Terminal destructive meany-meany behavior. We track backwards suddenly as all the characters look into the camera questioningly on the immediate fade to black. (Leonardo was not in the mood for any of Giuluy's shit so it was difficult to see what she could think otherwise. There was something definitely peculiar with the present venue. This venue? There was little which could be said for this mode thinking how it wanted to so enabled. Down the ziggurat losing your guts. Watching night. Windows falling into space. Unpeopled.








Dead metaphor heart.









Pauses between valves.












Poor civic design.







Before now cities of uneventful glacial linen. Self-defense the ice to now and again deep color. Nothing to say nothing to feel. Ice on top of tomorrow’s ice. Passionate ice ebb dissatisfaction of concrete. Greed.
Drifting under a refrigerator’s runoff. Refrigerator cold and jittery. Plugged totally in now. Electrocuted in back trying to pull dead dust feathers from the crooked coils.
Nothing to say’s civic expanse is static, square and forboding.
Lost’s getting.
A cacophony of glacial platelets in the ratmaze icecreamcone basement.
(Ice Armor Narrative: Apology in ice armor and sub-zero sovereignty I pledge sincerely to every last fucking minused-out numeral notch to grace the gauge.)
This is where you need to relate this to a body something that eats shits fucks.


Giant pink room in a redwooded house of books. Capitalism murdered here maybe. Just cracks in my tombstones. Jethro and Zeppelin work next to a huge and exhausted purple and bronze school, the continuous bathroom labyrinth that formed the pacific bowels of the school next to the bookstore refusal to work this is unable to record I'm ruined. Jethro and Zeppelin skinny and fresh. Something fake is written on the application of the last four books you sat down and seriously called by the binding little light next to the eyes politically asleep. Can I tell you something dear spider-girl? Yes abjectzero. Well, spider-girl I can say that I'm totally feeling your lowrider ring braclet rise haircomb giggle font handle. Well, abjectzero I'm digging your browse cog sci numinous math cracks slacks stuffed shirt lip balm. So it was counter time again. Sharks eat themselves in the womb. It's so hard to get in that store. I can't believe they.
"Strong silent: type seeks blinking chuckle in a broken conversation walks silent alone to his raping while leaving me to be raped."
"This is how the bookstore coworker walks away into the campus to rape write die."
"Life sucks.""Colon." Last six books. I remember when I ate this good and it was nearly nine books ago. Homoeroticism. Attention appetite hole. A videogame involving putting books in a barrel and confusing the cameras. Bike locked to the display case by their dreadlocks shaven clean daily here on the basketball court blink shaky screen book opens and sings penises for chawnkazzias jkwaews waazmass chunk channa krassmiz liezssamu shagalia ellis. Attention I need. Die. The attention I need to die something did behind the aisle. Wrong aisles. Homoeroticism. Glue smell of cocks.
No books on hold for you, boi with an i.
Jethro's straight.
It was a different time then in the republic. The government had outlawed the usages of certain vitamin supplements. The air was thick with the possible of change confused. Jethro would see them come to his counter and took their barcodes bagged and handed it gracefully isbn leatherbound soft wallet-size coffeetable heavy around the robotic scuzzified sensors with his skinny bookstore employee limbs. Then gets ready to rape. Zeppelin's at lunch. What?
Spontaneous pipe maze. Seasonal holiday wrappers and managing paperback section to the right of his. I have the big one.
Poured himself wholeheartedly into a model mold novel that had nothing to do with his eyes being sore. Leashed animal sliding into lastplace breaking his biscuit open in the closed canvass circuit sucking on television tubes speakers on a canvass that would have to bigger than the whole store easily using your fucked up idea of geometry. Taking on music and Jethro suddenly walking past him. It wasn't the wall which fell on purpose.
Customers walls full of books in the service trap and suddenly you're talking to somebody who opened his whole family to everyone in the little city across from the bigger city that. She's definitely very cute. The store's pretty much open and you need to be to and then completely ready to swab down the whole counter with your drum circle's spit. I think it's in the P.A. = public announcement and typing noises from houses at night. The rest of the building rendered in black paint late for work flower shop adjacent counter polaroid of the weight I've put on to somewhere in Alabama or maybe upstate New York.
One day you're working in a book store and the next you're loading a gun and aiming through two-way glass. Shut up Jethro.
The mortal metal comic book fans said that'll be the best way to get back at the gods by building this open to the public pink room right here and look who's falling for it when the movie we were supposed to come back here and watch gets borrowed and forgets to ask the person borrowing it brings property home for computer-god sake typing noise black paint. Loner manifesto.
"We're having an instore."
"Oh."
This ain’t an angry anti-caucasoid disaster: in fact the cracker started in the hearth oven lovin’ heart of Africa, Kathy Blacker anticlimactically gasped after sarcastic laughter. If I sound somewhat bitter it’s ‘cause essentially what I’m sayin’ is fuck the stratification of privilege through ethnic discrimination. Through backpacker back-routes where we have no absolutes is where in truth the modern-day cracker tracks it’s roots. In these regions we speak of a freakishly bleached and enriched egyptian flour in the form of a petite powder mixed around, rolled then absorbed into a walloping one or more of the following colon impartially hydrogenous angola oil and slash or farcically miscegenated libya bean oil roiled with moroccan cottonseed oil soon bon voyaged carried upon sturdy sea-faring pontoons through cumbrian waters by abubakari deposited upon the bahia and in the process lost parts in the hard crossing but then that’s how the sirens feed their seahorse irony’s corpse with no sign of remorse. This source established these elaborate plastic slapping contraptions. Oh. Yeah. I’m stackin’ in the black in this cracker factory, flattening baked wheat into affluent cracker-shaped sheets: planetary manufacturer of the dryest crackers under the sky. I was taught this by my father who managed to transcribe the whole legacy of recipes off his cerebral matter before he died. Our crackers are dryer than woodchips in a ghost-town. Our crackers are dryer than tan pantyhose found on the roof gravel when you have to get a boost up to grab your koosh down. Our crackers are dryer than the adhesive residue of old decals peeled off your mirror’s rearview. Our crackers are dryer than the blast-flaps of ballistic missiles in flight. Our crackers are dryer than the lint clusters stuck to fluorescent lights. Yet no matter if you play chess in different languages or are just dumb the outcome is always an empty box and mouthful of crumbs. Oh yes, we bought out Table Water. We brought on this joker that nearly next to snapped his neck and snagged his choker in the cracker-hole-poker that broke a puncture through the tumbler to the rocksalt-blower and blew a snowstorm through the storeroom and the factory floor. We don’t have him here no more. Pristinely crowned supreme by her royal majesty the queen herself the first shelf honor hallowed privileged a ledge above the rest that fall short so nobly redeemed official cracker of the court; and then afterwards added that our crackers had zip that lifted her out of her all- eclipsing sadness. Arid wafer-thin colorless construction paper. Our crackers don’t like you. Our crackers is your savior that plus accentuate domestic. Suck the red out of ketchup. No sound travels between the cracker’s molecules. No sailor nor shipmate ever thought it cruel and so ship biscuits were a nifty christmas gift sans champagne and escargot for the deranged strange human cargo in the hold, cold during the middle passage; as I was trying to emphatically spill to my comrade when a temporary simpleton with pimples in a temporary badge tapdanced a powdered finger on my twitching shoulderpad: I done had it. I snapped backwards. And yet I tragically regretted afterward, godawful, gripping a third of my taco, chompin’ an absurd mouthful, drooling sauce down my soft pruned follicles on my thin grinning furry chin-bottom. Can’t take it: so bad: I can’t chill even on break. Purring for Ral to pardon my shotgun delivery among all its contingent misery. Make the way for mob labor. Nathan respect my lunch, an’ all expect me to jump. Scrape them off. Just talk. So I casually laid off the factory shop talk. Um, I was askin’ where’d you get the bracelet? A lady friend of mine made it. It looks Native American. She put especial care in it. Don’t let your obsessive-compulsive disorder destroy your whole outward perception of sexual preference. What’s a selenophobe doin’ with a wolfcut? What’s a chickenshit get out of bein’ cooped up? With each minute in the way the labiadentifrice sits profile longing to lay a gentle length of lanolin along the linear to ear smile adhering to the rigors of what’s considered queer style living in a leaping year of lushly deepening denial. The antihero’s cock stiffening from mere proximity. Do you like Guns and Roses? He mumbled I supposes. I found an album filed around where I’m couching out at. Actually, Kathy, I hadn’t heard the words to the song for so long. Room at his parent’s house had assumed the appearance how the production design had been structured on the inside sleeve insert. I didn’t believe him at first. Lace, roses and firearms. My pace slowed being tired from confrontation mode earlier during whatever you could say had just occurred in there. That’s not a generalization, you nerd. I was merely stating something observed. Crucial verb phrase: ‘seems to’ not ‘blah-blah “is a” blah-blah- blah.’ Resolve last year to keep nasal passages clear of all that ca-ca. He spared the microscope and chose to share the anecdote regarding the so-called Homo Dodecadus in all his loathsome nakedness: he’d had access to these stories while he dwelt in the veldt near the oral belt, all shot in a vacant lot. It was too hot! My titty-nipples was drippin’ an’ shit. He made frantic battle incantations in the japanese language. Grimacing menace in numb undying sorrow. Voiced exhale vented boysenberry scent an intolerable american accent when he meant it to. Purring purlieu of payphonics. Problem of sonic conquest. Get away with riddles trap in my rhymes because my middle name is mine. Ral thought he was losing his mind; he’d said what his name was: two times! I’ll tell you again happily. Beatty, you can call me Kathy. Unkind condescending faggot in the shiny denim jacket named Ral Mineowe now making a movie in Emeryville and parts of Mauritania on the comprador commoner’s story of the gay green monkeys that made AIDS. And here it’s as if the pages of the script were mocking intentionally smeared by the croc tears of the author or unintentionally blotted with condensation from the saucer. We resumed steerage from the assumed privilege of this clear soul and cheerfully bumped aluminum beercans without fear in sincere skoal. Queer as volkswagen strike matchin’ on your vogue if you yokels can imagine civil rights sans negroes to’e back in groundwork as germans used the hebrews during the holocaust to test their flesh products for brakeshoes, or some shit, I don’t remember. All I know is I’ll be for real blistered and barefoot before their dealership sees my tender, Kathy dropped the frontin’ gruntin’ with gumption in one sentence showing reticence to put my sam hill clamshells to bunsen. Once I got mad when my assistant forgot to take my bath. Don’t see you brushin’ teeth so what is you laughin’ at, gee? Wait I said somebody in this bitch smell like a dead tobacco tree with its legs open. They was smokin’ hash and talkin’ trash. Time to throw this one away because the bristles are all splayed. I, the big movie star, had no friends. Memorizing all my lines on every solitary weekend. It’s simply apt and all that I should primp my natural. All through the grueling shoot I disputed with self-doubt all refuting mostly how I’m a drama school flunkey that pulled out his monkey and sailed a boat back to his country to begin invidious production of a suckerism virus of reversed coerced mimesis: primates see this, need to be this with no vaccine to dispatch the discriminatory exploits of this forced object-choice checklist. I don’t care how many classes on blackness you claimed I missed. Pandering game-examiners will hammer the screenplay but believe me they need to blame the last known ohlone who unfurled the lore and claimed the world bank cloned and stored and chained his ancient monkey bones into stankonia loan words loosely, I’d love to say. Profusely amortize testosterone for honorary timeless patriarchal canon priority seating while leaving coyote beaten ugly. Would I be more certified were I to sigh, ‘choppin this endgame pretending to be sorry ain’t an option miss benjamin. Never meant to make your nephew ball.’ Staged these spatial effexoral bottlecap peeled back and snatched stillborn by the neck and collar popped tossed a trillion dollars per hour against the wall of the holodek unapologetic as if a doll for balance at all cost. The epicenter of the sickness everybody wants for christmas just snoozing in the uncool lube of unused ideas on his grass mat with his grass hat lying impatiently zeroized for five years to be exact. Unquarantined Alejandre the Grande liberated lost mama cities of sea-tossed ghetto bitties like timbuktwo times a pantomimed ‘fuck you’ sans the lambskins, unwashed. Chemically lynching mentacide sentiments reside no more prison writing in cement upset pinched with a dot net. So, tell us? Not yet. Bastard telecasted coup de taught that storebought vision without respect for reciprocal qualities of power and opposition transmitted by enhanced dishes by the verdant bicurious George ferverently vicarious forging jour du belle lustful marital status quo-killa extrapyramidal plans to transplant america everywhere inside his visor. Huffing puffing stories you’re fucking boring and got nothing for me. Object-chosen ronin selected the serotonin and lo the same orap song put on some phat your metabolics can’t dissolve whatever diet. Padlock Codey honeycut butt given the temperament of my rectum at this juncture I don’t want to try it. The most violent thing you ever seen me do was untie my shoe. Guide in our crew would croon, see how them two coons there hold hands. What’s classified as offensive here is apparently commonplace in foreign lands. He expounded in depth upon the concept of doin’ a true portrayal of superhuman and blending contrasts that vastly represent it through acts and behavior during situations made as to be sight-unseen to all save their creator. Making humanity invisible. Made to resemble the indefatigably mental. Such as, he used, not shivering in the snow. Giving to the portrayal in the way I’ll lay all still and know I feel ice, definitely, but, with the cues from ownership of rules, it won’t upset me. Not shivering while naked in the snow, although composed of vanity, is an irrefutable show or portrayal of superhumanity. Shivering does not impede narrative. That fact that a human is in the snow, naked: there it is! And goes wholly un-noticed and only narrative is observed as the desired bearer carrying focus. If I seem out of it it’s because somebody closed the loop shut. Encrouching in proud increments exploring strange new words. I found his anecdote wonderful so I nervously impressed him with a number of colorful serving suggestions, when son of a bitch guess who walked in: The Green Monkey! so we continued in code, I said, “Thanks for sharing that: I’m glad to hear that they found a / rational explanation for how the grouch jacked kwanzaa.”
Somebody in a grey windbreaker must've turned the novel off when Stylos wandered into the store. I don't think Jethro works for the rest of the week. Do you think this is good? Zeppelin shared and energy bar and Stylos sat behind where the staff only is supposed to sit and discussed energy bars, oxygen bars and monkey fluorescent tubing bar painted over last town tumbleweeds battle remote control in an arena against an actual gathering of panthers trying to rebuild language.
Jethro hadn't gone to see the ultrarealistic oversized mural of his father being painted on the side of a skyscraper in downtown LA as part of a project that was to display a portrait of every member of the LAPD which had been killed in the line of duty since the founding of the city, but you had to forgive him because of the scale of the exhibition the mural would change daily and at the time son of interupted paternity was being tortured in an inactive volcano in the steaming jungles by Dexter Sinisi.
Back from the past to tell you about Jethro's dad. It's kind of sad.
Mistakes in language the uncontrollable body's name.

