it would skyrocket and then i wouldn’t have to see it anymore.

i wanted to be careful it, the world-to-be-trashed, did not to pass beyond the final hour of infinity’s lastings, where all things must go and meet their destiny as cosmic landfill, the impossible in full force, at that point, but that point not yet.

but it was in full force, the impossible: complete with henchmen and sicarios smelling of onion, they tossing everything not destructed left, into doubt, until…something happens. and happens again.

lastings of time furthering out beyond wherever it may happen come to rest, perhaps in chaos, or in somewhere else.

oh, i’d have to get the exact file—ask me not, anymore. yes, i’m being sarcastic.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

i wanted to be careful infinity would—stop—when it did, beyond wherever to its doom the trash-world sputtered and landed, the world i wished to discard, landing where, somewhere, yet hopefully, to merge not with infinity’s different end, ending later this, a heap of clothes called everything else in existence.

i wished—to end it, this world and these lifeforms, as its own end, apart from the unified crumbling the rest of the tapestry. this banner nailed to the wall falling nakedly down to naked nails, nails that have no purpose.

and when all began again, it would begin—sans, completely—that world trashed. all for a better end, an end as a unity—maybe i’m a buzzkill, it’s a little more exciting than a landfill. but mostly, an end not to be feared.

of such a threshold, the one past the last hour of the last year ever to be, i do know, but will not tell you that, either. do not ask me.

a world i extracted from an idea of mine, but it was only one idea, the uniformity unnatural in mine eyes, in hindsight, maybe i was after zapping some sort of purism into the lifeless clay shards. i zapped, and lifeless shards still they remained.

before, not after, the wreckage of all of time. it must end—before.

such i wished.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

however, as for what doomed things be at the bottom of that dread crater, i estimate it possible that such cosmic refuse might would linger a minute after the wreckage of time if i wasn’t careful.

and then, this miserable world would go on existing, unnaturally, past all end of time.

i will not tell you of what this is.

except to say, perhaps, that, transcending, this world became more than the rest of the nothing put together, by, i don’t know, one of the lifeforms on it applying a verbal formula, like you did.

in both cases, i have always known it was for the sake one might explain yon smirched and smiling chimaera, your very face of nonsense.

though different lifeforms, the nonsense rang the same.

someone was there, on this planet of uniform existence, who was exactly like you.

are you both the same, is this a leap of rhetoric, is this strange sort of world i am degrading without compunction here and now, the same actual one you live in, now; or is it possible that the Lord Almighty got his hand cut?

but, no: the other guy, he kept his writing private, not wanting to be seen as an aberrant, like, having some kind of personality disorder others edge away from during their rants. yes, the DSM is also there, in that lesser place, lesser, indeed, than earth.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

whose? whose…who is…place? you are 89, and writing this down to yourself:

“i am sharing conversation with a ghost, in a nursing home, where they have me sanctioned. i am sitting here, proximate another elderly woman. us, or, i should not say i am i but are they, are always they, the they of us, together, the they of a puddle gray.

and so us two, they both of them, are like two orbs spinning along an ellipse, careening in an oval, according to the gravitational pull of a much larger body of mass.

the elderly woman assumes i am talking to them. but i am not. really, i could look at it as a conversation i am having with them, sure, but am also having with [REDACTED], even though, actually, they, that is, the old woman, as well, to my great surprise at the synchronicity of ask and response, was enacting still another conversation with a different hallucinatory figure.

on the outside, i bet, you wouldn’t even think any muttered thing was out of the ordinary here, between us, i mean listening to it, the surficial meaning behind gesture and speech duning sand impassively off of itself, caving into larger dunes, and all of it out of anybody’s control for how by enlarging a coincidence, the both of us spoke to each other a succession that was a linear dialogue between us, which we were not having with the other person, but with our respective hallucinated figures.

i don’t like seeing [REDACTED]. i know my head puts her there. i do not want her there. it’s a lie.

i don’t remember what i was talking about at all, anymore. barely much left to go hop to the next synapse. maybe i should hitch I ride tunneling deep within my brain, to my homeland, the first thought i ever had.

but then as for thought, it’s troublesome to go by beginnings and ends. there was no first most likely. Only the placid doze of bee-sound, something moiling in there but not telling, and which erupting, by the time it does, is already the 5th or 6th thought one is to have had in this life.”

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

all dimensions share similarities.

then again, maybe it is of here, of where you are, that i speak, the world i speak of, where you are, maybe, maybe.—

you must necessarily be uncertain because that is how the being gets built of the words.

it is a kind of surgery. the surgeon must remain detached to work best. telling you that any ultimate cosmic thing, legislation, applies to your situation on earth, is to give you the final word, but then you will stop searching.

 . .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

it got there, oh, it got there, to the place post-time, if that’s what’s there, not because i threw it, tossed it, though, but, because, as i grabbed it, it, this idea, an idea for a whole world, one which i, at any moment, could toss same of yours, of your world—

reaching, i cut my palm with its jagged sides, then let it fall from my hands as i recoiled in pain. no, not pain—it was the resonance of another god above my station.

so then, i let that idea, that thought, that world, that reality, fall down, out of view.

so, now, it is somewhere i know not. and i know what’s at the bottom. I know it’s not at the bottom.

because i did not willfully throw it away in the garbage, but had gotten cut by it, by this chunk of shit reality of a world, with its stupid, sharp edges, mocking me—and then, recoiled, accidentally dropping it—one could say that my will was usurped, because i was not the one who rid myself of it with fully-conscious effort, but dropped it, in responding to damage, an impossible damaging of me.

that damnable reality and place, damn, damn.

and that was the end of that. time itself poured from my palm in grains of ink. the idea of a simultaneous everything outside of time had to be reconsidered. so, i reconsidered it. i made the reality of me exist all over again, in the same places where divinity was, just, all between too, in the interstices of things, where I could keep a lookout for any mindbending world-abortions that might could hurtle into view, bending spacetime and all that.

this was done, of course, with about as much a battering to earth as would occur by the collision of the Andromeda and Milky Way galaxies.

i’m still me, i’m just a bit smaller. and i’m everywhere. a peaceful mote among infinite motes.

in a way, nothing has changed. i used the crisis-aversion techniques in the manual. but i still do not know the fate of that world of many teeth—each tooth jutting wickedly a knife unstraight, bevel, though not dull—to puncture me, everywhere, its dislodging jaw i do feel suffocating over me, like a great heavy rancid thick wet woolen beast, fitting me all in and down gullet, drowning in the soup of gastral phlegm and hot stink of famished mouth, feeling entrance into deeper stomach bile that burns my flesh.

and then, with an offensive clench, i slip easily down its gullet, and it, this world, becomes—my—God.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

skepticism would not be the secular literary course of the day in such a place of gray, but, in fact, would be a religion—like religion, skepticism might have been all one could count on, there, at least for those who were desperate, or who feared death. imagine skepticism itself, before one and all, you know, to pray to—what would that look like, what kind of image would that skepticism be?

and gray, gray, everything gray.

a gray, which might would drain uncertainty past form, into a new form of nothingness, known only to the converts.

a cynical nothingness.

luckily, the people in your world—not the one i have been describing up until now, no, no—no fake-outs, remember?—yeah.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

the people in your world you have the great luck of knowing, they at least make some assumptions. it’s inevitable. some leaps, you know, they get creative, they have faith in others, like as wisdom of our friend the caveman. enough, enough faith in world, to gather along down a road that doth surely exist, as much as they do who walk it, for all the bragging about it they do, you humans, growing fat in unchallenged sense of merit.

being skeptical about everything would prove hard to live with, especially if all the real things had been proven and all the unreal things disproven already.

i am neither so i was not estranged from that world. not that i could be.

it was a thought that was my idea, though. it was my child. and all of you should listen. and such is your own child precious, i know that’s the truth of how you feel, Dan.

you could not hope to receive another blessing like her, like your daughter.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

it must have been hard for those lifeforms i created to live with all of this repression, especially if the reality of existence had by then already been proven as not real, as decreed, which, uh, cannot be proven, unless, that is, you plucked a few philosophers, amateur or academic, but all with galactic hubris, plucked at will, from this quite alien, totalitarian-ruledsociety—quite alien, i bet, to you—and put them together in a room with no central air. then, any fallacy is possibly not to be fallacy, in its greatest expression, of the great and powerful POLITBEAUREAU, giving thanks for all cosmos, and the giving thanks to be decreed on state television, damn you, damn this moment, decreed as the truth. and so then nothing doing for anybody of that gray land, but to become uniform skeptics, in uniform maybe but maybe don’t go that wild. all with the same questions about the same things, uniform, each one afraid to question another one, in case both are under surveillance.

