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If you look around the table and can't tell who the sucker is ...

If I spent the entire day alone does that count? I didn't come here for a reunion with people I've never met Dante says that the terrible Virgin passed there by chance ... does he mean Mary? Jesus, what was that guy thinking? It's probably too late for questions now that the wop is dead though to be an honest man in this world is to be one in ten-thousand numbers floating up through floors and ceilings, whistling past doorways and settle into comfortable couches in living rooms, numbers prove everything eventually mystical physicians adding and subtracting time from each other until it's too fucking late and then what? IS THIS THE BLUES I'M SINGING? Gotta fix that damn key someday I'll fix everything, I'll fix em all and they won't whisper names when I walk by they laugh and bite into thick steak sandwiches while I slave over a hot fire and prepare the sacrifices for proper ritual burnt offerings to appease Them, to quiet Them, to push Them away for another week.

Ugghha! time to go out West again getting too quiet around here nothing but the buzzing and groaning of insects and tired souls dragging their way about their dailies ... not quite stagnation, just an uncommon lack of momentum. Time to stir it up a bit with absolutely not a penny to spare me the small talk partner - no time now.

I become father. Late at night up all night can't sleep too much pain I become father get up and hurt all the time "gonna go destroy my body" never really understood repetition and continually said so. Cold creamed corn in the can.


Just today a woman falls backward out of her chair and onto the hardwood floors, her friends laughing and helping her up--overheard at the next table: "must have something to do with church!" yeah, church. What can you do?


And I'm just waiting for the day when I can go and kill kids and it'll be their fault for not being careful enough, art versus life with jhasen and I opening a new building up giant neon flashing sign out front: "TOTAL DEPRAVITY" when you walk in you get a spoon and a band-aid and the rest is up to you ... one hundred dollars a month and that includes midgets and cats...all the dead cats you can carry missus. Purtineer. Reptiles and nude ballet 24 hours a day, walls of toys magazines marijuana incense, private rooms beds torture devices covered with honey. A goddam sexual nightmare.

(speaking of dead burning cats ...) The four make their bond and burn their bridges and there's no going back no more but I shot some grass today big Mexican handing out short counts by the stadium he laughed full and sent me on my way ... the best I could do nonetheless working the homecoming with a beautiful spanish princess at my side - the shower sometimes scares me - the phone rings too often. Ritual murder has not yet become commonplace when David wrote diaries he wasn't just kidding around.

Sell a sports illustrated for kids and win a bug.

First vision: slow ascent upstairs--muffled sound of sobbing (laughing) tedious creep to the door, slowly look into chris' dead eyes head hung back throat ripped out blood seeps out of his nose over the forehead (don't look over in the corner) moonlight slides through slatted blinds (it's worst than you think) to a soft pool across the room (not dead but dreaming) vision of a hunched skeletal woman in advanced stages of spinal meningitis wearing light blue asylum smock her shoulders falling up and down in a moaning sob - one hand on the wall leaving a trail of red (flesh under the fingernails) other hand braces her forehead in a vision of pain.

sticking fingers on paintings to see the way that they feel

Intersection Part One: The Corduroy Journals

All the words had been stolen by tv commercials and poorly disciplined mimes ... I was left alone with two and a half hours of pure bad art. I was terrified and four years later I killed myself. It didn't work, however, so I settled down and got a job.

Collecting weekly checks slowed the fever down considerably; in a final attempt to recoup, the disease promptly broke both my legs at the knees. Not to be outdone by a simple virus, I walked to work from then on which seemed to settle the matter:

I was a tough motherfucker.


(book report of a sixth grade immigrant):

"The seres is cold peewee scouts the book is cold peewees on ferst it is aboute the peewees erning a badge the badge is on basebatl. they lern how to hit, through and pitch it is a good bookts only $2.95"

Nathan is allergic to power, sends him into tremendous sneezing fits which he cannot control. The fact that I'm hallucinating cannot be ruled out entirely.

Intersection Part Two:

14 years ago I met the Dwarf of Stapleton Market and for ten dreadful minutes we got on famously. I was known from then on as "The Great White Man To The West" and immediately began signing my checks with all capital letters. My letters were the talk of the land for some time and I was published in my thirty-second year.

And so it came to pass that I offered up a challenge to the gods themselves; I will not detail the events that follows, suffice to say that Jesus went home crying and the Devil never even showed up.