Lint major wheeling and dealing the tricks. Sprinting my lint and snowflake decals over the ice.

I love the snowblankets over my skin and bones. I’d kill for the chance to overwhelmingly snuggle up
inside of your snowblanket city stranger love generational appeal channel.


I’ve slept in the finest ice down bedware woven in nothing to say glimpses of a presumed guilty other-face.


It’s the taste of my disappearing tomorrow childhood and the ocean I don’t need crawled out of the name
to. I’d kill for California sometimes and it’s not right and I know it I know it and.

Razorkeen final finishing blowout. Look at you know! Once, he had seen Xico with a jheri curl under that cap. Shivergood. Scour the planet. Xico (looking strapping in his cap like an Afrikan diktator all though whiping off epic statics) cleaned the citrus of his lips with a copious candor from the glass of creepy fluorescent lemonade. HALLAH who unseizingly OVAsees all, croside. I'll guarantease ye one thing, gaijinx, you'll never communicate with so many solecism, zenwhore. Defender, fleshrender, strongsender, worldmender, fearender in the strictest sense. Twas as sou merky that bloc reign shturm in the great sea of night with sparkly starshadow waves as of natalacro on the rheol' hatchbinge Straighter(hatchet handed of stride width of step magnified)'s mechtaught plot on goahead raidily stratajizzed with daring velocity to avantiurnyingly krakh through and cause the svoboding of the spazes out who, sitting in a jail for smiling, they dwell in a little chamber of defeat, they these hemphazeus stonedmen needing plennikal help badly when he, looking pretty shaggy having ass in soar reavariied in so farroaching yet so nyriattacking glide to GE oh from GM apove geia to turn ye avant the guard, looking double dapper in the outlandish gerb of basically a tugoi worn triko dorned thewy of a pimpmauve silksweat parachute suit (key points of sleek beauty of the young frame revealed when the jersey moves: a meter across the chest easy), past the high ray use of oxyorronic beac 'n' search (konects to the following part electrical discharge in intrigate patterns) and robot spiders with mercenary spirit and plasma hasher, long stepping just a little krazhaoly, just a little nastilie, por beda or perfarce, Straighter Halo, ambushi shag rugged son most sabliarmed with requisite heaven of trembling beneath the grip of his hilt post-adrenal jitters, jumping wildly while swinging with the strength of an eindorfinight reserve of energy oxiphokist, this caplaignering of a high porogative in his specs, ever so eager to flurry the hashet into the neber skrabing testomint to their vliianie (five pointed star missing its right leg their symbol (most commonly recognized as adapted into the octomegasegagen) representing the five continents of the earth which have been wiped out by mneio below his bodeetbs and vapid trelun geostation), widereaching, to leave the veter running in the volkshagenaerial as he shags, considerably balshy, the palatial piles short before long of the dough govoryment, in mir seconds stricken in years, because through the strength of their iron spirit the Russians had won the war, and whose highflying mysl's proved to be the light of the world, but up to recently the socialist efficency of the Kremlin hashbeen trashportit rewerst in dulcadence zoe rezhumed by the empusing purersatzic figraoch seeking to konvert artor to phft their Post-Age, Straddler Highrope himself a sickler for scraperlurk (for as much as he could be said to be thoreaucraftic), harkheighttekazu ura-man when at most feral gone as they go, Straighter (termite eating shockhead shocktrooping straddler hero of the Stricturity of the Fast World (SFW) borrowing gaily from the more gimnastic fighting styles emphysicing a combat perception of the heaviness of bodymass and ignorying the steaks keeping himself nuts in pokoits of what gnaws) had been there (moreorless) did Kazikhestam, shpilling off the top from a lookofthevista, striding on the verkh of two protuberances said to resemble the elephant in the crosscrested goldcrusted gornyi oniondomes to the birdwing slopes of glass and floating galvanized tin on the classical rooftop, rolling up the red kirpich, the roughshod shagga muffling carrying the torshch as he rags, then haula carting his castleroll dropping down to a eve's potolock, then lazorsharp with raven adroitness (soarkold overhead) burning the hatchit pure zen to you by leading confluence while bombing landmarks, imprecating with supernatural potency, hemphagardly hungover in sudorific slowmotion through the voxdukt with extremities in the star, sitting apove them as they, shouting printemptiously, opined seizjin, their enmity edva dent, afterwards they were then trying to toptat in a toropit (and don't you repet it he reveted can't regret slicing his shaygonefr just to see if he could kachit fast enough). The stage was natriielly lit throughwhich he shuggled his tobi feet. Pull release flail to inverse full recoil back in as he freed them, presenting pezkey (fruwnashed goodreapedup by bushcaped Elabgelo, Jethro's truechi, data Oh ganhksta, who gave a big grin before leaving: cool death with the left leg overpegged overly bundlefolded to reveal the downsweep's furthermost healthy cline of the calf, unlike his other, either way uneven, motive unlikely), rock from the lock, jampacked, it was four s-passes (espier/assassin), scattered shoepattered but hard, olymping (as Morales in her stab), when, alto she's crewzy creepin soprano bust her Stride, enter winter thus passin she bye, initiating the fun with a soulless 'Hit me,' Jethro, jesting, smekhed her in the face with a strong openfist and a stretchedout bicep, trying to be smert, because she innois, shot the stealy deviat a shatkii to her shakti system unnicely capped (the CO?), mincemaid, uncooperative (that is, unwilling to take them ashide and give them a diern walking to), into a gushing nozhole during their rescue out of nekudos on the forced bash out of Bashnia, execution of the dive blown to smithereenies destroied behind them, there then emerge integer vidal (this life without crash att erring into a hundred abstract kanji halfmoons, man) through the debri, go as they gone. Three s-passes thatnataltao hoofed a quint thou with an oddly bent bow and adeiu.

Get on the bus plus signs and black stars for the lost tomorrow brigades on lostishness talks of compass drawings and tracing stalagtite shadows in black chalk in a darkened forgotten cave that wasn’t even part of the argument. Breathing really stupid even in Boyz where Tre starts swinging hurricane dehydratred my history of violence plastic and ice blanket landscape which makes me debilitated chest sternum plated dinosaur bluespill space implosions hold still vicarious rage videogame plugged into places I can’t go anymore. The clench. Bring your eyes to this. Loveliest jettisoned gangrenous plankton of sea sumptuous roar and color of delicate flamelicks packaged on the shore in an offering to the atmosphere with dustmotes floating from sunshine tensile imprisoned in dense iceflows. Debilitated not-right, not-proud reparations slot ushering forth coagulated and immovable ooze. In this huge industrial space, forgotten and darkened, I need to remember to gauge blue steel painted to resemble a summery glade, I think in packaging, burn oxidation over the implacable surface a rich orange rind cast, covered with insects, let’s say they’re metal, the surface ticking with their scurrying, well, packaging evacuated, and there’s this gauge, probably a dumbwaiter what with this time well and echo, its secrets, its drops. The sticker’s been stolen. The sticker said: ‘Insert Reparations Here’. Function incomplete. With what my inferior imagination is the middle point of a shaft leading with gravity’s direction toward something which can’t really be estimated and against this impulse into a warm view and perhaps even sounds to which might be ascribed a notion of beauty, but doubtful.

I could live within the violet lilt of your intent and sincerity over the phone for a great deal of time fulfilled. Nothing's summery stardust-locked footfalls over my shoulder's promise's vanishing point promise. I'm familiar kinos through fog at worm's eye and too many regional phone listings below the box to the boardwalk. Fuck. Beautiful like when you pull the covers over your head and inhale the dust bunnies and crumbled cookie crumbs. Zeppelin's looking down at you. Security industry sleepy. Underwater ripple evil science lab alarm sounds always. Sweaty. Nights in. Zeppelin. Aw. Ricocheting bullets through pipes so exciting when the night turns on bubbles head swoon full false electric shadows shock of being lost elevator in a pipe matrix.