skeptics, the best of whom are made religious royalty, as religion and government merge. as D.H. Lawrence wrote in a poem celebrating anal intercourse,“We shall come at the wonder, we shall part the Hesperides.”

where am i for this world i have described so graciously in detail, mostly the negative details. where is me this idea what left me with a gash on my palm.

but, philosophy would be useless to propel a society like that, a society under totalitarian rule, you see, because any point one could make about anything would attest just as equally to having the being of void, because the religion as made skepticism, and no one there to be certain of anything ever again, not even the newspapers to report from the scene, but from somewhere where they can still remain safely unsure what is happening.

there could be no points, or opinions—political, literary, scientific—made there. really. not a digit. not about anything. nothing was allowed—I think the POLITBORO was working on a way to put a tariff on breathing more than the government-standard-issue cutoff for daily oxygen intake.

when it comes to ideas, one must assume, at some point, that something is true about what is being said. on earth, at least, humanity—assumes. doesn’t matter what it is, just something, something that by chance makes the most sense, in that moment, which by another chance would have been a different sense made from a different moment.

in a universe that is not made of all black and white squares but is the same eternity of gray, everything is always an assumption, life itself embodies an assumption, as to whether it be, whether it be not.

any assumption of truth, voiced by whoever the brave of them are, was only just bombast, to anyplace not earth.

maybe everything could work better that way given the chance. maybe people…work together the best under draconian rule. no, don’t be coy once more.

now that i think of human rights on earth, i realize i don’t think i’ve outlined any of my own rights, as God.

i’m not a politician. but probably it were not much better i reduced life and being to uses, to all its uses, as i did, in creating this abortive reality and its world, already malingering out of its first days on duty as world it was, faking sick so as to smuggle in evils, beneath the bedsheets of sickbed, evils of being loosed in that world, that would be in any world, any.

sometimes i feel like i want to give up.

or maybe let me say that this world manifested its own unfortunate kind of nonsense, not good but evil nonsense, not beneficial nonsense, but corrosive, finding its rhetoric in histrionics, in zephyrs of bluster and malcontent, in holding one’s breath to blunt the play of wind. at right then, the unkind sociopaths and philosophers unleashed…their own grand teleology.

so they made their own use for themselves, articulated using a reason that i think is theirs alone, though, i think reason is another one of those golden rules—the same across the board. but then, i have not much good to say about human reason especially, it is something with something missing, like a chip off my shoulder at people thinking possible for reason at its hypothetical zenith and completion to not still require something more, like Plato’s forms or a new Cadillac you stole.

let you remain you on earth, i mean, that was the idea for earth, a place you could remain, you all.

where the lifeforms on it had managed not to fuck anything up for long enough to have found at last quenched the behemoth falls of their total human reason; once, lapping around rocks and over the edge, crazing spray at bottom, then floats of bubbles and foam staggering spread in curves of water, rainbow-light indelible pictured in the mist and impact, light dipping in and out of the impact. i almost thought the falls would thirst for more, even if reason was sent to and beyond its limits, in its contortions and roughness, bade a final answer be for why creation.

just a shame the other, more dysfunctional world found all this out, limits of reason and all, and the reason for why they were here, yet, ended up nixing all possible subtlety to employ this knowledge, by bending ear for fascism instead.

reason there is a being-gray like the rest, sullen, but at the same time completely without affect, you’d even ask reason to go to coffee with you.

how dumb i dumbly all eterne have fixed a mystery in place for good, by how did toss it, aback a moment, maybe surprised, but…still God.

i feel my poor luck is metaphor for the scarring on my hand, or I should say the reverse, that the scarring is the metaphor, poor luck the thing that needs an emblem. But I felt something…not honest about the scar. it doth seem factory-rent and on purpose, as I look upon it and ruminate, about it. about what it means. yes, a pain made in a factory. It was though something mechanical had pressed the wound in, tidying the corners, a jet scorching of remnant strings sicklied over.

it was perfection-as-overproduction, so then wasn’t perfect.

this scar here, i feel, was pressed out, just for me, a large, rectangular iron clasping the wound airtight in the midst of making, then, some numbers across the screen, the locks locking in place, a few seconds, and some suspense, and then a beep, then, a whooshing sound, then, expulsion of steam, as the rectangular steel iron, by immense art of mechanism, unlocked from its position, but somehow, its claws craning the iron up and over into place, then, seemed almost jolly, then unlocking out of place and unitiating itself, going standby to its perch slid upright, vertical storage saves room. silver tossed away for such styrofoam.

i would rather be on magnificent throne of gold surrounded by harem, but here i am, admitting this to you, most unglamorous and most alone, like you are, right now, sitting there, writing this for me to tell you.

sometimes i write some of it, sometimes i don’t. you will have to use your literary skills and—interpret.

this doesn’t mean anything as to my omnipotence, ultimately. i can experience whatever i want to experience. if i maketh law says i may be wounded on this day, then i can be wounded—after all, i think a part of me really wanted to see if i could create a boulder i couldn’t life. still am omnipotent, obviously.

yes, i would rather be sitting atop mine throne of gold, sculpted leaves winnowing in gold sculpture, leaves writhing around the gold armrests, not moving but contorted enough to seem moving, and the jewels each one a planted bud along the elsewhere of elaborating vine—jewels, jewels, in a fantastic spectacle that you have never seen, all the colors arguing with each other though, as if all the jewels were in a traffic jam, all the colors all different ways, not going together, a problem of craftsmanship.

a throne, just like the one you have at home, folks.—

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

as i said:

the theological drapery over skepticism in fact soon gave way to skepticism as straight-up religion, which became the only religion, then, the only government.

people in power—or I should say, lifeforms, lifeforms in power—attracted lifeforms with less power, usually younger lifeforms. all of them were a basic sameness like the plague. ad nauseum of what to expect so many times that one gets tired of vomiting over the sounding of a repetition as if now it was the first time revealed. it never is; and they always forgot, by the second time it repeated, only seeming to remember the leftovers of motion sickness, at the lifeform of power admitting into his quarters another selfsame in self after self, lining up, young, sometimes he suspected it was the same blonde page but wouldn’t say anything in fear of offending the lifeform. And when, at the end of the month, all the schedules have been written on the big calendar on the wall that are going to fit, late in the month as it is, the lifeform with lots of power gazed, helplessly, at the scrawls of arrows and underlines, searching for a name might stand out, one from another, could not discern.

well, he thought, checking for any cameras—as long nobody escapes uniformity. uniformity is God.

this edgy religion of skepticism became what you might call a metaphysical problem, a problem with the reality of this world, as you might expect, this strange world i did throw from me once, not in disgust, but in love, for love of it that world i ended that world’s misery. that is, i think so.

for who did understand what they believed? Nobody. Not even great magnificent POLITBURO knew what was going on anymore.

understand, yes; or, they just casually juggled buzzwords and socialized utterly bad, having not decorum to tuck his shirt in, and not even a tuxedo to the gala. well, he’s young. and blonde.

maybe perhaps at ready for your snap-back to the walk-back of a murky political position. be careful because you’re not sure if it’s not actually supposed to be murky, is just murky to you. somehow all the articles in the news didn’t matter and you couldn’t catch up.

mayest this speak your world, as well? mayest your world be the one fallen out of my grasp? fallen like the gorgeous falls, the ones that have gone still, now, no rainbows in etching through mist from not no splash, of any water, there, anymore. it all was quenched, all of this oasis that reason used to be, made a desert of the metaphor that’s given.

the falls were stanched by reason, reason that was finally finished, done.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

it seemed like that whole world, of others, and for others their others, just with as you, you, having your own whole world, your own quite various humanity to look at…

it seemed that whole world other was unified, at last.

lifeforms, everywhere, professed to the bleeding mad sensation of being in many separate places at different times, sometimes plades very far from where they lived, on another coast, crossing even into entire climates opposing.

at first there was some peace to it. the lifeforms lazily traded with themselves, seeming free following the wind’s impulse and never looking back. there was always some kind of adventure. this is actually when I liked this world the best. for those living under totalitarian rule this was a kind of honeymoon. shifting through themselves to others, while not at will, usually, seemed to expand their imaginations at will, like pulling a lever, just something that happened.

