Jan 25, 2011
1) Making like a tree and leaving this joint. The church house is open, but ain't no sleep in the godzarks. Damn silly to think it. Dimly lit, sure, and really quiet. You gotta admit, it's fucking quiet in a church when a man ain't screaming and testifying. But they reasonate there without no reason. The screams of repentance cling to the walls. The praise echoes without noise, without the clatter and shuffling of children's shoes. With nothing, there is still everything. The word and all that. Bring me the finest men you know and none of them will sleep in a church house. Bottom dollar, they won't.
2) I'm milking aliens. It's gonna sell me a million dollars if I can just get up some storage space and a little capital. And a name. Gotta find a name. A good name that will catch people's attention. These aliens, I swear they look like green goats.
3) I don't know you, Louis. But you've taunted me for four years. Maybe more. I ain't scared of you. I am as happy as I ever was. Lined up a bunch of appointments and interviews to celebrate my thickness. My width. My girth. The weight of my consistency is a marvel of mankind and womankind forever and ever. So get some shit straight: you ain't shit, your daddy ain't shit, your signposts and stoplights, your trailblazing ways-- it all ain't shit. Not anymore. Not none any no more. I'll take pills and work 'til the day I die and you won't best me at nothing.
4) There is an imaginary man outside my window and he is a widower and he is a her and her is a him and we are all granted a continuance to take a nice shower and have some fibrous cereal and lose some weight AMERICA YOU ARE TOO HEAVY FOR YOUR OWN SOIL and we can all agree that if we retired to our porches only some of us-- imaginary or no-- would even have porches and isn't that sad as hell, oh isn't it?
5) Partial to onions, are you? That works for me. I like 'em too. Ours will be a successful marriage based entirely on agreements. As for disagreements? Won't have 'em. Anything we disagree on, we won't discuss. You like wallets? Me neither. Shit, this is going along grandly, you certainly should meet my family and any dress you choose will be fine by me. Guaranteed.
6) Prematurely ejaculated right on her nightstand. Never happened before. Hit a Jane Austen novel. Knew I liked her when she said "No damage done." Knew it then and there that if I lost her, well, I'd lose everything.
7) Storms all across the state, big ones and tornadoes, but all I can think about is the pain in my gut. Too much cauliflower and broccoli in this danged diet. Gut's all bust up, and I am fairly certain it's irreparable. I'm not going to the Doc though. I won't tell you why, but it has to do with me and him having a bit of a falling out in the summer of '09. Hot as hell, we were ornery, and he doesn't like the way I speak to women. It was just one woman, I told him, but he doesn't hear anything above the sound of his breath tickling off his moron tongue. Gut busted, I'll die in the privacy of my own home, thanks. No thanks, actually. No thanks to you, Doc.
8) Above the hills, where no one can see, there's a school of flying fish driving convertibles, top-down and I can't stand it because it is so fucking cold. HOW DO YOU LIVE THIS, HILLFISH?
9) It's a colorful pattern, but I can't see myself being under it... asleep. I mean, it's so nice and it feels warm, but the brightness. So GD bright. Light will find this blanket no matter the amount. It'll be as radiant at midnight as noon. How could anyone sleep with all that color? My sis sleeps with the teevee on, how? Gotta have the darkness to shut out the light, I say. And this blanket? Ain't no darkness in there. Not one bit. I thank you, but you better just store that for your guests. Merry Christmas, though. I got you a new thresher. I imagine it will be more useful that your rusty one.
10) Sorted out today: problems, .socks, shirts, blankets, billfold money. Unsorted: life issues, funeral plans, banking futures. Dealt with: laundry, death threats, manic depression, appointments rescheduled. Our hands are detriments to our productivity. Not fast enough. Our emotions are detriments to our progress. Much too stilting. Our houses are detrimental to our lists. Not uncomfortable enough. Our bodies are detrimental to our youth. Too many processes. They say some computers gonna trivialize trivia. Fine by me. I've got neither the time nor patience to learn anything else, ever. I'd much rather sit on beaches than regurgitate cultural standards. Passively reconstruct the rest of our lives, rewrite the civilizations, get me some sweet sweet slit. Everything works out so long as we satiate our primitiveness. Shoes. You know? Precisely. Let nonsense pound waves over your body; thick like buttermilk. Then the seconds that float by you are motion rather than emotion. I love you, but you're late for everything the same way every time. And it's detrimental to me making anything worthwhile. Not that I am/we are. Not that. Exactly not that.