I want to sit in the middle of nothing and then count and try to keep track of how many unbefriendable bends in the smoke won’t happen twice. It’s not so much that the world is uninviting to nakedness and surprise as that seems to be how Zeppelin takes it in. Watching it move on the surveillance. Scanning camera’s radius of surveillance similar to quiet suicide using simple machine grease. Many wageslaves have been lost in the favorite store behind expendable microwaves. Freezer bricked in. Watching her curves play the body language of why’re you talking to me grow completely complacent as the temperature drops as culture loves it a lot. She’s talking. This conversation was officially killed by an idea behind a wall behind buzzing vibrating math annoyance. Riding past this same story and making assumptions. A methodology. However over-rated. Pepper shakers. Damp feet shoes. Concrete. Math wants to kill Zeppelin possibly but miserable he he he that’s a joke. Nothing cold lives alone a million martial arts fantasies at once I want to count please let me alone to count. Zeppelin. The sound of a falling videotape when she turned too quickly in the airy summer home splashing tide waiting reminded her of being small seagull in a molecule diagram next to a glass of water sat too close to electronics not thirsty. Open city. Maze of steel. Why die now? Civic planned out. Videotaped sound of itself falling from a flimsy shelf calls into question flesh steel dying and count. Flesh counts. Math wants to kill me. Zeppelin. Living under you. Coming from behind, she was on her left and said Watch it on your right her but bumped grabbing hands and that was it. Under you. It’s so there sunshine road up catch a color dyed drifting rainbow roads shoulder wire racks wiggle sweater hiding puppies remote control vista hiss of summer home. Can’t talk to her because of you. I swear you’re fucked. Zeppelin between this problem with you and Zeppelin here’s your tape. Falling cassette off shelves. Mistakes. Paolos. This is Los Angeles County. It’s all your fucking fault and Paolos offered beans and rice and carpet.
”You eat carpet?”
”No stupid.”
Something’s wrong when you let someone call Zeppelin stupid in closed cold steel maze summer fakeness. Sitting in darkness watching the day burn the evil math figmented lines gridwork segment stretch off the table unthirsty water glass flesh steel. Paolos looking down at Zeppelin through J to the E he’s not in mixed company or anywhere else in this Los Angeles County mixed grid degraded blip silence blip buzzing. Where’s the buzzing coming from. Imagination. Oh. Drink? No. I’m putting a microphone next to the gears of the radial surveillance operation and what we get will be unplugged and still warm breathing flesh shiver lips he he he joke of let’s lie or die. Do you ever force yourself to drink?
”Look at that.”
Water molecule dead point grid my first name basis. I’m dedicating the next nine bends in the smoke nothing retrograde up to all those tired masking tape noises I could should have said Look just because you can put your hand on my behind – you fucked it up. I can’t believe you. Paolos is. Zeppelin. There’s a story of why one can she to she sea buzzing saying a joke lost agent itself in smoke bend road rainbow decal expression of death in the eighties you know before when younger licking decals on steel and glass and thirstiness – I unacceptable acceptable electrical defective machinery videotape being picked up watching it’s not to be made public ever ever and not the point even relating like normal human beings this wide awake at night death in the eighties bothering me bed blanket buzzing videotaped class thing.
”Ever think of moving back to Connecticut?” Bitch. Zeppelin drank all of her water and asked for more. See the joke there? No more he he he’s. Zeppelin is from Syracuse. The class infraction summer home is brick by microwave by brick lifted cold off the floor of New Haven’s pilgrim morgue to the grid Los Angeles County by way of nothing to watch the sky burn pink in your rainbow face off. I don’t care how many decals you lick. It’s not your fault. It was the class’ fault. Simple phrasing of subordinate. Wouldn’t be that big of a deal if there was no hierarchy in place in the first waitaminute who do you think you’re talking to in the first waitaminute yes I drank it. First name basis subordination. Sweeping trend. Zeppelin. Looking like she could kill you. Paolos popped the faucet on her laptop wallet wires a drip enough moleculed ocean myths to rainbows transmitting live from New Haven bitch name you’re the cause of all this guilt not mentioned here Zeppelin okay. Cylinder. Jiggles. The screen fixes itself. Promise. Give me more water. A steel stress vibratory stretched flesh in just a small dosage at a time didn’t even talk to me until I started killing people for her ass a bookstore a grid a rainbow.
”Help me kill this giant spider.”
”No. Why the fuck should I?”
In the future. Paolos belongs to you rainbow wires roads you get the road ticking from the center of her ballhead to shoulder stone splash like intertwined snakes her familie’s calling carpenter wires rainbow blink. Videotape’s blink noise. Falls. People still use videotape on the future. Next week on Stuntmen.

Unproven. Cold. Is it open?
Object death.











Emotionless expanse.
In- vis- i- ble dead purposeless unimportant.
Self-erasing ringtones huddled in the C-O-L-D.
Monster emotionless mass ugly rectangular edges of tables against corners to a room inside somebody’s

abdomen for rent sitting completely still.

Taking photos of stale food in an airless shaft of light fog on the memorial site of a black bank that mysteriously sinks into the pacific.

Clip- ping the
bluespill with nailclip-

pers out
of the sidewalk hachemarks. Check-
ing off hache-
marks on a longish and folded phone card receipt re-used as a tally sheet.
Completely meaningless blood beats without a context in a plastic packet suspected to be filled with ketch-
up.
Grave- holes

fi
lled
wi
th ket
ch- up. Ketch -up moon. (Moon Narrative: Mural’s ramshackle kidnapped gift of green eyes goes shopping for more letters to put in its alphabet but bends thumbing homework the breadth of purchased stamp booklet stamina.) Games involving dead bodies that don’t know they’re on camera and being judged on their individual
completeness.


Bluespilled compact discs for teeth.

Stolen sock ancestor to decelerated demagnetized descendent funk.
These announcements from under the table.
Waiting for my cold idealist abdomen to open it’s room to a bear ass economy and knowing that owning the chicken raw off the bone is a moment inside the middle passage gallows for all my baby block circuits
screeching the property of a bloodless military sug-
ar
re-
fi-

ner-
y.
Ketch-
up
moon




over


a
sug-
ar
re-

fi-
ner-
y just outside of Lisbon opens with the same gels on the lens as the last closed off and when the static
clears we see a vehicle with two vehicles inside, actually re
presentatives of the opposite hemispheres of one
p
ersona, not pictured here.
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na of the drab dogged teenage dust dragon dragging those there tennis dogs through the dust. Smiling voice full of teeth “Consumption occurs just as it always has and shall continue while I am in this light of day wearing headphones.” Teeth dust. In conceptual maps or the map that has not been committed to be on its paper for the time being there is the preparedness of thought inscribed via fingertip photolithography upon either let’s give you napkin, pink plastic bag or (hopefully) stone. I’m gonna steal you a kickstand baby with the magazine name sanded off. This dragon of dust stands at about vermin to scale eating cobwebs and whistling six sides to shipping and handling full or half charge comp. A pornographic imagination in which buildings topple inward under the weight of their own dust and cobwebs intermingled in interminable intimacy and darkness.

































Attempts at getting lost in the middle of a sawed-off convo piece put forward in a saucer let it just.












It seems the reason thingness is compatible with consumption is in the empty status.
My ringtone fuckin’ forgot to play half-plugged videogames with my father’s foreshadowed steps.
Unfulfillment of self results in self becoming vessel beyond fulfillment.
Recyclable cylinder with the nine-digit social embossed on the circumference.
The digitized lint between my lips and the tricks.



