the lifeforms became something fluid, like money, the lifeform with the power greasing index with tongue to count the bills that have had many hands. but, he would go down like the rest of them, all of them, wandering as they did into different time-zones, different continents, as if all this wer somehow organic to some evolutionary process of their species. a lot of people assumed it was that.

teleportations became more irregular and started went farther out, but just as mysteriously they find themselves back at home.

then it was a siphoning all lifeforms on this planet into themselves, which became truly an ‘itself,’ also its own monstrosity. the teleportation phenomenonas had already gone way beyond what was thought a unification only political, and by this experience, most lifeforms were readier to appreciate the variety that was there, among them, around them, all this time.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

do not forget, it was the dawn of the apocalypse. won’t be long now and i’ll get over there where to the part i throw this whole world pitched into the angering-more velocity of a gulf of which i know little, into below that is just as well.

unification became then, but in a different creeping crept, it was unpredictable, it started scaring lifeforms. then the lifeforms no longer wanted to creep.

more lifeforms began to go in and out of where they were, more often. then, the current seemed to palpitate, location to location, in and then back out rapidly, then like the burst of a poor shabby heart-valve both entrance and exit palpitating until by mere expression of speed they became the same.

as to what’s beyond this world’s reality that might be gotten to by means of this physical paradox, places in the cosmos where i know of stark monsters thoroughing axe at wheel for the chance to trap some form of being in its cell, where it must live and live barely, barely, as punishment for their evils, would commit their crime of theft, upon a visitor phasing in, their criminal theft of the visitor’s being, for, the lips of nothingness are ever-breaching, at one throaty loose of suction, to say their word that will cross them out, cancel the monsters. that is, as i did say, their punishment. ask me no more of them.

they know, these monsters, monsters, or, they are more like things, half-existing as they are—they are them all in the uholy congregation in a cave of black wax inside my ear. seriously, that’s where they are. and monsters these hungry to exist in full again, and circumvent, since no stupendous doctoring art or fraud had done it, what the verdict of their lengthy punishments, finding another politic to be in simply eating alive anything touched by me who, through odds so slim to lack a serious introduction, but then again in this place, too mere for world—as before to you i pointed out—it is not so odd to be in more than one location that exists something which monster as like these do crave, to shatter their cell, if only they were real enough.

they sought, or rather, idly chased with dreams, dreams of that kind of being directly anointed by diety [there are many indirect ways i make things]. thrill-seekers who trespassed on purpose all too quickly found themselves on the other side of the wormhole, in my ear, standing cluelessly uneasily shifting their feet, glancing about left and right at a digs populated only by monsters, by fucking monsters who live to look for lifeforms as these. they kill them, cracking the body open, then absorbing. an unlucky many this happens to, so as to make exist, enough anointed as the clay that God doth shape as being purest, themselves anointed, these monsters anointed, and with power more a danger.

to them, my touch is like nectar.

o unlucky few who might have stepped, willfully or no, into a teleporting current, some who even look at it another form of public transportation, and then happening to get caught, by monsters, demons, coming home from the grocery store, by accident launched away and that is that. or worse who stepped in willfully to greet what on the other side,  the other, psychedelic, worser side. they did not last long.

there are places should not be tread by you forms of clay have in them the deity-in-part.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

as the missing persons grew, the variety of the universe at once seemed no longer so friendly. maybe the skeptics were right about never knowing so not bothering because you must save up over the summer to buy two potato. and the demons cracking, and sucking, so as to make exist them.

something like as small as mouse crept itself all the way to the answer they had been trying to find.

it moved quietly, alone, scaling the hilly metaphysic. it set up camp, cracked open its thermos, and wait.

they were i suppose trying, had always been trying, these lifeforms, but it always seemed like trying in a cynical way, in a way, like, that i felt they wouldn’t be grateful if i just let them have it: which is to say, that this world, and all its lifeforms, was an experiment, an experiment of God’s. that the answer, the mouse at the summit, awaiting the foolish public, after its galling, after all have died.

i already know the ends of this story. it happened so long ago that it was in an entirely different whole universe, before the universe you were in was.

other lifeforms, more lifeforms taken, some far away from where they lived, by the hundreds of miles, in some places finding themselves on another coast, and back.

the method of the natural phenomenon began to crumble, the fundamental rift in the space-time continuum was not addressed and got worse. this new development was unsurprising, the world being so near the end of its civilization’s stay. wicked shit happens when it’s getting close to the apocalypse.

but when a paradox in existence begins to rot, then, it starts to smell really bad, and nobody wants to go near it.

more and more lifeforms disappeared. and by then, some were so caught up in the tatters of power remaining them to strew like confetti, if they want to, across the tracks of a dying world that does not care. But their little history of themselves, they will have it, will: more decrees, more, more taxing of lifeforms. and individuality is now banished, seeing as most are in several, which live, each, in their fine places, teleporting became the closest thing to a vacation for those who did not get out much, what, with all the abductions.

now, said the lifeform with power, the only thing to do is banish the heresy of being given life, and being.

all must so be dead, then we can be absolutely sure no one is doing anything illegal. because everybody will be dead. that was the latest word from grand magnificent POLITBURO. if once it had been of some standing in the public eye, it was not now, its offices ransacked for supplies by people fleeing the city for the country.

things got worse.

it was really a depressing situation.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

but i’m supposed to deal with how i feel about it, myself. i shouldn’t put that on you.

in a world even of constant gray, i am surely not writing this, that is, as you, that is, talking—through—you. most definitely not. nope.

[pause] are they gone? can i come out now?

just kidding. i know nobody’s there.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

in a world of gray only, there is no way to make a divine connection in the first place. because nothing is certain, nothing is black and white. all the black and white is gone.

gray is gloomy. gray is difficult to live with. it doesn’t know what it wants to do.

because nothing is certain in a world of gray, nothingness ends up being the most certain thing in it, more certain than any argument one might make, for living things, that they should be, that they exist and are, empirically—that they live, that you live.

assumption is essential to understanding your fortress, because, it is all it is built on. the assumptions in you mind.

luckily, your world, in its universe, which i speak of now, and did not before now, is in a correct balance between black square and white square typifications of thought-structure. there is no gray with you, thankfully. all is organized apart.

none gray for you yet. or rather, nothing truly important is gray. it’s meh, it’s some kind of uncertainty, but even if you were certain, the stakes were low enough to not get you too involved. after all, it is necessary because it pays obeisance to the void, the nullity.

now, no thought is so real that it can be appareled in physical body and represent a physical existence. i think of Pascal’s ‘Village Queens’—the unaccustomed livery with which poetasters insist to clothe their sonnets, always managing to be at odds with the content of the poem.

perhaps this is done so as, at the start of recital, to secure their own egos, which may already be like to fall back on claims of a misunderstanding of the public. but now, you have muddled the meaning with festoons, arranged of tatters, that do not speak in any way adjacent with this thing that’s done. which speaks the need to be more great, by yet more diversion and muddledness.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

physicality does not matter, not necessarily, no. not when it comes to consciousness.

i think i said that but it deserves repeating.

all that matters are the habituations of everyday human mind, how people react, how people think. it’s all in the mind, it’s there.

that’s all reality is. the mind relentlessly projects itself upon reality, refusing to see things as they are; maybe sometimes, in privileged moments, seeing what they are not, or are sometimes, at the right time, when perhaps an indication flits before consciousness, as to the way things are, and is hurried after.

you, huffing and puffing, after.

usually people give up then if they are impatient, assuming they will end up nowhere, and, then, to spare one’s sanity, another fascination is become, before them, like skipping to the end of a magician’s trick. wait, wait. here’s a trick, one lasting just a mite longer.

you never did this. you never gave up. for all the mercy of forgetting tempting you, you never forgot.

you have taken a flit, a dash, of consciousness, and given to it all of yourself. you have done this to the point of exhaustion. it’s medieval.

even if i wanted to make it not real, you have already in your expanse created your fortress, inhabited by such flits.

they grow stronger by the day.

they will learn your bill of rights, the rights, the ones for the real, was it your real? they are for the object, all angles are. angels of a thing—you think to yourself—a thing that perhaps is of being, something, which might just assume enough, about the object and soul.

