[ All this, Fiction, for your entertainment, ] if you haven’t noticed [by now], i’m bored with this …^† until then i disregard your pain, for mine, selfish ass i beesnesthead, concern myself more ’bout ma own these days, sukka! but don’t feel bad. i have someone to blame … blamin’ be sa easy, yo– and till the last bit-o-breath floweth ‘tween ma nose-holes dere, dirt-nappin-like, dat bitch …!

Pardon moi, did i offend you? Didn’t mean to. I’m just teeter’in, dat’s all. teeterin’ lika chair ’bouta fall right over, ya know? Problay needsa be locked up, i’d say. for chrissake, dey know it– but somehow– i’s breathe me some free air ‘nutha day. in yo face, Man! uh-huh, take dat, Johnny Law, and your half-ass’d pshychiatrist-sidekick dey sends witcha, goddam Community College … kinda-guy, seemed like. what do i know. i know one thing. i know how i scum

^† ’cause Lord knows I’s crazy as a shithouse rat– what, wit all dem wildass drugs i dun smoked, popped, snorted, inserted, disolved, and evacuated out magoddamn colon all dem yeerz ago. holy crap! but at leas i’s knows betta dees days. deez days, my docta write its on him paddy pad thingy, all this whack scribbly writin’, and goddam if they dont give me all dis shit when i rap at one of dem dumbass pharma-chicks be workin’ all deez pill joints, dig? i mean– awwfuckit– aint even woth much more mention, but you know. you know who i mean, dontcha? yeah, you know how dey scum. what’s worser even, dey think dey even know some’n. dumbass pharma-chicks, i tell you what. but, once i get da simplist info-ma-shun tru dat head-there, dey usualee come ’round, and i’s gets ma shit aint too much truble i spose. huh?

I am surprised by my own excitement to muster a proper salutation, as I wonder how I might most readily turn your imagination toward my immediate, yet developing fascination with what I perceive of [it]. I recognize in the cyclical, independent / interdependent nature of [its “components”], or [that is], the individual [parts] ; your model. I might best describe it as– at once, a fantastic, vivid understanding between such multidisciplinary men, (which I mean boldly as I write to yeild in You what visceral sensation I might by the power in these meager words) — maintaining yet a single-mindedness, not conversely or to be forcibly persuasive, that such cohesive vision renders a magnanimous ingenuity. I am reminded of the cardinal schemes my peers and I did construct, I believe were likewise flowing. Ostracized for “Gifted” stigmata, then far more fortunate for the fellowship we made, we dreamed of efforts to end Cold War. Somehow– as I am reminded by this glimpse into the brainstorm of ____, this moment i lapse in retrospection, I fondly recall the uncommon beauty, and unstoppable force– from the several individuals, the magical synergy between them, at marked points in a continuing progression, manifests in a cohesive, flowing, collective creativity, the rare likes of which, whether serendipitously or deliberately, have changed the world nevertheless.

Can I put my feet out while it’s moving? (As if the pilot in the film Contact, with J. Foster)
You know how it is: sh*t moving all over, out of focus, holding the right-eye in desparation to be on-target, without making the eyes pop-out, or everything– at least– is blurred, and not as I wish.

I guess it’s just auto-pilot so much of the time, and I knew I was f*cking-up just now, but– rather than delay the entire text, I figured it would really cave-in, and this bastard would wake. It’s too f*ckin’ bright out. { … I remember Martha: not as sweet, but breaks out. Don’t know– some kind of trouble, I guess. F*ckin’ sleep, all f*ckin’ day too. f*ck }

Last month, it was monthly. This month, it’s going to be two-weeks (now, walkin-shoes worn thin, as some memory of Lofstead)

I hope you didn’t blow out that entire chandelier of lifts just now.

What’s hot: stop it!

Of Running Sheep

These aren’t electric

Uneven, steady,
crooked and kind, this.
Freud stoop’d in, blurry-eyed
in time, an infant
sever, ending Never
in beginning
we be damned
echo voices
come behind
the dampening and flutter
quarrels, logo
fell on icey
hell rise on
intangible
what i write
about it thirsty
great big chocolate
nail the vein
inner fluffer
ever present,
rings out reason:
thinnest line.

(Some of these are set to music, as was the aforementioned.)

smear
I feel bad about the fact that I can get some scibble-paper.
A little bit would be okay, and all i need a few lines–
but the fear of losing them / having the :bugged” in some way–
and then, on again to the next thing,
never having finished; not even to think of anything grand coming of Harold.
But that’s not it.
or Is it?

C’omon Sarah, I’ve got other things I need ‘be doing.
Don’t have all this time to jse in, how you say?:____Fe doa.

Goddamn distinguishing

between “default”, and that which is “supposed to be”.
Either, in theory is excpted to work, but of the tree
and then I preview it in my mind–
this whole “Landscape” orientation of images–
like a storyboard– and different characters interact, etc .

I’m going to charge you a “3″, if NoviceNotes doesn’t get it together soon–
you’re getting a “C”.
no, i understand– it’s all reative to the project

[damn having-to-back-track–
again–
lost track…
where was I ?
FUCK!]

It feels good though–
i mean– the only good thing about it,
is that it feels good– like sleeping.
It’s refreshing. and when it’s finally over,
and i’ve gained, and lost so many thoughts on stuff,
non-stuff- virtual nothingness, i —
though longing-for, and therefore, oft’imes
(panzy’s not coming!) “eh… don’t wory abotu him.
we’ll get to him later. “.

Damnit damn opening the eyes. it’s so much easier with them closesed.
opening the eyes is sure to bring on confusion,
and the throbbin, dull, but ominous pain of forcing itself in,
gaining control, as I proportionally, lose my own.
and that is so very disheartening- so frustrating– so maddening.
should I continue?
what point?
is there pleasure in it? is there purpose; a practical function? that sucks.

once in a while,
a really great idea comes to mind– but it’s always lost.
and what you, Head ?
through past script queries– accessibility…
oh– shit, and then, there’s the damn “Upstairs”
(eyes open now) noise [i.e. Upstairs-Noise]
for all automatic complete-letion of that-houghts / variables —
sometimes good– more often bad– and would me l–
temploate– very important– the proper template,
so much can be affect… ban the un-trustworthy, and make it into a baloon,
now it up, and mail it to the Sun.

no .
all too much time-consuming–
too much for time
(i would NEVER believe her. never. “never trust a junkie”, and she’s just the same…)
i’ll have to try it somewhere-else. the Valkyries
(Lord of the Val… shit… another interjection. damnit. trying to match words in my head.)
random (i think), and unrelated to this….

look– she’s dying. she needs some sleep!. she’s not right.
version 8. not right. needing sleep. — oh yeah, taking One dssssss–
interesting: I spoke to my wallet and, ba… too far gone.
save file, or lose it.
bye bye.

turn off that smokestack and
that goddamn radio: hum… along with me…

Oh, I don’t care what the letter reads, I don’t believe in Adderall. I don’t use it; I don’t prescribe it; Adderall has a very high potential for addiction. I’ll give you Concerta. Concerta is the same thing— [nevermind the self-contradicting statement, so much double-talkin’ jive, spilt all over you just now—and please, can’t you see I’ve got patients waiting? Now that I’ve opened the door, won’t you please just go away—leaving payment on your way out, of course!]

I think I know what’s going on. Come back in three months. [hmm… I need a good, stock phrase for salutation. I’ve got it!:]

We’ll get to the bottom of this.