“They are the very best I have to offer.” “So let’s see them then.” A very broad sophisticated grin had widened over Leonardo’s face but in this case it did not trace (not one iota) of the devious designs behind his binding profit motive there so then on purpose not disturbing but enduring so endearing ear to ear so curving not converting the environment implicitly suggesting toward the simple easy pleasures of a purchase on the Client in the blue fluted leather zoot suit, therefore fertile toward the lucrative negotiation seeds though Leonardo was not knowing how his cheesing did proceed in nearly perilously repositioning $600 ----- shoes and him on borderline continuum where the phenomenon of Client getting up and walking out of office now forever final straw was something truly well within its physical laws. All on these bitches who better believe there be dollars outside of the squalid appearance. Leonardo retained his ostensible stolid forbearance. He straightened the black tie of his black Armani formal leisureware. It was hot in here; but not as hot as it get. The back of his neck was wet. Hot air pumped in through flapping drapes drawn shut and hanging in the front of the window-wall from the ceiling so they went down feigning to touch the floor off by two inches looking like beige alligator scales armor defenses vertically partitioned by the faint crease of a stitched border and would disrupt with outside noise if they were just an inch shorter. The fans hanging decussate on short bars above spun lazily. The chairs slightly vibrate so I can’t tell if someone’s paging me while I work. Stylish murk. Murky the dreamlike manner of the humid meeting room airstream strong candor consciously conceived a pineskeletoned chrysalis. Meeting to trade lucre like we used to in this business for surgical high-tech sub-thanato tactics for lazy men. Leonardo the Machiavellian Judas ducat whore who got more actual failings then assets and that’s it. The light that came in from outside was yellow and made incandescent shapes upon the ebony so eloquent arranged in tessellated marble plates but only when the drapes had moved enough for it to come through. This Client didn’t seem to care but it’s a fact that some do. Factor prime proactive predatory working towards up Leonardo’s adamantine advantage unanswerably founded on his avaricial instincts halfway gently whispering seemed to be the heat operating sort of like a cop who’s aiming bright white light on a suspect and so we might cite right on the subject Leonardo as inspecting detective wielding a book on ‘how-to’ will no other value than ‘sale’ to assign itself onto and register pronto from the Client, ‘cause nothing garnered higher meaning on our suffering lower beings on earth than paper chasin’. Is this worth an explanation? Something was seriously wrong with Leonardo. Angels are high-avoidance right where it’s fools like him are first to charge to. Leonardo right here starts to think about his money again. Same exact grin pinned from nostril to chin for ten minutes unbroken provokin’ endorphins like smokin’ hooks through your neck in trainwrecks. Out of all the people on the planet Leonardo still believes that money really is worth damage to your self when you receive the interest that accrues: not that any of this is news. Money is time hence the longer he binds his grill to cheese we’ll still find an increase. Leonardo sat in the leather throne of the meeting room in his leisureware with a lascivious lust for lucre at some point in the future and the Client to his left comes to solicit services in the burgeoning niche that in this part of the world flourishes. They all come here. When they want the best. School of the Americas grads with weapons surplus war chest. Leonardo was concerned whether blue fluted leather zoot suit would ever get a clue to these halfwit sweat tactics as sure as sure could be that the Client could easily read the motivation rollin’ off the face of Leo like a limo or a lemon telepathically subliminal not hidden well at all (“fool, what you tryin do this time?”) for the Client knew the time, notwithstanding he got commanding Igo to adjust the Client’s temperature with an abrupt and silent hand gesture. Igo went into the hallway then like spent nearly all day then came back fanning the Client holding a very expensive golden Egyptian flabellum. Too late to curtail him. Leonardo had no part of the decisions Igo made wishin’ his designs obeyed some degree of reason, also the request was not aloud so it’d be difficult to please him, but at least he wasn’t breaking the flabellum presently. Were Leo to father a son he’d maybe tell him definitely this lesson hard-won to his spawn that it was important to subdue your target before bending it to your will. Applicable to the market or in games of varying skill.
Leonardo pulled the mic out from the headrest in it’s hideout beneath the leather flap, whispered into it, then intuitively fed it back not letting go of the retractable cord so it won’t snap. Everybody in the room is greatly indifferent to the display of automation about to start commencing. With die-hard business savvy quick and beguiling Leonardo got a little happy because he started smiling. The large square pane of frosted glass parked opaque and opposite the table’s head went able quick alive with static and the image sharp out electron emitters housed inside black cylinders shining the luminous diffusion of primary colors a little while for pause to wonder before cylinders begin really spinning similar to a generator or more fittingly a Gatling drum as omnipresent interference breathed out speakers indirect hidden made the air itself crispen strikingly in a hallucinatory stereo effect so absorbingly accomplished as tides of waves in chaos rumbling on us. The rigging that hung beneath the fans began a mechanized whine that imperceptibly outlined holograms to his bidding. Thimble is placed over tip of the finger tapping the air just in order to bring up a mono-dimensional panel of buttons metallically flash in response to instructions. This smile is spooky in this light earthly and murky. Capillaries sap out every milligram of Taiwan toxins moving in a bee formation to the apex of his mountain. Reflections dim of the displays is caught in the boardroom tabletop. Leonardo touched one, or rather suggested a general zone from his perspectival vantage and he took it for granted and the whole display vanished as if atomized the lights above extinguished and the enormous- sized rig’s presence of bigness diminished invisible as a voyeur observing from closed circuit, or the bureaucracy that dictates our hell, or the mathematics that defines the architectural spaces in which we dwell. Middlemanchild Leonardo is an angel of a salesman, first and foremost though a fauxwop as he goes off yon to sell, as those in rooms like these as well, or rather with disdain for all that data as we aim simply to narrow in our focus and not care of other locus but where Leonardo would seem to be the star of nothing really comparable as far as rooms go, so all other rooms whether extant or no when next to this hole are so segundo to Leonardo, gladiator in arena of negotiation called a boardroom table built for quorum presentations stretch before him quite some way from his warm and cozy station is the stuff, here in Taipei, which comprises the greater part of this, his existence, you might say. How Leonardo gets it, to paint a pretty portrait, is how the speeding car of Leonardo doth approach it, meaning the sale, like being a whore and if it more prevailed to visualize the shrivelled thighs regal of Client spread eagle and Leonardo his own happy self thrusting and sodominzing! Trusting auburn eyes gleam. Leonardo started smiling like a salesman ready to sell something! Yeah! Like ‘Want some ice cream?’ ‘Probably are you buying?’ The black cylinder rig of the electron emitters which spun like a generator, or then again more like a Gatling, stopped then started spinning again with this happening, shooting its rays of hues as portrayed in science textbooks the spectrum shining looks fake on the opaque pane of glass across with its surface frosted. The static receded deeper into the air shrouding its presence from reality yet residing spookishly in the heavens of perception so immersed beneath the surface of things as if a curse. The frosted pane went dark. It is constant though it wanes so he can talk. Green digital words read across it (the screen) babbling up from the processor of some suggested mainframe machine: READY, and then: RUNNING SPECIAL AFFAIRS VIDEOFILE 80-14417781. Client got Amantadine but doesn’t take none. If you were looking closely you’d viddy out the ghostly reflections of the green machine-generated listings in their machine-readable font along his laserpolished orthodontics glistening cosmetically augmented from opaque pane glass frosted. This went away from their view and instead up like a cinematic title it said: AUXILIARY TRAINING, the screen went black and static sparks glinted grainy, and lastly centered with no majesty in the black field on the wide square pane discreet careful letters went on to explain saying: STUNTMEN. What the Client saw first that fast at last what was halfass camcorder footage of fluorescent safety orange padded room confines with blue lines marked what was meant to be penalty quadrants. The Client noted that the lower righthand corner was a row of little dashes where it readout for a timecode. Camera didn’t budge parallel to the far wall of the cell just a touch as if a gashead tripod that ‘my God,’ the Client yawned, didn’t exist, but that didn’t matter, the Client guessed less than a second after. On occasion what careened on down the screen invading was a fine horizontal line of splintery thin silver static that fidgeted at the lowest edge dropped at the bottom. A tall bald black man in spandex shorts walked a diagonal course from the near foreground from behind the camera, bound for the center of the room, out of shadow into light before the filter could attune. The black man with his shorts had a t-shirt that he wore as he entered in the frame to an area contained and defined by line boundaries the observer soon found that the shirt underwent a curious transformation as the weave of the fabric achieved an interaction with the screen’s billion pixels way of rendering distinguishable but the components of the image didn’t own up to the limits of the device so it seemed a chemical process but more precisely what was the low-grade resolution’s kind of okay tendency to spectrum denaturation independently of the subject during taping. Leo sifted through the files sitting neat before his smile, and brought one to attention in the fingers of his left hand, smart. Another man, dressed in full padded gear walked into the camera’s view the same way from the rear, and stood opposite the first man in a probably rehearsed stance. The Client a natural sports asshole resorted silently to the hassle of noting the full padded gear in which he strolled in to appear. The black bald man who was tall stood nearer the further wall opposite another man who had the chest protector of a catcher, and also he had shinguards toeguards kneepads, enormous padded cricket gloves over his shoulderpadded shrug, with this added real careful over ribpads, over his pads on his legs which were enormously over-made ice hockey goalkeeper’s pads which had a nice stocky bold sweep forward, below the ribpads a girdle, attached in back of the glove of his right hand another back pad like a turtle, possibly styled for deflecting projectiles, also a fencer’s mask with the bib barely visible being hid to tell what it was at all due to an enormous football helmet with the frame of the face mask over the throat protector placed somewhat disastrously where his coat intersected complexly held in place by a chinstrap also headband wristbands and judging from his wince without release that he was chomping onto something of a boxing mouthpiece.
“Thisguy, thisfirstguyis….” Leonardo hit the skids. Leonardo screwed up. He continued uncertain as to stuff so his eyebrow raised suspicions rightnow managing, “Xico Matic…?” in a low tone of indecision. Leonardo raised his thimbled finger and the hologram did shimmer at his summons and he tapped the air it hung in somewhat solemn. Was that an asshole’s tone? See I worry since I’m prone away from being personable and the business hurts as a result. The picture froze. He made a signal to Igo. Igo was on his toes. Igo handed the fan to the Client, and the Client took it to his side gripping it tight with an irate brow kind of like he might say, ‘ow’. Igo walked, but not with glee of any height, around and up the length of the table just to get on Leonardo’s right. Up from the manilla folders Leonardo looked toward the Client. He smiled affably, and it took a while to catch for a minute, although a ghostly mimic, triggered in the midair, but ‘Yay! At least he’s trying,’ for better or worse, in the man in the leather zoot suit who spoke but only very terse. “Just a second, please,” he said two fingers beckoning Igo’s head. They need to get closer but not quite fast enough. Igo leaned over and Leonardo sat up. He gave Igo commands quite low and concisely, then he turned back to the Client as if a child in a high-seat, these tiny events sublimated and summated in a grin imparting trying to mark some minor farce, “Oh could you just lay that on the table for me please?”
“It’s Phoenician?”
“What?”
“Is this Phoenician?” he sheepishly repeated again, with a well hidden apprehension at having to say more than what seemed appropriate, if against the tide of all else, by potluck, apropos, necessary, his sole intent.
“No, it’s just a piece of crap,” Leonardo spouted wry indecent laughed in simpleminded propitation, unleashing a frail effort at mollifying things the supposed motivation. “Just kidding. It’s Egyptian.” His being ‘witty’ had eclipsed and destroyed any unalloyed anomaly of some non-commerce-oriented coy charisma as condition of the motive of such snortrippingly piddly flippancy as result of a goluptious collar-popping uncalculated mode of spontaneity instead of ‘sure I’ll crack a few jokes long as you’re paying me’ way that he gave dead a wee-bit too cadgingly engaged in avaricial sways that devoured dignity viewing in the bigger scheme all channels of behavior for getting hands on to some paper intangible in this case here The Client rested the flabellum on settled down the table long, looking satisfied expression and thoughtfully pitying the unremittingly graceless idiocy chockful consistently every last inch of the lame shit employed in these naked conciliatory exploits superficial salesman routine duly by choice. It went away after the movement of seconds. Flabellum from collection stationed in the fertile crescent. Leonardo transformed then he whispered with authority to Igo with a look of haggard chagrin replacing the complaisancy that had once been. Looking only at the good boy as the substance Client sees, wholly for the sake of where commerce is dependent, grinning, “Would you enjoy a cup of tea with me? This probably going to wind up taking about a minute.”
The Client nodded.
Leonardo stopped to. Compute this. Leo looked at Igo to move this. Leo looked at Igo like a scripture in the bible for a suspended minute, the bully giving the corporate coolie an eyeful of serpent shit in wheels and pulleys, early tools reveal rules to the next thing see your destiny grotesquely jocund put-on, entirely out of the sycophant’s go for the gold pictured gaunt to control by remote the eidolon probitious in the Client’s devoted sideways regard, suspicious, chose to let this guy play his card through the eyeball hardness he was still fallen under tight training the main thing he need to know how to play dumber on the crux of this unscrupulous expedition Igo stood with inextinguishable fidelity to hear the telling of the next position when L withdrew his trust cool to just sit thinking this one less string to pull unsolidified with no clue to the unusualness of no info to coincide Igo rejecting the option of getting started off on the best guess evoked as he saw it divested when the Client spoke. Nodded. Whatever. Leonardo, however, horribly, instead said nothing or made no steps in responsibility of filling in an epexegesis seemingly heedless thereby dissociating from like apparently this ho ain’t caring to be heir to the role of playing profit and loss who’s the boss who’s the wiser supervisorial duties unkindly ridding the slanted position finally looking trivial getting a concurrent anneurism merely to grant permission the bidding of the servant, ‘cause Igo thought that heirarchy was how Leonardo preferred to party, and did morph his mouthpiece into muteness akin to the Client in belligerence as to concede haughtily, full well knowing he can’t tell what he meant, authority of potency so corrupt in how structured it ain’t got to be uttered. For once dispensin’ the dunce-hat however improbable on this mission because Igo would have to rely on the obvious instead of an official announcement from the top office. Novel. In the capering annoying style Igo aped his employer’s smile with an arguably equal amount of sincerity carved really deep in his cheeks clowning sneeringly like a mound of violets in bloom. Igo turned around a left the room. On the tip of his tongue he envisioned a conversation where he’s inches from saying how wrong behaving so poorly in employer-personnel face- to-face is and where bravely he’d query this dirty old bastard to answer for all of the hassle abuse he would steady induce in Igo’s direction, with you leather fetished-up on your throne like God’s own gift to perfection, with your corny queeny airs and your black formal leisureware. But the eminent desire for involved colloquy between him as a person and this dog in working clobber perkin’ was non-concerning though he sermonized a touch too righteous for his butt. Yet if only just we were to percieve deeper, we’d see a loneliness inside this Leonardo get-the-green creature, colored by disappointment which sententiously boinged into the Client’s head in a manner unmatched in his actual unrelaxed natural reserved bland person-to-person.
So they sat in silence until Igo returned, stepping lightly so that the Client couldn’t have heard, hadn’t learned he’d readjourned until after he turned, his area of mobility marginal. Leonardo had to fight his own surprise, but it was hard to. Igo brought over the folder, titled on top of the tab of the border, nearly no room for all numerals on it and the Client could tell it was what Leo wanted because his mnemonic held what was still a focussed cognizance that what the manilla showcased on it’s dense label were what digitally was fidgeting on the video screen at the far end of the table. (Customers come with minor reservations so some are more stunned when run a demonstration so done for more presentation he decided then to tape one and titled it 14417781.) Besides they were memorable strategically for reasons we don’t easily know, as if someone had chosen them to be so...but, for what purpose? Leonardo leonarded, then wanting all the refuse discarded, made motions to remove the folders but Igo had already started with sureness to do this so harping is useless. Interweaving worms of steam germinate the firmament dizzily turning over like a hibernating grizzly from the cup and silver dish of heated up tea for the nihilist Leonardo. Igo walked all around so as not to block his boss’ starboard cautiously the Client saw so obviously or why else did you think he yawned for? He thought for a second that Igo would stoop over the table to hand him his tea. Leonardo raised the thimbled finger up in the air somewhat mechanically. This thimbled finger once raised there made trembling holograms appear as if mirages from the dead or trickery involving air. This thimbled finger once raised there made trembling holograms appear as if mirages from the dead or trickery involving air. The Client picked up the flabellum singlehanded. The screen went back into motion. Igo picked up the flabellum and examined it. The silver static splinters stood still then got rolling, going between interims while a clot at the bottom were caught up in trembling a lot, incessantly wiggling restlessly, shamelessly ignorant brainlessly, in this case, with no love for those in stasis above. Igo growing rightfully spiteful of supervisor and trifles of supervisor who provides the slew of psychogenic input and energy like he couldn’t find better things where to invest air in his chest and pay less for therapy. Leonardo parted the flaps of the file. Igo picked up and examined the golden flabellum, then set it off far and alone for a while on the table. The Client indicated it. Leonardo gave him it. Igo swayed around the way beside the Client serving up a sterling silver cup that lay inside a silver dish tray. Leonardo gazed with class at the opaque frame of glass. Igo left the room. To resume Leo spoke: “Let’s see here, mister. Direct your vision to the display. On the special viddy screen before you is Jethro Antigones Thorp, who.” Leonardo seemed to be wracking his brain. The Client lifted from the documents his winnowing strain. The Client’s neck jerked ajar and cast upon the violent sparring of the two men moving in a pugilist stew otherwise graceless, or fighting, depending on how you want to phrase it. Each morbid frame scanned onto the square like the tortoise and the hare before it became apparent to the Client it was slightly -slow-mo. Leonardo, wracking, “You see our lead assassin. He is a black belt in many martial arts. These are the stats tell it…pardon my pronunciation. It goes on saying. Um. Aa-ky-do, Shor-reen-gee, Kim-po…Heh-sing? Hezhing? I think the stress is weak. Let me see.”
The Client didn’t let him see. “I see you getting me a prizefighter and not a sniper. What about long range hits?” Playing a speaker faking eager. “He’s fought for the cause very hard in many wars. A stone trooper. He headed up his own group for seven years before coming here.” Discernible within the type of stare, to money burning Leonardo got hyperaware with the hint of silver inching. ever eminent. Attitude improving. Beneath the floor liquid lucre moving. Tintinabulary clink of coins passing underneath like lava awful slow. “Former KGB he stormed ancient Tibetan monasteries everyday during the early ‘30s campaign over towards the end of the Commissar’s reign.” Oh they said money go get it. I was livid but I hid it. Why did Igo go defy me in the eye so? Ego’s like those regal plates for real though on some high notes. Oh I so fully know he’s seeing other gigs on his breaks giggling. Big enough to do lobbies. Weightlifting as a hobby. Lazy, day-wasteful like shopping for someone to off your undesirables. Coldly conspire in your idleness. Bite on this. “Let it be understood obtaining fiber optic footage took pains. Cost the operative a lot to gain this cursory shot, plus quality’s distorted in crossover from the recorded format and x-rays in airport screening procedures, leading to the diminished image which you see here.” Affluent babylon stop and go opulence hotdogs and homicide, all-in-one. I can catch the glare of the dough. There we go. Watch his wallet topple like jericho. He’ll have to plaster the cracks in the plastic afterwards when I done broke this bitch. You can quote this shit. “There are three. Let me share for clarity. Another operative was taught by Liberationists in Lebanon. Feared within the field for perfect kills. They called him Megatron. I have no footage of this person in particular….” Leonardo stretched up from the groaning leather throne to catch and pluck in between the sheets fingering passed two stapled leafs in the manilla folder gabled away from him still in the Client’s hands, produced what he sought and then expounded upon the proof. “Whenever tactics involvin’ the skills of Abraxas Carlin he endeavors tp ascend the next level of assassinship.` Easily agreed amongst colleagues that he’s mastered it. Hardknocks grad. Self-taught marksman.” Leonardo looked up from the pamphlet he had sat smart and flat upon the black polish laminate, examining the Client, “Bad for your health. Proceed with caution,” with a very delayed sense of how the situation had swiftly switched.
The Client had, during this discourse, gotten up and stood by the door.
Stunned Leonardo jumped, “Wait! What’s the matter?”
Igo loomed in the arc across the room.
And then after a sighing measure, the Client gestured toward the screen, vexed and peeved, stretching his sleeves, “Thanks. Not interested no more.”
“You were a fuckin’ minute ago!”
“I don’t need your services.”
“Do I detect nervousness? True we’re very small, but there’s nothing off the wall in…” The game is nice like a naked genie shaking dice. If you live right then you shouldn’t have to say it twice. “How do you want these criminals to die?” Search the subliminal crevices down in your mind’s eye. Find someway to forge a just retribution. Should always be selling. Can you tell me what’s going on? Are you owning them mathematic babylonian habits about that cabbage? Meanwhile Leo smiled mirthless. So purchase the service from us or go figure it out in alternative. Nothing permanently put down on paper. Keep thinking positive while I’m on pause waiting for your stupid asscrack to pass back this way to do me a favor. Looking dumb. Chewing the flavor out of my gum. Chum. Partner. Pal o’ mine. Like stars in water each tooth giving off a shallow shine “Is it worth it to you?.” No more assertive with you. Now I’m flirting, eyes averted, toward the herd in purlieu, coquettish, curt and aloof, like I don’t care what you do. Flipping through appointments in my memory. Putting you on hold so that my friend can speak. Organize my fingers so that they form a cathedral.
“How do you expect me to decide from all these people? I’ll try the best.”
A treasure chest struck my digging shovel.
“It’s no big thing and there’s no trouble. That’s the fun you get choose. There is nothing here to lose.” Pimpin’ senselessly in a sense that since we’re all one soul, my control is your control. “Sit.” Leonardo looked at him a moment longer than he wanted, took a deep breath, spar in progress, and went into thought inside his too hot office. He dropped the hard copy. It’d been in his hand the whole time. He set the folder down probably to block the gloss’ shine. Hereby checking the Client mellow, he held on to his elbows, and said, “Mr…?” The Client only looked at him back as if it didn’t register. “Okay,” Leonardo was able to say spreading his arms over the top of the lay of the table’s glossy black finish leaning back nearly diminished being bossy regarding the Client’s ardent meow with a weary brow, “Sir. What would it take to secure your happiness?” A tiny beep, like a smoke alarm, and he reacted smacking the side of his coat of armor unimportantly, even sort of like a walrus flipper slapping this accordingly, jawboneclenchingly, “Authenticity…” Leonardo tucked his chest in and answered his own question, “I’m kinda at a loss as to what you wanna see…I guess, unless…..” Leonardo stood straight and the Client was still there just as if he could wait but with little time to spare.
Leo took up the folder, out which a twisted staple nestled took to the table, departing sliding falling out of the closure of the fold to give the table at impact the faint tap of weak metal colliding and then settled, parting its buff hemp stock of which enough has been brought favoring import from the sovereign assorted Afrikan prefectures, having, at least for theirs, a favoring for export herbocommerce of the hemp in kind of which this folder’s synthesized, to fall, so fell open spread well into his one hand’s span, and extracted a paperclipped package of acid- free lasergrade semibright sheets, which actually on occasion made pretty nice streaks of inconsistently shimmery shadowy textures that frequently gets misperceived in memory stylishly next to a borealis or australius aurora when moving through various states of disorder, removing to add to this a photocopied analysis featuring right at the center a dark and rectangular shape and also seemed similar to someone’s business card which he fastened no escape, mainsailwavering, nearly completely hewn and bonded of preconsumer content, these thread cleverly through the holes of staple fangs arranged leaves together with the hold of its able frame censuringly longspied under the tense gaze of blonde eyes with relished condemnation since absconding from its place in between the jacket crease mere moments before, knotting the pricking aluminum hardly resisting the style its assuming in painlessly, numbly or nimbly or with masculinity. The Client approached the table appearing more viably negotiable. The floorboard creeked and the Client looked at his feet. The Gatling rig and screen pane glass (black on and muted with no electrons on to shoot it) was on machine frame casters, and it sort of rolled toward his foot, passed his foot, then unplugged itself, kaput. The Client backed out of the way, re-approaching the table skeptically, realigning his vector now next to the table and opposite his game trajectory. Leonardo tossed the papers across the table’s surface with the flip of a wrist. The papers went with violence and didn’t stop over the costly and expensive black table top of the expansive meeting table spinning with the staple as the neutral centrifugal axis, sliding alongside the flabellum lengthwise and then riding past it, between the long course of hard edges conformed, beneath the lazily spinning fans and into the Client’s hands. Leonardo looked at Igo, but Igo had took off. The Client laid the papers down after briefing as if to scoff, from an enigmatic perusal. Then, bitch, make your ass look gooder than usual.
“Okay,” is what he said.
Leonardo could see it coming from a mile away at his head.
“Where are they now?”
“The STUNTMEN are on assignment.”
“Where?”
“I can’t divulge that information to any client.”
The Client absorbed the ‘fuck you,’ looking down at what the papers stuck to, sitting his knuckles on them and not trying to look despondent.
“This is where life as it lived gets rough and the segment of the population that has more than enough starts to riff and flap their lips about how just horrible the world and all it’s strife for them right now may somehow seem. You looking to get something with no limit to your dreams. But, what you want doesn’t exist. And nobody gets to how your feel when you are rich. You can’t take it. There’s no rational basis for you to take it. I can make it happen and adapt to how you’re thinking. You never paid for that with your own money and your shit is stinking. Profit is a gift. A gift that’s not earned. You can profit from it or on the downturn get burned.”
“Can’t the profit be a gift also though?” “Okay. Listen to me. Absolutely no. Anything I give you is an increase from nothing. A privilege. Amidst the fact that you suck at bluffing.” “You’re crazy.” “You’re delusional. You’re out of your right mind. That this is the best that you’ll get you’re not seeing at this time. But it’s something still you can see.” The Client beamed wanely, toying with a notion too ludicrous to disclose. Leonardo’s beeper went off again, and he whipped it out in one motion, offered it a marginal peeking-at, then stuffed it inside of his coat at once. The Client had rounds. “Excellent. Okay that’s it. I think we already have you down.” Leonardo sat back in his black throne and oh what a sexy sound as he fell back into its woe-dulling hull, like baby’s skull deflating, attempting something of a slouch as if it were his mother’s couch, palmprint to varnish, “Igo?” consoled through causing carnage, as if the wide world’s entirety was beneath his clutch perspiring, symbolically tying him to small men with small brains that extend to reign all, but who’s chains can’t restrain revolution’s call: Leonardo on the regular these days one way or another often found it immeasurably difficult to recover the previous level of comfort to which he bubbled after standing up to do something and being ruffled: he had completely forgotten his tea. As far as the fee, the Client guessed by the gesture that he could truly believe in somehow of the altruism inherent in all human beings, but then got hymnal paranoia he was on the wrong page when it dropped across his mind that that too could’ve been staged. This was all a friendly spar of chutes and ladders, while the fans hissed dizzy distributing air through the rafters. Igo appeared. And on the wall was a less than legible collage of chalk pastels on gauze of a lovely woman dearest who’s nudity was smeared and smothered into dense mists of atmospheric color. Igo was a big squirt and label whore, so of course he wore a torsotaut tee-shirt with emboldened fire ‘V’ blazing shoulder to navel to shoulder and milder simple overfitting denim trousers on him. A noxious fluid gummed up underneath how he held his arms pinned. Igo wheeled the Gatling rig and frosted pane back and replugged it in its place so that its power re-attached. “Will you help Mr…” “Hemet,” the Client said. “Sure; Mr Hemet to the door so he can get to bed.” “Flying early.” “My. Don’t I sound surly?” The Client realized he had no luggage to gather and only illusory sensations held his presence to the matter. The Gatling rig stopped its roll, and the prospect of machine silence only faintly enthralled yet mostly no interest from those people grown oblivious. Since the Client had worn his zoot suit the entire episode, Igo was denied the privilege of handing the Client his coat. Leonardo gave a stiff laconic good bye wave. “Subtle heat ripples from air thick with cellphone signals. Mr Hemet turned, so chose to forgo the encore, and went out into the ruckus of the falling day. Igo closed the door.