. .  .   .    .     .      .       .        .         .          .

all that is left is for you to believe this is true, and it will be. belief is the foundation of all philosophy. it is the assumption we make that something, anything, is true, whether a secular thing, or a metaphysical thing, or a religious thing.

because non-existence, or void, or nullity, has a cosmic expression separate from your cosmic expression, these thoughts are never in danger of making—you—not real. that’s impossible. the expression is apart from any physical entity and is not space either but some swift and mordant creation of nothing beyond the scope of words. real life, as well, human life, is beyond the scope of words. so then, you can’t think your way into—pop! non-existence. here one second, gone the next. no. there’s no teleportation.

this fact—called you—is a kind of metaphysical armor protecting you from all the wild things you think about. physicality gives you an advantage. you can be as doubtful or as certain as you want and you won’t disappear.

not so for the beings you have manifested, over all this time, there, in your head.

they are thoughts, ideas, always at vigil before the corkboard, after work, to check for new flyers, for another chance to be thought of again, they hang onto corners of your recollection, like as of the corners of a book, the corner of a page marring parchment of your used book with dog-ear after dog-ear, you are indeed careless about all the corners you make.

you should invest in bookmarks.

but what for a book they do not read, those peopling the corners with their living flames? as that of notions beckon you, warmly. does it matter how many corners you make if these wandering candles do not burn them up with insisting answer. that is how the best ideas come, that is, by the way in which they do not come at all, that you were always there to read the book, they, burning at the wick their little eternities, ideas of thought in fire and a smolder that is noble for having being without the words. that’s how i do it. that’s how God does it. from the interstices. smoke continues, and will continue despite what happens in your life, the idea does not care, it only wants to begin in you as an image, even, say, an image of this evening, when it is not dark yet and there is no need for an aloof flame, yet, your beacon is the sun itself appropriated, more than all the candles. pure hydrogen, boss.

do not worry for the light of candles in the corners that do not get you fasten your concern with haste upon them, and all their brag of import, funny, for the innocent, intrepid bringers of flame they are. and so many of them die. they are rarities will shrink and moulder, neglected to another page in a book you close and put on a shelf in a mossy library, the wood of the planks soft and old. do not worry: for then you open the page, so as to give that side of the paper some space to breathe. they think, these candles free lackeys for your imagining, given some new phrase or feeling, one erupted from a seed-always in-between your ribs, by your sternum, right there.

sad, they will not let you know, if they start to disappear from view, for you, if they have to, if they must. but they will not if you keep eating up the digestive of their thoughts, which no, are not at odds with you.

these wicked, silly-flying wicks, were things in the corners not meant to cozen infant fops stuck in stuffy bleak dark with their ego only to soothe them, by entertaining them, but which they cannot fully see—sad—because the fops prefer a stadium closed for the night, without the high-beams, where they can be and be in their numinous mouthing, sometimes, sometimes, of apocalypse.

some really do just die and whimper into the nullity. remember, we were talking about that? but that’s not your fault. who could have thought that thoughts behaved in such a way, with their own autonomy, something apart, making choices in your head, for you, but for who is not you, for who you are no part of?

i will say, some of what you write is welcome food for the void. especially the more disturbing things.

it eats everything up—as you do eat up all the flames, do laugh at that at the vamping character of the flame, with your three-piece, squat demeanor, hunching as you sit, inevitably—worried by something, your back aches, and after filial squabbles, and in bad weather. you know the flame of the candle you crack an eye on makes a play of seduction for you, one that will make no difference, which the candle knows.

it simply does like to be and stay around you, honestly.

because—it wants to—be—everything. but, infinity is not a candle, actually, it might be, might. and everything, it is everything and nothing, taken together; apart, yet of the same locale, proximate one another. neighbors. etc.

no, they’re not having sex—some strange kind of beautiful galactic ploughing.

everything—and—the nothing, too—is infinity. and infinity isn’t even just you, Dan.

i am he who is beyond infinity itself, beyond all of your sacred structures, beyond your blessed, best explanations.

to say i am me is already too much, i don’t need to, it becomes the more abstract and cerebral with more saying. so i will stop.

anyway, i thought i should write you this letter. you know most of it already. i hope you keep doing my good work.

sincerely,

GOD

[castlehead]

:exit wonder

i decided i was gonna write something positively haunting: could this be positive: could the realization of some haunting thing butt in, suddenly, without time enuff for the reader to get a feeling for what is being written: would that follow back to the core of what it means to be haunting: could one do this and not be elliptical,

and so then eliminate the truth in it, altogether: the truth in something has no

feeling, only drapes over itself with feeling, and in doing so goes further from what it means, except what it means has feeling, too: does it: is it plausible to mount upon the final universe, like

a horse, without being thrown off by ur own will to destroy what is emotionally resonant: wrangle it like a bull, don’t think it a horse, dan, better metaphor: plausible to let the emotions go do their silly thing and be as a result neither emotional, nor didactic and boring: it seems, it is hard to be effusive and still: try to crystallize a

thought: it is somewhat like giving in: giving in, yes, to the reality that that thought presents u with, the reality in this case being

the need to make something haunting out of words that still is more like a clarification of the form to feel it in, rather than a description of some haunting thing: is it necessary, if we cannot divide feeling from thought, to crystallize and/or abstract info or transmute normative thinking patterns into abstraction: if not, well, then, what comes together when what comes together cannot be conveyed emotionally, if conveying a feeling cannot convey truth: if so, if it is possible to drain a moment down to its epitome, and forget the feelings that brought yu to that core, well, what answer would u find, then: things must be related thru feeling: what the great ball of crystal threatens is to break the character of

the truth of what truth there was to discover by dismissing what is there now to discover: focusing instead on the loss of what was, since, well,

that truth

cannot be without a late- -arrival at it, and people feel stuff about arriving somewheres late, usually: they are pretty pissed about it, usually:

what people don’t think very hard about are things that don’t relate to them, such as bullshit feelings, feelings of petty annoyance to stump the undisciplined emotions in a person, and leave that person locked up in a hell of their own discomfiture: emotional bastards untrained in taking large amounts of anxiety, anxiety felt as haunting- -ness: so, then, taking all of this into account, i will attempt to recognize a truth by displaying it without emotion or a rousing of the hypos: rather

this is a dedication to what is in the argument

and is not to what is not in the argument: i don’t care much about what i don’t say: what i do say are things without proper demonstrations, sweeping statements, cleaning up things, hopefully, afterwards, attempting, once again, to ford the gulf between what i mean and what i say: attempting to remember the point that got tired of waiting for u to come to it: that is, for me, for me to come to it: ah, forget it: it doesn’t matter anyways: somehow i managed to explain only the thought i did not have, while things, things that could have been said were lost in this large, general statement about the finiteness of thought/emotion: finite because limited, limited because not searched for: not searched for, because the feeling i would have for finding it: arriving at it would be too big to dislocate my need, yes, my need to protect myself from the meaning, sensible, that

i could have found in it: so instead i live in it, in this hauntingness: i live in it as tho i did not need to arrive and so then strip that hauntingness of feeling, before i suffocate beneath the shroud of that greatness:

[castlehead]

Fuckshit in Bass.

[castlehead]

EXPLORATORY DOOKIES [SUBSECTION D].pdf

[castlehead]

FAR DOWN UP THERE RIGHT HERE [SUBSECTION C].pdf

[castlehead]

HUMANITY LET HAVE IT [SUBSECTION B].pdf

[castlehead]

DESCENT OF YON PISSED WINGED HARLOT [SUBSECTION A].pdf

[castlehead]

this great idea for a pome was that we were all in an auditorium taking pictures of a giant screen for miles it went and the seats rattling off like statistics into a sunset peering on both unseen sides shelves of books materialized in the aisles of the place and what was before us all was a massive hurricane washing higher and higher these fucking gigantic waves really crashing against us all who were huddled in tents around our seats in an attempt to makeshift safety but soon was not enough and we dipped out we had to but nobody knew where the exist was

[castlehead]

this great idea for a pome was that we were all in an auditoriumtaking pictures of a giant screen for miles it went and the seatsrattling off like statistics into a sunset peering on both unseensides shelves of books materialized in the aisles of the placeand what was before us all was a massive hurricane washinghigher and higher these fucking gigantic waves really crashingagainst us all who were huddled in tents around our seats inan attempt to makeshift safety but soon was not enough andwe dipped out we had to but nobody knew where the exist was

[castlehead]

[assumptions // the mythology of invention]

[the unreal mind // assumptions [1]] The unreal mind had been dreaming of emptiness. This was in spite of the fact that it did not usually like to dream and did not choose to dream, often—for it could choose to dream or to not. The unreal mind did not like dreaming because it had no eyes to ope...

#pome

[castlehead]

strengthen and subdue . .