(there must be a point at which all that is right and wrong becomes extremely obvious and because it is all so clear it makes no difference which is done)

It's been over two months and the bathroom counter is still being held up by empty milk crates. What can they be doing in there? It would seem the potential for bathroom remodeling would be a limited, if noble, pursuit.

Second vision: marionette puppet torsos dangling over a spare stage, human body parts shuffled and mismatched to form actors. legs grotesquely sewn onto pelvi, arms rammed into shoulder sockets, heads hung from thickly veined necks, different skins and clotted bloody scabs where the pieces come together. wires connected to joints and backs by large rusty staples run up to two large hands (one blood red, the other blue paisley) a campy soundtrack playing in the back ground of the moans and occasional cries of pain.

A puppet show version of the Andy Griffith show, happy ending and all put on by rotting corpses and audiences of young children screaming and shitting themselves in terror as one of them is picked up, torn apart and used as an extra (Opie needed a cousin) in the show. The doors to the theatre are merely painted on and a painful reality asserts itself as a section of the ceiling slides open and the kids look up to see their parents looking on with hors d'eovres and coffee.

(there's a theory going around that the first catholics shot heroin to see God. I think they shot heroin to forget about Him for awhile. Wine just wasn't enough.)

I have bad dreams everytime I kill someone. They seem to come in groups of three and the themes are always the same. They involve insects, drugs and disease. Sometimes I write them down but they never make sense. I'm scared someday they will.

Intersection Part Three:

The first time I killed myself things went poorly, it was far more difficult than I'd thought and my preparations left a lot to be desired. It was during the war and large quantities of metal were hard to come by. I substituted with rock but the sheer bulk quickly became a problem. I pressed on nonetheless, resolute and not about to be stopped by a mere lack of materials. I finally brought the whole thing off but was disappointed with the results. I vowed the next time would be different.

I did some research and began to plan.

(The search for the busiest man in the world revealed him to be an elderly gentleman in Lower Sussex, England. Declining an interview he stated simply "Couldn't possibly.")

Oh the humanity ... she's still naked


Hello Johnny, we fuck you inside, Martin Gore clearly wasn't cut out for this sort of work. Such a waste of a name.

You need pills? Grass? I show you. Come on ...

(the dj's took speed and meth to stay up all night long)

And if I had to do it all over again? Well, I'd be pissed.

I went to the city to live big, to suck all of the life out of life and then? (Travis says) I gotta get organized:


  1. Kill myself.
    (and if I had it all to do over again? I would immediately build a time machine, it would look like a giant ice cream cone and it would be powered by amphetamines and unjustified anger - but once again, gotta get organized:
  1. Inject Cleopatra with AIDS.
  2. Rape the Virgin Mary.
  3. Convince Shakespeare to go into medicine.
  4. Thank Hitler profusely.
  5. Cut off Michaelangelo's hands.
  6. Walk up to Judas in the garden and kiss him on the cheek (just for kicks).
  7. Garrote Da Vinci at birth (bastard was dangerous even then).
  8. Convert Dante to Buddhism.
  9. Sodomize Laura Ingalls at age ten and see if it turns up in the books.
  10. Find Brutus a new best friend.

How could they do this to me? Put me here like this. Nothing to keep me entertained but a tambourine and my own mind. I can't stand my own mind. Some people can't, you know. A man in the South Bronx had his removed after a furious argument with a waiter, or so the story goes, poor bastard was never the same ... lost his job, I hear.

The deterioration of a flowery disease (this is my closing argument) two large orange buses wait outside on the street, parked back to back, a small gray Mazda waits on the other corner, engine running, headlights on. My yard is full of maple leaves and every few minutes there's a banging on the roof outside. Outside. Unreal.

The house down the street (the largish white one) is whiter than the lack of color itself. It is only a reflection of whiteness and a facade (that's fakadee) fake. It's fake. The meetings held there are important and pertain to the futures of the residents here. That's us, if you follow. Their sidewalks have too many cracks in them, their drains are too large. There are patches of grass that are totally dead by the drains. Across the street live the Hesse's. They're an older couple, of course they would have to be by now, and they sit outside my basement windows in the evenings. They press their fingers and faces up against the musty windows in a fierce grimace of curiosity. They learn by doing this.

The cardboard this is written on will fade in a couple of weeks into thin, translucent paper and then into nothing at all. I'm getting older myself and can't read so well anymore, it's for the best. You see me here now and wonder "Will I ever be here again?" and "Will I ever see me again?"

The closing argument of a lifetime. A question of perspective, really.

One cannot ignore the ideals that have been forced upon him, one can only react to them.

(don't wake up)

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