Lost Los Angeles like lost between now and how many other shadows can we imagine. No air imagination what makes up for it. Miracle of human unaccountability. The art of finding yourself completely. Completely consumed by a color blue that never seems to expire completely. Looking at dry wall. Detained by it's flat. Something to do with the hands. No rails. Shellfishshells all the time and. Me and this part of what doesn't make a map necessary anymore. Pride and another thing friend talking to me slopes inertia let's respond to sisyphus as if he was pyrrhus just to be flickering before a mostly careless brigade of it's a problem but at least we've proved to some members of the dead that we can reach out and in the reaching even recall some other senseless journeys flickering like droplets from a water main seen on the video recreation of when spectacles dissolve. Or something. Sick of this thing under the wires and weeds mistaken face how to conquer your pronouns and do more without even lifting up a single broken piece of chalk between memorization and what happens inside that let's not twist cadaver fingers with lights and floorboards and some tired expectation that nothing cartesian ever resolves in slot what when you see said they're gonna be tearing down adhesive taped apologies in a set.

I am build-

ing sleep
for





under
dirt

,


and
dirt. Homely oh so boring flightless give it a minute takes a power move and burns it from the abdomen read more than is waitaminute if it's in the middle then wait how do you build the rest of it fierce yawn learning how to live with the meltdown middle sternum glassed-in action death thoughts going over classroom-like no applause desk scraped tile you dead one and zero coming out dumping.

Meltdown sternum penthouse birdhouse ribs. One of those Frank Lloyd deals.



Looking for infinity again and finding you guessed it.



Most convenient emotions to build cities on right now for example if I didn't have to die as this here somebody else's bad idea of what would be a good example of how life goes into color of your choice, dust, cracks in the side of a wall and time.











"There's nothing to worry about. It's going to be okay." Redemption.