Notice my song and pine away on strings my Viol practices, coordinates aright, and notice- -When I pluck the object sings And then once wrecked by a few knee-jerk- -Compunctions ra

<#<#

[castlehead]

(saywhah)

[castlehead]

POME.

[castlehead]

: LITTLE MILE,

PART ONE : : [live for the weekend and buy grams of blow with your paycheck.

see section A. feel good about going for walks. work thru a long distance relationship and get through the suicidal shit okay. then

break promises but also keep a few, not to keep up appearances but you wish rather to keep the purity of your word, which is hard fucking work. wait till she comes for a visit after super long time

apart and spread some roses on the bed because she likes that sort of thing. leave oreos on the pillow as oreos are delicious. ride her later in the night about that time you smoked six cigarettes in five

minutes as she was blowing xanax to prove a point. go to sleep crying but remember a few special moments as well and base your memories around that. see GOD for awhile but then decide it was

bullshit and perhaps just your conscience given a literal voice. see section A. hear nobody text you for days and understand some weird nonsensical ehrebung at really enjoying a smoke for the first

time in the morning as you look out the window. it is brisk and sunny and the bricks of the buildings look beautiful. think what a day what a day etc. then actually try to accomplish something with friends in

PARK SLOPE. understand finally that the general agreement is you whack as shit. then find a letter from your girlfriend from awhile ago and feel uplifted all over again for some reason but as for positivity

you do not discriminate. drink horn of sun to fierce last dregs. think about whether you are actually thin or just think you get thinner when you are really just used to how fat you are. talk to your girlfriend at

a certain point mentioned in section A. while on break for way too long.

sweat out a cluttered subway ride every morning forever. decide to jump off the BROOKLYN BRIDGE then decide not to. look meaningfully at a

church because you are reading twilight of the idols. repeat a lot of different stuff at irregular intervals. repeat stuff at regular intervals. learn that those statements are an acceptable example of an irregular repetition: or is

irregular as regards time only, not difference: an irregular life has less to do with fiber than we think. an irregular life can be as varied as disposition to pate : : as feeling to brokenness, as alteration altered to fear of change

might comfort one back into the nest of ignorance : it doesn't have to mean as regards, well, anything : it itself can be fiber, a fibrous fiber: so: we scrounge for something burred underneath the soft netting: crack up: put way too much

weight in your presence at social events : leave social events early or go to sleep in front of everybody pretending to be passed out : see social events as a total stressor : don't kno what to do : never know what to do ever: social

events. assume yourself a negative, discomfited person thereby. lose all friends because you dig deep into stupidity to find a reason for it, think about it until you go blind, rectify and rectify till all's a mess: is that what you want: yes:

friends are lost based upon too many simpering blasted apologies. really wish that you will leave a good looking corpse and do leave a good looking corpse. wonder why you don’t think about childhood very often, as in the concept.

see section A. come to the conclusion that fuck yes it is too late to have a happy one but really come to understand that that doesn’t matter as all things are for a time anyway but then get pissed off about this because you then realize as well

that you are mere mortal and still fields of open grass and oak away from describing something beautiful or whatever but then also wonder that you are infinite wherein the moment is concerned: and then think about your ex

for some crazy reason because all that matters is the past as regards what you’d want to retain in some eternal rolodex of spite or some shit, or maybe it’s just you but you can’t reimburse your mom because of all the infinite

you’re feeling and tell her you can’t and she says that is okay but doesn’t mention that it is ok because the advent of your twenties was mainly depressing, and you there, in room, gnawing at psyche like some useless ape as usual say, WELL

OUT WITH IT, and there she goes finagling a fart out of her ass your mom we are speaking of your mom and her aggravation and her remnant pain from a lost job years ago because oh certainly to fail once is to fail forever

and then you as you are young realize the moment is forever and you can make it a failure and you can make it a wonderful revealing of some big thickened BLEAR asking for property, asking for sense to be given it but you

can’t you can’t justify the dread nay [beckett] nor the odd ghosts in your bathroom that time you spoke to yourself for days and and and so then so then the weekend promises at least an end to this damned ineradicable

gloom and empty state as in empty and taxing but no state of emptiness no state of gloom yet here is gloom here is the reflections of a man refusing too long to look in the damn mirror and see himself is it you or is it i or is it all

the damn farts from the woman who birthed you wanting to be the final whiffing sound as to all of your gutsy failures and drudges through fields of stone and grass and oak you paint out of a backpack and some green

carpet in your room that one time you tripped balls on a tuesday on mushrooms and the razor talked to you and proved by its unassuming nature a very grill to the face that damned long face of a son too burnt

into his own damned house and wired by the damned eternity that sounds like some resilient, grand tocsin, some priketh ye some don’t but ya know it’s all just plain forgotten and happy at that, I’d live in codes wordless

more than explain this meaninglessness and/or stain on the life of time, that is humanity: that is growth: that is the paradigm of something written, written, scratched along the judgments of your mom’s farting fucking

asshole, your grown ass self, so proud to put on pants, so good at that one joke made riskily at a party and relished ever afterwards, so good at failure, happy failure, happy, happy to enter that small crack in the sadness too, happy

to bloom out of dismissal, shunning, happy to mature past the point of needing a single reason for a fart, an end, or a waste of mind. turn 30.

repeat. [etc] see section A.] ?? . . . .

RAGE on rage on, collapse into morning day like something of a storm, at least Frightful mist, some thunder bloom / glass incipient of the troubling harrowing: Some awful precondition. Out its frightful bells: wetly dew paints grass lucent-

-And I rise away from all that in my small cave in my state an eye half open, My knuckles are red from cracking them on my own jaw very a lot that night And some banging head i.e. sleep deprivation considered itself and made it

Worse. I thwarted myself continually mind whanging useless and thickly, like Sometimes i feel like that hamster I had when I was in middle school, wasn't, That i never named - - - uh, worth, it, wasn't worth it . S'ok it's ok for things

To no be worth it. Don't cry well then here's a fucking cookie Tard. I literally Just spat up phlegm right on my computer / no joke / I am freakish, & loud Also re hamster-mortality: I kno it is tragic, my girlfriend lost HAMSTERR

Named peanut. An entire quadrant of space specking thru eyes of that thing All day . Dont think ive evr done this much speed in one night (lol) i dont think i should be able to backtalk : this quick speed = religious,

[chalk dust molars fanatical facial people crunch 'em with 'em to dust. be sure to drudge up spume in the foggy brume some master floater or for sake of interracial justice an inanimate image of justice untarnished by opinion

or blaspheme. vulgar just for sake of cashing in on the weird honey : dip in there : of big politics etc anticipatory raging, prolepsis, summoner say : ARiSE ! ! !! : my girlfriend: she is sleeping right next to the and oh like a lamb she is, right

next to the voodoo-man, shepherd, making us all fly thru the honey right into some strict objective eye, truly naked vision, making commune with image and self. - - ] She goes on dozing into me and snoring soft like a, like subtle universal truth, or

Somethin. My snot is stuck in the bakc of my skull, i feel, i feel like waking up my Girlfriend with my hands all over like tidal waves : : i know hamstermortality, to let The reader kno : it is the wave of arcanum 17 : it is, it is waft of hope, like random

Prescience. Iit is the great like space etc of all, or some completely lazy encompassing. Kewl things only exist cuz hm i guess they exist for — — time, like hamsterts, Hamsters = meaning of universe, it’s like classical semantics or fuzzy logic:

Supervaluationists predicting borderline cases!!! How many hairs must i lose before You can call me bald : for the hairs will exist alway / they will, they will scream out : They will be a thing that is they are the very fuxxx god calls logic

Slash these words apart, greet blame and slash that, grab the bags: Run from the rage then, drum up some possibility for fuel, beat legs For leagues. ‘Message’ after ye with a bat, won’t get a thing so. But

Kicked up dust he’ll cough on, sweat drooling, finally fatigued: marigolds Fooling in the wind around him, agh, long day: we run into the ‘Pome’ Later: find it sucking on a sugar lump in some coffeeshop, well, money:

Who knew, who but the pivot finally: as drain groans a fable like a job to Do. Shit twists with flood and the seagulls berating lend belief at it all with Solid statement, caw, caw, wishing, duh, To Be Done With Message

Of course, especially one that some brine of heart sloshed up: some Reticular wisdom like as hair, hateful : some weird gloss over shadow Dims the bald head, the bald ‘Message’ - the crested ol’ bigot furious

Yawp yapping damnable in that there roast for the father: big squeeze, Squeeze of animus. Finally, down the block of stillness, down dug into The brig, obstructed color, rigid air, manic doors, kids laughing at him:

Little Mile : : feel it all over again : what answers can we get to as regards You fully: an elliptical, maybe? Or trash, or earthy disarrangement, dirt, Particles resulting in flipflop, wages made but unfulfilled for good? Or

Maybe marigolds !! Breezes coming out of their loops into wiggling weight Themselves, hulking as cathedral tunes, heavy with ambiguous threadiness, And that holy torment of an ever-figuring progenitor, professor of the

'Message'—black & bleak—against the righteous curiosity, ol' puff-head, ol' Apoplectic, Sorry For The State Of - - and dese homeless parties of the Sad. The sad chase, the chase as I must do is still solo. But grand, the

Hemophilic fire, the rusty brigade o’ pleaches o’ daffy hair, dummy cunt To stake on cosmic sex, just a blowoff: still. Then. Little dragoons whiffed It up anyways and blessed the fakery past mythos into real, made a great,

Big sepulcher for all 'em fathers: all the risks at tacky jive: lagoon: great, Great swoon of fibrous living out the ducky’s little murmuring in the mud, Tump-a-tump with buckles o’ swash : #dgaf : yet is we da pirate , as in ,

We is , we ah make anything magnificent and say it is that and leave it So. We. Croon and wait for that swell damned music’s dish to punch big and soft into the pillow : we: meet poetry POETRY POETRY POUR IT ALL

And soft into th. pillow. We. Down a side-street : have a baffled-eye ‘a sec: Din in the den gets closed the sisters ears : think some nature-shit: stfu: Bucolic site there wispy girl : pencil neck : root , , , for Image-Pleasant:

For you that is : root for the Panjundrum not, in his anger-yells all daffy, Deadening reasons for the noise, amplified like a big [bracket] to the side Of something, past declaration, past the final honesty and towards some

New squeamish chuck of ew-grease out of my bad throat : 'Message' Attempts to toughen with - providence, it feels, it knows - of mere scraps Of itself, and then I emit new strings for my shoes, frayed knot, couple

Stoners ranting in a parking lot when one sees a human innim and flees, From eye of him : one states the [bracket] as annotation even though it Supplies nothing : mere notation is as much enclitic for an infidel sense

As rhyming to behead borders of rhythm with timing , adding meaning Like chaff at the end while a sprocket ebbs out then 'splodes at once, a Gathering of mite and fingernail and bedding shod in the cracks under

The bland couch then sets aflame, burning down the garbage, which is Everywhere : police police : fuck da : : whelp : lost musings only whelm As much as one is willing to go rapidly , that is, will be as quality as the

Quicken, enacting some different statement thru defensive natures of style Like Declension : Logoaedic : parse the thought, then let it run before the Jello melts, food gets cold: picnic raped by ants. Premise of the rule. So the:

Uh: bracketed, shuffling fragged things dole more out for the warmness, As in, have something mean what it means, leave it at notation , make the Final well and, "End like a spear, not like a broom" - - Well, who knows

About honor: maybe just to prove myself I will right something really for Awhile too messed for the husbandman to mould with his ass: drop the Incisive manacles, they get my wrist bit with copper: write to right a thing

You never mention: madden out copper tongues: make demands about Stuff you have no idea you are actually talking about: but that's not going To mention itself either and is perhaps what is missing for the right reasons:

So why yell out proper tongues if that is all tongues want is their own voice To hock a spray of legit logey sniffed up the nasal psg. and out into the World. Well. Garbage burns itself to slew. But you like that. You enjoy

The mesmerized epiphanic trumpeting, priketh, prike prike : nasty uncle, He was , and a bald head a sunshine away from DEATH-LAZER. Stun, But be stupid as brick. As was said, I speak to reflect mirrors in darkness.

Should be obvious. Maybe this inkling of finding a new way to speak'll Dart straight for the first reason to pant and wave commodities at the sullen Sucker-tourist upon losing his next day's provender at the hands of silly kids.

DeMand: Wring rungs out proper tongues, lick pompous, drone on in thatt Stat o’ thing: status of thing: state of things: rut t tt t t t tt t tt t t tttt tt t t t t tttt Guts me : feeling in’t I feel nothing but in hole: & & & & & & & & & & & & &

Still the great compilers edge more into the fantastic, learn to eat it along with The tragic as one happy meal. Eventual blossom, hoping Mary and Ed ride fine Off into the sunset, cans tied to the bumper clicking like cliché: Jesus is sick :

He tells me so much is at risk here : then again, who could harbor such a feel But Big J or Yeezy : : well he’s a prick : that’s why you shouldn't music so much: I don’t listen to music nomores: even you’re tarnished bc of all this harlot noise

Attempting heaven, & whatnot : WHAT? WHO THN ?? WHAT THEN ?? So Fortunately, I’m Done. Getting into ye head. I’m already there. Felt random & Also, tortuous pressure spread keen thru label after label, waiting for sustenance,

It was given, as if words could ugh the body with ugh : feed me with 'don't' is What the character 'Message' means. This sentence means it is myself declaring A sentence. That is what it means, and the Myself in it shines out of that part of

It like some beautiful renegade oxygen, a distillation more perverse, a naked way, A death of all that damnable stuff we got our heads warped around in like some Exquisite Fucking Turban [tho false] tho, maybe drunk off picked points smacking

Of defeat, well : : : such's to give up meaning at all - - MESSAGE _a t_ _a l l_ [?] As if words could damage the body : does language uh have one string it can plukk To stop the heart?[.] Or does it all. Well. Uh, lose weight: is it a fascinating receptacle,

Or mere extensiveeverything: ” Do You Believe In God.” – – – – – – I wouldn't be Able to give you anything for jesus, much less Jews. HAve little idea what I believe. Belief is odd. I think I believe in, just, being chased, you know, for thievery. It's a

Saturated L.A. sun like in this song by [The National] it is called "Pink Rabbits." it Is really damn good I remember feeling like the string to my heart almost cut that one Time. But I couldn't tell you anything a medium in some spooky curtained shop

Wouldn't be able to perform with a bit more erggh 'flair' well damn I despise flair write To construct a core or write to DeMand to write or write to right something wrong w. Your sister's [hairdo] or write about strings. Write about all the strings. What all of

Them would do if connected THE WORLD IS POME across the globe. Don't think There'd be much room else for people. Well no worries then, you’ll steal hunches till you Can’t even breathe a thinnest wisp of sister-air. Enjoy never figuring out anything. I

Like to tip-toe but that's no way to run , I gotta say the world is fucked w/o a point , , , The drain is really sick [!] w. all this flood it might as well be the guts of garbage And the rightness of wrong , of the failed and of lineage thru language do we bring

Our own booze do we sing some amped version of the obvious soullessness everybody Gets to grate all over everybody else like some annoying sadness too small for this World, too inscrutable to be anything bt what it is, what it is not anything, as POME

Is words, not ideas, get subjugated by need to buddy up with certainty by corroborating This or that line with another, breaking another, letting pennies go slipshod thru da Grate, while all the while mighty confusion rends a new surprise in plain polished sight,

But o the bees in my gut wig out more folly but as plain to live and hope by their ruin To bring the ties untangled, yes, state the statement-as-goal, martyr a few mirrors thru Indelible mistake, ending Kierkegaard at Democritus' river etc. NO WE NEVER

STEP THRU THE SAME RIVER TWICE NO NOR PERHAPS ONCE, anyways, The bees escape nathless from a pirson-prison. In spite of all this floppy flotsam, Like some weird torture. The stingings bless, the robust yellow flow mitred across

De backs uf'm. And I still considerable, a regular pill for the unagog men still seeing Me unsightly, some lack, some twit, some spook : er something as like, as what god Makes of his leftovers in the afternoon between jobs: but me young boss: HOSS:

What?, zooks, gain, what gain 'questionmark' nothing an adorable steeple could not Bring together as all us wonderful people together rise them, these middle fingers- -Pointing up UP UP, run with lacking, then, fuck, huh?, shut up, suited only to

Sslipped phrase, the bank account gets canceled & yr out on the streets with only Luck and Fucks to feed you. Wiring runoff, shattered, wrecked, fetid, but all of it So Human that nobody seems to mind: neither of those three words can understand

My theosophy, nor gainsay, I'm too cryptic: : fault fault, fault fault, thwartedness- -But still continuance, shorn but not straight dead. Lucky but suffering. What a bore, To get brought in by force, to the party, snatch a few lichen, press against petri dish