"A-
me-
ri-can do redemption exposed..." A you-less hued drab pathetic crown around my naps. These accounts don't match to my eyes and it's driving me crazy. Jackson uncertainty jack. You could scream an open field and still you wouldn't feel flat. Snowflake decal suspects the glass is a rapist, finds out the glass isn't a rapist, and becomes dissatisfied with the glass. And there's this completely impossible photo ad of a skater getting gangbanged by American flags. His word balloons are punctured hamburger buns translated from the French (no
"Where?" Pause. "Oh." Masculinity lie and irrelevant to cause stars boom plastic bag drift away boring. It's lost on me. Still not sure where. They never close the door here and they need to. "Relax." Remember how your stall used to say? Pushing outward in a sphere of force muralist's mealticket is ticking on you. Never quite like needed a night before. Shock. Liars in a self-continued fire room falsify flash to alarm dry. Milk crates speech the dumb need compost ice intensive design flaw with rigor in more amounts than there’s meat to do harm reductive drive support into. Fake name of who’d win when hit dice comes to sig-


ni-













fy me-


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ing out- dead lines- off over. Special – ties in-closed your time to…


Em-o
tion -

ssssssss
ss off –sides simple spelling. I’m not crying anymore about anything. This is a song of steel’s.
Drainage. Repetition. Bleed ketchup for me objectively only thanks. You always only always get sick when you're looking good which is of course geometry's standing open cafe door invitation to looking better. An un-ironic moment to cut and dry rivets spelling be as it must ideas into the unfiltered air of a plane that's been gutted by a mountain peak potential. Sprinkle than a computer hope. Meaningful landscapes of avoidance in an integrity engine to do with looking for another timeline of how it reaches over placement streaks for a stereo to put in gear. The dire consequence machine of lies presented with all forward thinking fuel-injected. Sitting here hearing nothing drinking water that hurts my throat too much. Watching the day pull its spine out as in monthly comic books. Too debilitated to bring everything down to thorough and consistent rationale. Maybe wanting to do something to my hair, lose whatever's taking over the back of my throat, imaginary plastic hairy cockroach engineered with little sharp knife legs and needing to hang in the flesh there and grind its hips. Bolted question mark to hair. It's see-through. It's blue. I was wearing a coat from scotland yard. Oh okay. I'd never held a quill before. Old non-endearing objects that push people off the corpse of resolution in zero simple easy-to-follow acts. Wishing I'd worn a jacket. Counting the hairs on my head in the mirror over there in a high modernist detachment. Explaining death on a dusty abacus with my legs crossed thumbing stubble in awkward amazement and looking like caesar. You know. Excised. Not a whit of a gesture to play with the obvious situation and suggest the unlimited possibilites in this amporphous photon cage calendar shingle served with fancy fork and knife in an egg holder with a sprig of something rural. Pretty much expecting nothing I say to be taken seriously yet going there with it anyway. Sharing a scathed moment with the full up chair. Pulled up chair knee bump. Seized! With the wrist of every passenger in the grip of plastic fasteners to a whole new set of eyes catch the cast. A destitute full animal's memory into what I won't get a chance to be this time around. Not like I've never been in the light of day because if you're trying to tin toy take it that way I'll learn you the diametrical opposite. But there see these is mine hard won. Care not demagnetize an element. Great gripping plastic wrapped bones together tight no movement but an eye that hopes for itself a frame devoid of event with eyes sneaky tacked on and with it an entirely new face. Noticeable. Acceptable. Runs into those folks who knew the new face in question not all fanon in anthem by intent nightfall and when revisited whence said face displaced being transparent predator again with it. I hurt eat happiness yum. Another story, though. This wasn't meant to transform into that smoldering neighborhood bump track on access within can be pointed out nothing innately objectionable. Like I cannot go I know. I've tried. Prognosis? My stall knows what's best for me. Sitting in a cafe going over what exactly being trapped in history means. Over and over. Time after time. Demented query has become hey is this visage of acts which went before not accessible two blade street in all folly? Understand at all why this world doesn't open for me? Slide back days. We're speaking not from my social-political construct but from my smoldering awareness alone. Aversion to black athletic ware. A number from the mouth of nowhere nothing noble to say. Recognize no reason to be generous except for the best reason which is no reason at all. The enemy is conditional acts of good in a system of material balance. The argument against human contact forgot to realize being mostly drowned out in the production. Let no mentioning of my endeavors and character suggest that I didn't have enough colors to work with in the first place. Grown acquainted with can I get next to and say something purely sincere but still be not enough to register fully all the way through. Miracle of miracles. Acts within reason. The other deleted space. The possibility of not standing there. People can remind you rather easy. Oops! Are we sharing now? Not about that at all. Falling out of favor. Honesty as disease. Modelled off degeneration. Thanks for showing opposition to what forest setting mirage already knows about or a fear of not being able to see myself from the punctuation I left there alphabetized. You have the nerve to suggest that what my histomes decide to do are going to hurt your feelings. So here we are in a blanket of snow again for ketchup sake. Brokenness incarnate has a few single phrase obsolete combustion genius transfers to respire into electrons if you will not note down prefabricated streamlined awareness bubbling boys on their way to the center sizzling pixel of an agonizingly dead screening agent. Prides itself on nausea. The mystery of a completely open mouth secreting numbers by the gallon instead where the saliva might be to process reality at a faster rate of changed decision ocean palace of ice king bicycling locked in revolt to money's evil hand game play deviance round. Seduction of all things electric versus a fertile dark drive dance. Drop everything at the scope of purely worthless glass-coated apology. "What would you do?" "See, that's not the smartest idea." Leads in that fashion and has proven sharply proficient from poise unbecoming age. The perfect however you see fit. Jumper cable tin can wave. I mean you can completely see that from where things are now. If you had a choice between the two. You aren't as stupid as you pretend to be. How do those wristbands feel? A machine of the most insulting humor set to rumble can't swallow feathers when nothing good emerges. This is very close to not being there not to lavish undue privelege to there. What to pay as you can for a machine that will kill every trace of a complete donut embarrassment upon my language? Remembrances of exclusive adventures and not having the apt capital to reign in civilization for a weekend and protest forgetting everybody else who isn't happy enough to have these things down. Or a story about the complete set of responsibilites that it'd be impossible for someone to estimate unless they've spent a whole lot of time reading about the writing which was written about being inside of that skin there itself. Voyages to places I can't even imagine. My ability to build new houses out of the small corners of those houses still standing was a failsafe bred into the chrome oxide drilling shabbiness of the ideal financial living scenario left town. I don't need to be straight gullible eye-witness headhunter against hunger off the whole of my flea-bitten mistake flesh and let the decision to burn snow calories be crashed for me instead of hiring a bloodkin compact disc shimmer chalk dust hostage to sprout funny pasta towards it. Let me tell you how to work with frozen architecture on a budget of unadulterated silence so things seem less without light nor compass drawing when you come out of the school in the ground stone obsolete scholars fargone forget the swollen heated ketchup ingredient to open eye regalia those ones I can't right place. These blankets stand on their own shadows awfully adept. You'll read no complaint on air from me and mine. I hope we were recording. Just make sure you get back to this side of the demented mirror in time to properly follow. How much I'd miss moments that don't belong to me. Everything I'm wearing was stolen. We've overbooked back towards next month your entry box in the palace of pity freezer branch and I don't have to try to be funny. Drip offering of positively no return value as dawn's far name blessing to anything liberated to barter my success so I'm taking my talking cube away without rabbit ears for every reparation memorandum six by six wide through my indefensible hide. There's nothing left to practice but evil. Don't tell anyone in the firmament that I've been planning this. They claim to in gravity have the retribution poverty market running pat but then I'm not even turned around yet so we direct flight it there like gas on a rubber chair. I swear that sometimes nothing seems a thorn perforated ficchus leaf alive and well. Video perfect I hate my excitement yet one day we'll arrive. Collapsing scene from day doesn't really stand out a great amount. Drowning in an English exercise with no zerotime splash makeup he tries. Subject/author disconnected colloquy-for-pleasure before it had even the chance to transmogrify into something more relationshippy or swapping out impatience-based attacks disguised as concern for some immediately apparently reparable habit of annoyance from remarks which were once in these exact same fucking interactions so impulsive and seemingly genuine. Observe how the full rejection of any single smallish tenet of the American dream immanent albeit ignored on these surfaces destabilizes all other supposedly unrelated sections of social structure. Over-reacting a little. The offensive abject in all of its untoward volatile grandeur. Volatility as locus of eros no more. Times change. Nothing's real. I write like this because I know someone somewhere will find so blindingly obvious the language in English or otherwise noted of what directly comes from this locked key in the mail mall abdomen corporate guts sculpture monument to debt gurgling as something way too much to take because being too much to take is genetic and a mark of dying slowly without chains to guide your unwise and offensive shock reflex discomforted body mixed channel if that reaches stopped out sensuous pure or close to it nails in flesh spears through abdomen beautiful with blood in the face and paint in the hair and love in the let's not even dead narrative element heroic repair down the dehydrated longing for a frozen nuclear frostburn concrete citylight where the physics of consequence cannot apply and this non-application mistaken for rebellion against compromise which would be really fresh and and this qualification of fresh appearing singularly because I would not be into hiphop were I not from suburbia remember the shock of being is enormous. What is existence but an opportunity to translate in the most extreme terms accessible this dynamic shock of being? Why are we here if not to scream? Why are we here if not to disrupt? Nowadays feels we're both animal there to suicide cliff videogame it in each other's eyes only but my muscles can't follow suit through. I can't figure out why your heart metaphor dead sits settled in the muddle of a tortuous money killer trap's membrane without wanting to split the engorged viscera violently. Speaking from smoldering awareness alone and not through the media of this would-be ascribed social-political construct. They are two completely separate entities. The membrane of time exists to be destroyed dismembered cut defied defiled. You seemed to get that. Thought you knew that. Epiphany of absolute sight. The hiphop of my abdomen insides. Mutilated drum penis. Reason for slugging over the sparingly peppered ice of wasted day outsourced wardrobe recommendations called up with the color of drab open city beautiful bike ride into hell. Fell coughing out. The revelation on the steps as I sank below to half-consciousness. I think that was when purpose left my boy body. Naw. It wasn't purpose. As if I could distort the spatial relationship of that sick and tired organ from the continuum of all things which matter. No. On the steps to your house something left my body and it sure wasn't purpose. How absurd for me to even postulate. Heresy! Old Man Bicycle stepped to my defective cadaver glass shell and extracted hope for me and my people. Was that what it was? Am I sounding a little sad and maybe even silly at this point? No it couldn't have been that either. I done went and overheard a cop say that hindsight is twenty-twenty while it was then and there holding a tea cup and tea dish at the flightless fair. You know cops exist in a status which makes redemption a futurist's academic career. Crumbled up on the steps and letting the ghost drift up the stairwell through the roof thinking that this is my representation of shame (a-ha!) pulling from knotted ligaments of its earthly prison toward the only true redemption liberation of destruction aspired. The outcome would be the shameless realization now fully embraced that the only liberation redemption lies in destruction. Still gutless I would not for a split second even suggest destroying this lovely cafe we're in. Or would I? The compromise struggle has made me the biggest containment animal sound of symbollic automobile taking off for good that I know. Hoping some other life tribunal will gaze condescendingly to ordain the deed of it as hyper-noble. Letting the sun stretch its gridded feet past every other item from a shrine on every surface area carpetted calendar box wall to wall save our butter-line inflammed modernity narrative containment cafe croissant here...almost like a revolving door ceiling fan monk out of element from the stall in some ways I'd like to think. How easy it would be for the shock in the party to disfigure the forward destruction path. But to what end? Be it stairs or a cafe chair I'm the eyes nobody notices who hallucinates straight-edge access tracers in a post-apocalyptic pacific nuclear christmas tiding body of writing with the obvious fear of exposure in its leisure and breadth with a nostradamus message saved in the self-eating fetus grafted to my hip lint of an oblivion deus ex machina sidestepped for box office receipts on the game of mutual obsession assured by the fervor of this shitty end of the yardstick while giving up the ghost in a fashion commonly associated with government pawns or soldiers. Masculinity, undertaking, girth, dream and endeavor. The so comfortable around you with me and mine over-rated rem sleep pseudo-romantic novella I can't crack my lips to Cadmus. The sorts of fires ghosts are only most closely snuggled to. Let's ennumerate all the pernicious things. See how obnoxious they are? I know how much better our society would be without them just blotted out. Black hood and scalpel awaiting your word because mine ain't worth a damn. I'm the first to cut knowing all I have in this world is my hubris. Knowing I would be dead without my hubris. Remember how the calls stopped? I'd be a leper. Laid out on chemo. On the simulacrum, if it wasn't for my hubris, radiation would be taking a vacation to where diverticultis yeast babies get caught in my pubes and aveolar fibres. If I was only endlessly giving beauty I'd be the toe-tagged nation-state formerly known as what happens to stars when they get old with my stomach stapled and letters falling off the eye chart and rubber nodules worn. Screwing custodial hold up movie-typical hubris towering. That's because I have no investment in it and this is an exercise in emotional evolution would-be reproductive tumor. A not-condescending next on how to paint negative space in my race-transcending class (ha! academia is innately condescending) performing a c-section with a sharpened rusty mix CD as a whole bunch of fine stars were smiling down from heaven upon my marker and shovel in the Tunisia gay.com chatroom slash tomb, magnanimous or sanctimonious, whichever has the most syllables so it's a hook as sure as shit it's always dead in the waiting room since the condition of sitting in one of those awful plastic prefabricated institutional seats abnegates any drained clinging to material outright in the first damn place. Try Uganda's un-ironic shangri-laylow motel maypole. Cafe arcade's bicycle-powered dynamic irreconcilability machine. Every spineless calendar sunshine quadrangle is a stall knows best waiting foyer made to resemble a wind-fidgetted pine forest television tube on pause with electric leaves getting clobbered by the first intimations of snowfall over the public resource I'm sitting in which was named after the song that sort of favored someone else but in the given fluorescence of the dramatic tension might for a moment take on no that's going to far. You're the next song. Room turns. And since you will remain the next track on the CD, I will never ever have to showy-showy something into those dilated hoops of immortal cerulean that lacked irony and thus beg off destruction for the rest of us just a little bit more. Right? 'Sides, this matter may not be aptly broached having not done away with the grand illegibility surrounding the history trap agenda item everyone wants to skip. Can't put the ethnic stereotype in front of the antiquated distinctly regional transport, now can we? "Boy, given the impress of social stature would you be up to coming along to meet the old stall or was that merely a function of your automatic candor on automatic?" Adjusts hair. "Well I dunno. Do you think it was?" I wonder what my face looks like when engaged in speech. Is it just as the mirrors say? Crisis this tain of awareness earth's core. "I could guess and then go ahead and start up but then we'd be assed-out perhaps with yet still another wasted day-long desert to name something mock honorific," when I would should have said was, "your disdain for the object beyond the derisive regard is intoxicating totally." Perhaps a cafe is not the most appropriate place. Floated decorative ribbon encircled festive cotton clouds with orange soda spilled over giving into a Misses Tarumi celebratory missionary bells of wood going bong with a somber meeting between something that had been inside of a bottle for years and the stick-like elbow snowflake glass and computer wire sculpture's arrogance discussing the frequencies things melt at and don't you upright underage reading experience fade to telephone book service seagull song going through the same process so much longer ago than you can remember this empty athletic field filed under small ocean smell? Alone on the stairs is best. Fitting. Watch that shame evaporate with the lids wrenched shut from the lifeless post-bike corpse on the risers like everyday I go through this with bullying velociped bruisers who rough up my dumpster looking for virgins to humiliate. Then one day I thought I'd crossed the vector of some personality that was so rad I could for sure go on a talk show with coffee drinks on their tab but forgetting I don't drink coffee. A phosphorous game called compatible query? Quill to ornate coffee cup and tea biscuit my patience is boundless. I live to be case study incarnate.