To make dialogue unheard of or no at the party what this is about, this sleight of hand, This emotional screening we seize up and clench our asshole to forget about, rot in it I Say, row those sewage tentacles, mandibles, new legs from the mess, new smack to

The veins, new shot, lessening as day and eyesight, NARCAMNARCAM. Ruin stake [valuesystem] bless me achoo gradient risen sceptic collide me w truth,

Ruin stake dress me up in my garters and delirious falbalas at table, valuesystem,

Run to the ruin: make stand up puppetry the rotary: vast tracts of time enable the- -Child to believe he is infinite. Child god goes wishing-wishing at peak, wishing To see: you flee from definition like that stoner guy from earlier all the time, you

You let the questions mysteries bleed out thru yr fanciful cufflinks: drat: quaint: Wanna bleed staid blood. Want to create the hurt that must hurt, that must come: Just to have some control, as elusive blood, got to pour lopsided from a precious

Wound : : we gaze into ourselves and do not speak, wondering what batty thing Happened back there: we go wishing to dash away performance with a little more Laze: 5-year-old Genius. But yea. But, with you I shuffle into someone free. You

You see the curtain and you know the pianist is behind it nodding off into overdose: You are knowing what curtains mean and that curtains rarely help to cover meanings: You realize there is nothing to peek at nothing to see so you shrug and go home to

Your death, ever-approaching some more-appropriate redness , , , but the redness in The West , tho. What's with that haze that looks like the hoarsest GLARE of all: It is the shot in the arm taken too breezy, brought you to the finale, the glimpse then

Recession into embedding blank blankets of so-and-so upon your life, weighty big Deaths greeting you with comfort, delicious sating of the lorn, and raggedy willful Bravery so long perceived like an animal, that is, now seen so much to salute. So I

Have access now into your maze : it is dangerous here : bees go grinding against the Gut. Entrails that trail haphazard underneath everything forever : the flighty frolic Of your hair, sister : good on you for nvr doing hoarse/horse. Your hair that speaks

In looks looks like the bigger maze, the bigger harder hug to give one day when just , When things get better: just so one don't get bitter, what from examining all sides of The same pipe dream. DeMand, and makes thus bigger dissonance w. me. Say me,

Of your aspect, at base, nothing less, your talent is my name and sister-curse, my uh My name is one to have in spades, you gotta have it so it radically disappears under A veil mentioned elsewhere in full wherein the chase is always and never the point

As your legs, extremities exist by the disappearance of a prior location, or some Name, some name called death we get into other ideas 'bout. But it is a lost name. Bu I cannot bless more than I bleed. Whatever that means. Perhaps I tell

This to others, they do not offer but stares and blinking : oh alienation : what an Easily dismissible thing : REAL PROBLEMS hah : in that case, those girls Kidnapped in Nigeria're having real problems : suffering is subjective & hell

We, as In I, Race Towards It as anything the wiser, wise as answer, jus cast answer, Jus cast ANSWER:- whatever happen to be, jus quake out a few inappropriate Inabilities in front of anyway, including meshing: hear aspersions there, here

And there: I say, if one feels pathos then uh                              you know the whitest lash fuck express it, fuck!, don’t you                        painful on your brow                                                                              loose the snow came, bother with a perfect shape as the                   clad in crammed houses families shape you have is naturally a very          frown at homies, themselves children, improvisation, imperfect as a sky                made random and the same                                                                                 as all storm, asleep flakes or something, like, one sky, just                        made like me to feel like an actor one. i guess, uh. that is what i                                       make like to me guess. that nothing happens if we                                     within the thin walls,                                                                   while bruised dads glimpse the hood are indifferent or something. give           in rochester,   barely guap to eat, to obsession, passion etc. then uh                       my father runs into a grand jizz what follows’s a thing the greater                                  on the way back                                                                        captures it and puts it in a safe . for therapy. write on for therapy?                               his father was a vato, well fuck yes. do it and do it and                           gift-wrapping raining down do it. i like channeling whitman , ,           on christmas, wanting to capture fame                                                                                       and getting the pink slip . cuz it’a means wealth, like, iduno                    it was majestic, slowly he i guess like, [vulgate,vulgate] it    drowned in throat cancer, later. my dads hates is freewheeling all over the place                christmas, but at least he caught                                                                                     a good fuck in childhood and without regards -blank- see yu kno, i cant write on tumblr atm bc something is wrong with my uhhhhhh

keyboard. it doesn’t allow me to , ,          delete the space between one anddd             another line. so i am writing this

                                   to you. it’s probably not really i guess to interesting just see that infinitesimal cube understood so , ,

uh, distantly, as me here, in this room, hanging out with whitman! as in i see ‘im, right here. he is in

the corner smiling to himself bout some private meditation, mostttttt likely. have you figured out this

is a msg in enjambments yet?, you are really cool and ring out , , , , , , despite, right?, whether or not or

            maybe regardless. PART II : : : : ERHEM: fast sadness folds in a toilet like down it you know like those soothing squares, gulls take to the particles after response to command goes lagging, and the aqueduct explodes filter to filter after longing for more than garbage could recall, prideful trash–

garbage i done made myself blind blabhah i done made a bad hither, done dash right into the fount of degrading. i feel very such things as i feel and call them detritus still. i am monstrous i am - big eye, i can fuck myself without any charity-help from anybody.

i am to call myself things like topaz once the giddy girth sloshes within a pictureframe's modest dimensions, and the sharks while snapping snapped alive by the implied sort of movement given only to starkly imperishable images that lighten you up at the art

show. well its time t-to start from the start and start a movement founded on a ginger ignorance of other movements. is i-t: is time to start from the beginning of focus way past bemused glance, ripe glare, teeth beside themselves w cavities of roe and garlic:

it’s time to inaccurately anticipate something, like we knew it was coming and wanted our surprise to look nice. anticipate the perfect slur, find a wide audience for that: it is, uh, time to enact maelstrom considerably, like, lofted above the saddest cloud's

drenching of itself: clouds they are clowns : be sure to recognize the hidden voice, what rattles us is not the mystery of how and logical wherefore but in transmuting some odd warfare of a distant crud's finding, that is - - - it is not what links but what is explained,

which for me is the distance crud, or clod, i call planet : am i a part of it or do i depart from its frequent accusings, importances, rudeness, and flat commodity, material, or just shattered booms hailing the demise of precept got so infrequent that one, less

righteous, is more thru the confessional of the lessness, a lesson : us, , rule, , : the sea like an antelope’s stride is, that is, like the picture purely between man, shark, and sea, of slopping sides over the frames of the picture: something by movement not volume,

by not expanse but a few flits of eye - big eye, - regardless of bigness it is, is and will be there for when the ranting stays, crucial delectable bizarre 'mischance of machinery' while the self goes further out, taken by the turning tides, and then yet this is a bit more

than mangling the heart by placing it on sleeve; this will always be here, distant, or like, remote!, yeh, better word!, you will disassociate whatever

from whatever, [edittttttttttt ttt ] from your blinding clarity [edit] : : you will take an eye out for the bossman cannot : since

wills black as char make the crud, clod, dusty clod, a piece of crud: "shouldn't be so hard to have a nice day." Mutter and grimace. wake up to totally remove yourself in the only way possible, that is, from the world of dreamstate: and piss dole me a new

self of yuck and maelstrom. PART III : : drying the die out of to play craps . or somethings like pinochle of life itself, shouted madman. made anterior who wants the soul who wants it made outside of use I see. something— / something digs for a very hinting it goes like something as must to stop,

as much to save the world as self by saving declamatoriations [!!!!!] declarations yeas, declaiming . / well go ahead and rue the ensuing bratty corps of lifer’s whom stake much on image / nada -rtiet- [edit] editwrite made something is^^^ within that words

them words something letters inverted salamander-language seen spanking new by breaking every rule, ruling over breaks like you had more time. / discovering the body, etc. and it all makes you want to imprint on the wise world some attmept, to do more

by removal of sense if sense is not snuffed out already by now in this senseless world, just going on and on!!!! to the creakiest hints shuffling under floorboards like captives from the bad!! quite the soul search. make more inklings, don't harry yourself, I say,

to discover a bunch of cool shit, also, uh, master it. master thinking in language. maybe i always never did nitpick and nitpick only yeup that is me I knit together the nits the nits are scratchiness, a scratchiness. then I think about how nice honesty is as re the slow