This still sounds like a testimonial. Fuck. Oh well. Addicted to big words 'cause I can't figure out how this can last forever for me even though its all over having crept back into the high modernist pedestal with

a match and can of gasoline to incite my whitened black mind of this embarrassing direct account of dealings with miscegeny and sacrifice and love in the rap sense or to autistically do without any so-called fake tenacious ampersands as the second to last letter spelling therapy before love in the last sentence you'll ever need. How many cries for help make it to top forty chuckles the coolest amateur shipbuilder in your ranking to the castle. Nothing changes. I will as the days number from griot to griot with my dumpster-lint idealization of you and to be reciprocated as outright ignored frolicking grey test subject electric chair shock of being emits trying to seduce the castle ho until the interaction between my rigor and your propriety exhausts itself. You know you're alive when someone tries to put traffic cones and temporary fences and highway flares around your shoeless shadow torn at the achilles tendon strapped with a volunteer voucher chalked-in as how you yourself behaved when young made obvious by that unlimited empathy pipeline into civilization I live in fully taken care of birth order of french fries and beer. It's not like my bow to P.E. where I scream 'don't read this' would be filler to get your ma'afa on to. So we're stuck. My beautiful endless digression boy dressed in rap's scraps drinking coffee no cap no coffee but teased leaves whoops. Rap's body is a juicy gym-worked perfectible non-ending segue from pride. To the rhythm of the embraced responsibility to take the initiative to prioritize mildew and decomposing fruit for henceforth rap's armpit. See? All the world's a big cafe and this is a game of deferred passion to me. So much safer to write than to be with your misspelled predictableness. I'm just talking to my rap, officer. There never can be somebody else as steamy. We're talking aurally-transmitted communication sorry parasite death in the mid-eighties catches the authentic severe sincere emotion. Is there enough metis to be relevant to anybody outside of this cafe? Can you imagine rap outside of a gallery? You know the city they claimed I put together would live all the better absent this incandescent hurt song since I ultimately have to sleep in it instead of you know every night when I'm shivering nothing more democratic than the internet of course a total village down to the eucalyptus roots so fuck ya'll burn off forever. What this hey now recall the time and gross discomfort off-color and barely respiring bourgsie beat needs is someone convinced they're either from or sitting up out on another planet altogether, don't you feel endless suspicious digression boy? "Nothing to say." Aw. How's about workingman fabric weave traded on the open? Invented mannequins, anybody? Nothing, altogether. I pulped irony nothingness. Nothing immersed in the midst of the most prolific I know you can do it burnt collar on a compulsive prevarication ensnared in the pages of a laced up revelry die style. So stay in this cafe. Leave? Why? Can I get a few more words of wisdom, please, it's not a question, fool. Never off-course. Don't call me too big doctorish hieratic to talk to. That'd kill me dead right on the spot here and now. Or said "if they ask you if you do coffee, just lift tilt here put it up right good and close to your mouth and then what you want to do is pretend like you're actually drinking it but don't actually let them see and catch you not actually swallowing for real, see." Mirrors lie. Rain-soggy insect tenor speech chipped as far more motif wood of taxidermed cadavers than a scoutsman ranger's keen tenacity with the beyond human is blinking indicator affirmation subordinate to inconvenience will allow for us. The woods rather confidently hold parenting pet-owner keys on life through so many hole's earliest teased impulse demystified by retrospect species of fingernail dirt history-exceeded parody scale hole seen reversed. Can I craft words like an antique sword and spectacularize boyhood closer to the clouds in this? Everything in subtle code whether cafe or country club home. Plotting how to knock over local government domes. On the crucial. Isn't boostin' slug resistant or proof if it isn't the conglomerate troops ripping through flinching itching to do the not did yet. Autism artillery and sweat. Major anti-state nothing nice to say sentiments on deck in this flagrantly surefire obliterated self-taught page of pure thought. Um. Yeah. Jot it down. Suspensful uses for a withered cliff face pelted by some divine inspiration on a hook. Don't forget to bring out the language in animals mildly rudimentary but hardly not worth the effort. Loner's temporary dusty doorknob checked pulse are you shaven curse no knicked tesselation component watch me thinking about my special bird were you so surefire willing to grasp not the big D character no animation no scholarship. Transform a ridiculous elemental surprise on that fascist distasteful state of mind paralysis dissociated ghost in a clothing chain with no game. You know, Oliver Stone style. Cutting off heads and clinking silver dishes in the cafe. Aren't we decadent? "My." Reign it in. Chad's Verse: "More than one I don't see the need for weaponry bucket beyond chicken pantry unless erasure is to gain generous vacation garden granted elevator chemical. Wait what was this soundproofed stimulated two passenger fake unopenable accounting snow pea file by precious the emulator of a pretty good speed four passenger pioneered collision takes huh thousands of those guys hinted at just to make a difference and then even if bridging the gap up absolute mastery there's the pirate masculinity disk whisper drift opiate to absorb. Chicka-pssh! Conspiratorial bird-chrip conversation between Misses Tarumi beauty concepts and the bacteria that makes either jock itch or here we go again athlete's foot at the same time doo-doo on the solidarity to Gloria Jones' swimming diagrams. Nothing's real. The obsessive symmetry of the neutered number sequence for a cable-ready bargaining chip well chipped up. Jinxed filtered cylinder of water resonance. I wanna cry bike poison smiles in a room of sharpened fish-gutting tools just to get the pillow's wasted hours slogged-off sound of attention's public rap for way under nothing. Um. If there is a nothing on money's end of candy bar justice uncomplicated by intro to nature's given phantasm of the one of two who dramatic situation breaks and opens not being he who can of the two the what the other one actually rests back until jammy shivers overtake in the morning technically accomplished travelling boy shot in given scenery serum to chew: oh yeah. It's really fire-breathing wires in theory. Everybody forgets everybody else's map time. On and on. Vocoder-soaked in orange generally indispensible institution of soda's aesthetic stealing a beating a week from is that a patrician dishing to the disobedient freak of a fuck it all now no I'm not caught up in mordant cotories of political intrigues nor in league with the soldiers which hold seige so chill on this just inconspicuous digital wristwatch on the twisting bike-lanes of your implanted civic disgrace for mercy. Oh yeah, and, everything else in this universe that really matters." Caliban and Prospero: 'Thanks', says Caliban. "No problammo, post high modernist." Do you feel like building an un-ironic bonfire of things that wouldn't burn for science as opposed to things that shouldn't burn for sacrament? I never said it. Belief is a winter bed taken for granted. If you're friends with a snowman naked news item realtor grease stain then why would you want anybody to be your state? I mean, really, insert reader's name for author here. If the nobody wants to say smilingly had actually gone through with and succeeded their plans experts say that the face of the city would be something a lot more like taking a gander prudently upon the day's rock's building's behind our walk of regrettable but not intrinsically regretted more common liquids frozen solid. The blast radius pushed back prey's retreating impression swath through rainforest and reflective silicates and ferro-concrete more the shape of anger and hubris bonfires again with the anger and hubris of some type of innate clicking sound just a-goin' on. Rwanda's Verse: "With the collective clamour of every avant garde text/sound movement from the constructivists, the luddites, the hutus, to the catal hayuks to the ideas burn concept glade sprites that breed wantonly incomplete sentences. Unable to squeeze what would be a plainly irresponsible bending part from the seeping justice. A defiantly intense class stare star staring the sound his voice will have into my pocket. Like talking to a statistic on rails after the flight. Bicycle-powered machine that sucks back stolen colors from affluence and leaves everything walked-through drab. Having visionary a moment with my jock itch question of how much is performance or lives as impulse registry sundial kitschy sushi latrine in the woods." Fully present. Varial 5-0 on one half of the truck to a 180 to a lip grind. I'd displace woodland creatures just to get some inroad to a chat at this juncture fork. I don't know if that's true though. Smart people would spin the spoke in the middle around wherever it landed a compass having a near death experience marks our point of origin into a fully functional unknown. We must get gone err break of dawn. I've been lost in the mere primary reverb of where I'm not at for the longest time then creating the spirit of all that he meaning me as the body and boy inside probably dead somehow will become content to form this lynch fantasy soundtrack until something lifts my head out of the ostrich pocket I get blood capital infatuated indulgent. This not necessarily medicinal practice of releasing the ghost stepside cloud ribboned-back and constricted in form isn't liberating doesn't find any separation between what exists in the mind and what makes matter thumpthudreal thunder. Nothing again. Are you sure? Listen to me. Fulfillment is fantasy. Conception is all. Reading direct from the mastery document in the light which always only comes in here from outside the cafe bay windows. Warm on my ready to be erased desk face and broken joke pencil book inkless pen give it away as a gift lie. Happiness is stolen html bart ticket forged return stall breathing hiss fingernail clippers torn underwear every word in the English language sucked off to the highest height of sucktivity and ready to fuck my desk head from warm to luke to tile bible scab dizzy senior star citizen. Vicarious satisfaction of a language suburban out of the way from legitamate wildlife writing as the color we use to build or last days with. My right to life inside the ability to discern something one with being called mastery from loss is a pair of special glasses with freedom sunshine landscapes decaled over where the bars should be in my measurable and duly monitored instinct set. I'm absurd and out to devise the most politely reasonable way to meet my demise. Happiness is a lost pencil. You know, the pencil I used to invent the bellybutton and draw sunrise legendary long-playing phonograph record strike. I got tees. All sizes. Here's a "My life will have meant nothing." = $15 On the back is a picture of one unpierced untattooed African American deadweight silverliningless cloud bank made to resemble a vacant lot of un-utilized public property surrounded by soldiers and landmines in the strategic formation of a U.S. dollarsign, you know, state of the art, boy. Some long and sad old embarrassing science we made up voice on mirrors. Then he changed the momentum of the entire conversation. Am I blind or linear? So this is the what I in my prejudiced learned turned out to be that the effective way blondes have now figured out how to catch the day is through drawing vampires on mousetraps and opening the window at noon and it's worked for me better than a mahogany cane build your own satori bomber burrito un-methodizing class could for three years of the same my fault my channel's off. Isn't he just a paused video monitor to you? People tell me that rem sleep is over-rated. Lies of steel convenient emotions sitting out is likely to get stale on the sacrifice channel. Those after the after hours walks home (home?) and can't be remade topical right just this instant soup of mainline event culture hybrid in a recyclable styrofoam cup prepared with a carbonated cola soft drink and processed soy beverage chaser analog for water thicker than ketchup. Fan-whir cake dish fork-clink comprised of layers of several acid-resistant canary cage swing, fucshia and cyan bricks behind people of copier paper with ash frosting. Whoever's turn it is to notice. Dramatic silence. One observation that any mastery implies it opposite and any mystery implies the obvious (and that trapped feeling you were talking about) your idea of symmetry is off a bit and no decent silence requires an. This is one of the visits to the cafe where you get something out of it. True, everything does tend to become ten times more offensive after having a shitload of meat, still I've taken time to harmonize the soundless parts of look the world opens. Look the city opens. It's going to take a pride to the gut and well mostly conditioning but I swear I'm never coming back. See? This is a goodbye. Note. Swear. Looking to the.
stars) on a fancy radio tuned to Indian red inflammable swamp smell in the elbo room's bagcheck tipjar. I was a teenage cellphone signal on the suburban basin of a faceless seafloor blizzard buzzing and tears as lubricant, too. The temple of the free spirit is a cage that goes in all directions at once fake yawn. Seduction tenspeed smoke signal psychosis fan poster. I just want redemption. Now you can download cocaine right into our neighborhood sidewalk fissures to get fired and street-wash glisten because it's pretty chill about the mildew. Heh. I ain't too proud to segue whereas I could totally forget everything I was wait inside yours who's eyes yours smiling heh within an inward thought-instant boom boom landspeed world's tiniest mural of blacking out completely...(my non-objective political statement handcuffed to a digital parking meter shadow wearing a fuzzy fishloaf basket hat to the center, chief)...a ribcage of echoes.
"There's nothing to worry about. It's going to be okay."


Drip.
Etcetera.








"So cute."
I feel shaken in place. Like the only responsible thing to do would be to step down from history and call myself erased. It's better this way. Celebrate being the thing which is standing in back of you and catches all the sun and breezes that pass through your faint outline.

Glassed-in.

I feel shaken in place, dead metaphor. Irresponsible thing to do (author speaking wood step up taste made me believe an erased's better this way. Celebrate being the thing which is standing in back of you and catches all the sun and breezes (beautiful beautiful) that pass through your painted mouthline.

Glassed-in.

Insanity shaken space. Like the only responsible thing to do would be to step down from history and nameth thyself erased (nuked, etc.). It's sadder this way. Hella-late being the talking witches answers a pack of you and catches all the sun and breezes that pass through whore faint outline.

Asked him.

Desolate landscape. It's the sort of debility where a locked-up bicycle in the corner of my undernourished eye winds up meaning way more than it fucking needs to. So rigid. First I am going to talk about the city. Next, I am going to describe masculinity. Lastly every previously illegible mastery document will completely iris out burn off

burn off

burn off come down. Reference lost. How much later to docked passage preamble to pick up a dollar-less robot-self will solidify the connection through example after preclusion after curtain after checker flag dancers. Commencing with a firm give it a rest I can wipe whole calendar squares clear from my defensive side. Look! He's waving a native gets you know where calendar flag box checks unchecked dance of mutilated intrigue seeping dizzy just hold out even though I hear not being part of history is really big in Los Angeles over a telephone connected to a blizzard under fossilized wiggling seafloor cellphone signals. Remembered you mentioning once that little thing about the café in the middle of pride stature and all these things fatal fluorescent. Who's sincerity found the more mundane? That was one of the most beautiful things anyone's ever said to me. Wish there'd be speakers so I could. I can't wait until I've reached that plateau. Where I can look down and spell my name in parking lots and cross my t's with intersections and dot my i's with traffic snarls. The pitiful rigid inflexible cadaver limbs called the tacked-on 365 tiny pieces of wonder on layaway suffocated. It's not going to be time to be social. Something to take me beyond this debilitated state. So awake today caress the image of cartesian perfection and talking in a café with the adaptor removed from the back making drowned spanged power trip casino winnings from something an eye does in science class. I need to overcome several incredible obstacles. I think that what it was is that at one point, the body decides to just stop pulling together those awkward and unsuccessful set of responses and black outs that lead to nothing other than merely more moments lost and feeling upset with things as they lay. Constructed city lie. Either this person's a giant or we're flying spreading around this lint. Stuck on the intensely beautiful thing you said about the way something tastes in when your sleep captures deeds in the center of something that can't digest or deal on a globe finger spin to karma. I don't know if you remember. I don't need to be masculine anymore. They've locked us inside.

Seepin' desolation with it Alan Thicke.

Problematic lost and sinking sobering out.

Culture in a monetary explosion. Tires set to flame to shame no forecast. Five days away from a firm fluid. Shelter is a money-right lost on them. Sinking with the slope oh yeah. Pausing heart no rib cage whoops. Superhero cloaks in books of jokes. Too many icons not enough tiempo. I think the drummer's really a shadow. Make me a far than better person. Make me a righter compass drawing. Broken civic design schools of fish. Talking about electricity baby. This is the way we or we dissolve out. I mean because my breath is just useless. Nothing real that sweats on me. I'm castling made out of stale bread and ice. Contraband cellphone signals.





Bluespilled metldown sternum space explosion ribcages.









All the mistakes I've made. Catching up to a dying language. A house in the center of the shadow of completely opaque unpredictability. My weakness and living threat living in my dirty old clothed contempt. This music I make from your beauty in my memory etched in to where this stands and watches something constructed let's say that will forever or I'm totally sure with nothing to worry a long long time will be folded and put in a pocket and made into who cares how many forgotten cotton-looking colors I steal just as long as a religious remnant emerges and is finalized just like on the bus this morning when somebody please forget everything that was manipulated singing a transfer stood from where it can't be clearly made out against money's shifting gravity vectors toward a sin classification on time built. Constructing your face from memory. It takes a while. It's more than I can do. Doing this is weakening. So much city now open. It's been a while. Let's make something of it. Something like. Tastes of sin. Two people sharing a joke. Can I get you some more. It's over where exactly. This Los Angeles thing. A café of this size. Clothes don't match. Where did you find this character into colors on top of too many colors again in an improper for this given to seizures arrangement in the simplest of piece together the morning it's all about do you think dying is inevitable and the movie type of answer to borrowing from pain's social bearings cutting up recyclable cups language door locked. This map let's all try to forget the way out. Losing yourself in the wind of hundred winding digital unreal walls. Making everything into a simpler experience by just using shapes and colors. I'm not teaching class again and you look completely don't unhealthy don't you think need to try sensibly again want it's an age thing probably to make sense out of the sun sincerely I've meant it all those obnoxious and costly mistakes. I'm my killing currency expenditure penis father again in you song seeping my pleading imagination and things I needed to taletell whalestale flipper sing to make rows without a tiered bullhorn ax to you in this perfect little bleached-out mudhut honeypot for the grace of something that isn't really special the moment and this is what it takes to put a tattoo tear on an artificial face. Speaking of faces, the difficulties I face in finding clothing and attitudes to go with this music I can't quite figure out yet. Used to write scripts. This dying feeling. Remember scripts and all the killed off books it brought me to? I



could



spend

you
name
it pretty face
in the inside. If I could just eat something afterward like a normal it only takes object to degrade lose befoul five minutes you think. Is there any aspect to me which isn't broken complain complain blah blah. The temple of. What you see when you see me. Why do I put people through this? I would give anything to have a big eraser. Uh-oh. This glass sculpted question mark looming over my dome. Lost in this game where everything I've been glassworking on is not going to work through really so you only win by giving up as opposed to back as they go. People always go on and on about what life has to offer. Are we even going to give death a fair chance? How to keep false coverage on itself from sleeping completely into a self-indulgent text. This sprinkling sharing of the sharklike and sucked sound off qualities of history harrowing sucked I internalized. Figuring out where to go in one piece. When he asks I can actually acknowledge that he is this beautiful person and that these colors in my face are all on loan from that brief period in my life where I didn't have to do a lot of extra work. This place is full of lights. It's dizzying. I've noticed blue spill. Who did the effects work? Was it out-sourced to nominal stamps of greatness shadowmaker? If there is so much being put into the budget for the effects work, then why don't I have enough to eat? Fidgetting rolled over mattress sun trap. Can we just lake live this now in all its real-time colors and space and just add in the sad volume-less sprinkles in post prove positive production? Why can't I just harass my dad to drive me out of this desert? Have we been listening to repetitive variations of the same lie because I can't tell from listening to this seamless and so technically accomplished mix. Tomorrow we're going to start taking big strides towards that wonderful dot on the corner of what can be just tenuously out-loud defined from where. All those points I'd hoped to really meet a pointed bonfire frisky bends. Don't people know that on the real to the real the sermonizing get kept through this cancer causing pocket-sized guillotine on me just so I can fall apart like the rest of you humans over movies? Powerless before the grace of a fully lucid and great bonfire. Can you say kryptonite? Kills off natives and we love the celluloid for it's contract on furniture fitting lost. Pray tell something imagined? Was it a completely impossible language splitter into bitter what memory fails in haunted disgruntled numbers? Was I even for a moment and when it mattered most to me completely illegible pixels for breadcrumbs over death's droning tunnelvision signal outlines or details in horrible orderly you know what to call it morning dripping lint lips who's logic it runs off of tied to sidewalk bristles tree-kernel divination. Did the words not lift off my body and back into life with any flames or such? What is the face of something completely wretched? Escaping myself half unplugged and worthless. No cartoon out of this amorphous gathering together of what fire does at the end of its parade. I've been waiting to go down for so long. And now that I've fallen back into the sight of my diary of airy errors there's still so much more that is missing to my body that not even the belief in clothing over ideas the right way will spare. Please forgive me for flying so close. I needed a dictionary nearly twice that size and filled with far more possibilities than I was actively in contact with. Let me know when everything I believe in ceases to matter. Can I get lost in the budgeting prospects of an amusement park of deadness that never even saw the scissors hit the ribbon in the blue? My suspected glances. I need something more substantial than this knife pinning my hand to my head to the wall in the middle conflict resolution director's full cut nameless yet renamed that fills nights with mischief and language deficits. There I was a drawing in desperate need of a pencil trying to build myself into some place where history is for the most part exempt and powerless at the same time and the product of that adventure was a complete loss of how exactly my insides are supposed to politely respond to math and its Sunday afternoon discontents.


Starwars warp effect of the rain coming at the windshield when you pass under a streetlight. Shortness of breath.
"You know, that's pretty bad. Leib's gonna cut your privileges."
"I don't fucking care. He can't keep me from writing music."
"That's some pretty decent cognitive action there, buddy," Jack insulted self-consciously. "That's not even the level that you're supposed to be at."
"This person behind me is making me sick. I got held back," Jenny gave Jack a drag and then took one. Uncommon, unaccountable hiss in the library. In the Army, they make you into bad ideas for men that don't work with metal as much as they should too perfect. Jenny made the ashtray maneuver over the chairheads like the Millenium Falcon. Violence in motion. A smooth tracking shot. Jenny killed the butt in the tray and then cleared her dirty throat.
Jack said, "How's your headache, baby."
Jenny answered, "Oh it's just fine, honey." Jenny straightened the bench under her generous hips and straightened the marmy spectacles on her nose so that she looked altogether bookish, bodyhating. Jenny cleared her throat