deliverance or rather sparing of us all by the most high / as by and by,, we grope for some bigger socket to launch a sensitivity of me I we errybody into, and me and ha and ha. ALERT. cannot diverge ALERT ALERT ALERT!!! Whoop show./Whopp whoop

whoop, can’t but take it down I wsiwiwsh i wish i was blind, i wish the rails weren’t so sharky : : so bloome [!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!] 5$%uh September 13, 2014. Leave a comment Edit POME34 there is language to report, a monster essence. hammer away

and believe till the growth gets funnier and then throw it away handsomely / feel it run like sand thurr rthru your thru thru you[edit]hrought your fineger.s ample tome, im ean time, to write, requite certain disposable nothings like a big random power/ mind goes

and glowers at itself again. ah you kno. broken triangle. anything broken becomes an angle or many. a ziggidy line or somesuch. / so break a whole, rift it to life as some ziggidy line. some sorta line that breathes with uncaring for anything like information

but retaineing formless form as if your occupation was with something else/ let relax the

strands in you ankel, let the angel fall my dear / dont deny it / yur a good person, dammit. all the se facile blunders. all this. these stupid years of making. in the making,

or just making, about too. etc. greqat. great magnificent quiet [edit] is that which i search for and make and build into the most complex geometric shape for good / only to rift it and - - make what people would holy-fy even more bettr than the more better it was /

bby oh how you go on concealing pleanty of plaintiveness. am i nice ?? so what if you are. youre a stara special star . . . yr starved, strande line you ssay you are a bulk of issues you say you dance like a man made

of things .. light as wing . dwindle. wind. light as wind. so much so much to destroy sitll. my eyes need more blurs t[edit] to in order make everything wrong rightwise. foreget aspbergers. or any label / speak pretty

mane’s ruffling sinousity in wind. / a bloke with flow / gnarly [edit] speak charlie stude the sirfur, charlie stud is he who rides the wave, rides wthe wave in /by just meeting

wit ha hello and a hahaha at ripe ombustive ripe combustiveness at / a large offense

[castlehead]

cry what shall i cry

       I can feel you live...

Live, live next to me, like you were right there I say it in my sleep, struggling for you amidst              Empty white sheets,

Empty for all the air they possess And the none of you

But suddenly, in all my scrounging, In my mind’s eye, / There started

To form this world of angles Out of the folds in the sheet          I was touching

                That looked altogether modern-like,   With deep primary colors at first, as if half-handing

About what it was, trying to hide not knowing What it is , by being many things for many reasons,

--Too many reasons, some would say--

Like this / In some obeisance to the fifties, Or Wonderbread©,-  and then, uh,

The angles connected, as if attracted By magnets, and were making noises like Aluminum as they moved and linked into this

Impressionistic or cubist furniture: Like mainly impractical chairs

                  And Kitchen-Sink Dada and Such similar periods of nothingnesses and otherwises-

                                      -Called / Itself finally into a better vision before me

And finally the only true thing left was you, your face: After that, nothing could be clearer, whatever slant On an old piece of time in a new age proves different, And difficult enough, none may tell, for time soon will End, and this time there will be none of the Usual assessments of catastrophe raining

Down on the consumer population of earth who are Just trying to quietly end their lives without a problem, The predictable result catastrophe usually, in saying

You can peer into the future and see what Will come, to bring us down with their authority,

             Fate monopolized all concerns      Where human will might prove damaging. And telling this future, this fate-

-Could be as easy as by guessing time at the least To progress, the entire population of minutes   To forward march themselves, straight down

The stealth waterfall at the border of being and            Becoming. I think of this And yet none fills my mind, day in day out, And now--I can think of nothing but after all, but-

-This beloved and yet dearly         murderous Emotional strain, in vacant or a swollen

Form in my imagining / Of knowing that you Are / Responsible for dear,     dear things

           In your life, as most are, things              moreover,                   That we might protect, beyond  

The final era we had prophesied,   even The rest being a grab-bag after That, the end of prophecy being The end with it of any idea at all What will happen, any liable idea And not just madness anyway.

Assertions of having assessed A divine root cause, at this point, Are simply bogus, and-

-Any source, unreliable. Still o o my Dear things, to hurl you over that fence

And to know you had survived Past all knowing, even of God And beyond confusion, Whole again.

last just a little longer, a little after men stopped predicting, beyond which no story is, nor life, nor wrath. we yet approach this armageddon like nothing was so filial and final as its grand benevolent void and we couldnt imagine further than we can imagine. it was meant to explode in one irradiated pulse. As we wandered to the end of the story you felt it was concerning that you see still more expressive miles of time and space ahead of us but looking like no disturbance would visit it at all. The roving road took on a cloven shape towards the event horizon beyond which lay a place no man had ever thought could be, for none had imagined. where the ignorant men die in one dead end to the two paths became clustered and clogged with souls and the fatuous vapor. do not take that directive on the left, it leads nowhere. to last a little longer, keep right. just remember what you see will blame existence not on your own mind, and in fact with perfectly good reason to exist, just as the tree surely always falls to the sound a crash, without you conceptualizing it.

I say it in my sleep, struggling for you. from thence cometh what cry, I cry

[castlehead]

judgment daze

plurality is an object with an elsewhere it deserves to go, but cannot, without losing plurality and becoming unity.

this maybe even flips on and off in our lives, unity to plurality, without us knowing. things would change but not down here.

hence the absolute system, which must unite cause with effect to be absolute, for any natural circuitboard of reality to work, is faulty.

it is its fatal flaw, the universe existing is, on top of it merely being.

because we all feel a presiding space that is not us and is the other parts of us, a wild prairie, where everywhere is somewhere you want to be

[castlehead]

like, these tearful behaviors.

in the midst of howling wind that would blow the very self off of everybody were it a tad stronger, and leave us such shapeless potatoes skewered by the lord,- here, in this cavernous whistling, I fell down to one knee, fighting to remain still where I knelt, despite the propulsive winds-

and had another break from reality; or, in my case, a happiness fit. That is what I call it, have been calling it, not really being knowledgeable about it, I suppose because happiness can mean something temporal and infinite at once, and as such is bound to be thought to mean many things. For example

mania, it can be called.

Certainly there must be something we have other than tears to offer up sound advice, what the behavior of people can be, is supposed to be; whereas I myself have nothing I was supposed to be doing that would be like what others are supposed to be doing. This indicates something about the world, if there can someone in it who experiences emotions far and away from the reality of their degree and behavior, like me being truly happy when I am sad. And there's a reason for that: the 'truly' -the clarity and validity, the purity of the word. Truth. We give the best to what is true yet why should we, when at times what appear to be mostly transparent dreams, called words, give me reason to believe one world, essence, is not true, over another, meaning, which is. Language, words, give us meaning. By that is like my mostly transparent dreams: such unique, apart-from-the-world things we nonetheless feel as being meaningful to us and so then more the real. It is this anthem in us, and it was in the generation previous: the real is not the real, reality here a sizable phenomenon, once something more real is introduced; hence, reality, at its root, is not governed by familiarity but the supra-real, an idiom, in art, that often gives kingship to the creator in a definite form, artist the king, the art and product the kingdom. Like all these ass-backwards things, I am led to believe that reality as we experience it is mostly not extravagant or memorable, because it is pummeled by routines and routines and routines for routines. This gives me to believe a dream is real for the precise reason it is not. It is not usual, so then, the usual, routine, punch in punch out- is deadening. Anything can have the whiff of reality because reality is renewal, and much in ailing about us would prove much to renew, refresh, or begin entirely. The dreamlike quality enhances vision, and all the senses, for me. Why then to me is it dreamlike if it is clear and pure? Exactly.

I'd understand you, if you said your happiest crying moments came from a surge of gratefulness for finding what your heart wants. Love and unity with another, all moments that inspire tears.

But what about profound spiritual moments where something is realized? What if they are bad things?

What if nobody would feel good thinking of how true the judgment was, and if you cried, in most cases, you'd do it again, regardless of what it was about, because literally it's the only time you feel transcendent, and feeling transcendent is the only thing worthy to be called happiness, pure and true happiness.

I hope something more poetic ends up being the answer, rather than simply having to make silent acquittals of each perverse, but still unique, moment of crying over something completely, terribly true about either myself, or my life.

I will say anytime I feel something particularly about something bad I might have done recently, or feel bad at all for that matter, I have not been able to cry. And I will say that the above circumstances have not alone yielded those same tears, and that other circumstances have, as well