1995

"I don't know how to get to the dead-end street. I close my eyes, trying to see a way - how do writers dare to do what they do? - and there's just chaos. It seems to me that evening brings trouble with it, moral trouble, unexamined trouble. Even to the best."

Martin Amis - London Fields - p.117

Is the wave of the future born into being, with its ever-gash in footfalls' turning rotisserie-time? Its strange to consider it. It has omethod of m an dtmethoud. (Even it can hedon itself to an English-style speal.) In the monumental moment of x-times o-ray-me what are you... dong! clock strikes now, and fresh and lovely set the clock in the here and Know mode - (it's) a.k.a. - some kinsfold of what you've been touched with, minus what you've needed hammered into place (that's the:Where is the baby?! We've left her!! horror we've totally forgotten outside our pride and joy kind of mind-frame). "Original" is flapping breesecheese in a sluiceway of crammed property attached to power SOS suit-wares in the last minkup of a Sale's-on! forty yard crawl to safety. You look around guiltly, as if you did it, and people are embarrassed for your nose smelling their hand here and there waving, trying to dissipate the lasting aroma of rank-filthy air. SOS means save our ship, which is inperpetuity of the sated going down. Original has no lifeboasts. "Original" is the bad water in a mosquito's belly. It must be jettisoned at all loss and coast-to-coast costs. IN IT-Of offal and carrion: lips loose indigenous curses at those more fortunate than lips sips' slathering at wells of coins others threshed from their earned-pockets' wishes. Of hard feelings and disgruntlements: OrIgingal: gums recession from growing teeth's needs to pulverize the world into food?-so how can the sleepy-eyed angers of those quenching thirsts, attack those who dug the reservoirs with all-but helpful intentions? It's all quite insame.

Tat's the BIOS-line of : 'Original'.

It's all quite insame. In-same is the last note of Hedon's cosmic principle. In-same is houses all constructed originally different from those who think they aren't. Original notions decry situations at the Eglateri headquarters (the secret name of Illuminatti's first hideaway666). It was so full of cigarette smoking hipsters, the place collapsed of its own free will to do so (how this applies to your need to differentiate yore self, depends on your Pirsig notions of quality). Quality building is the lambast originality paints. Paint is the shell of the DOS covering the most-earliest versions of BIOS viruses we're abjurred of penetration to. In other waords, Originality is the presidio of the im-sane.

But . . .

As soon as it happened, it already happened.

As soon as it intersected reality, you didn't even thing-it to being yew.

At either chop of axe, or plant of seeds,

you ewed a potion of life's great enticement.

Out of the birth of tall tree's fall into woolds, you asked its question.

Poured from a question, is the original grant of land

it fell other than flew from,

and could it really

be that way?

Redundancy.

Poured from a question, is it's grant of land.

That land is time-and-space's well-worn equation.

That time is land and tithes' work against you.

Redundancy.

Is something you can't forecast. Redundancy simply happens.

Redundancy is the bad case-scenario. It grows locusts and backup musicians just in case. Redundancy quits just in the knick of time.

The world is tilled with, and henceforth filled with redundancy people.

Each one is forecast to fill a certain number of possible slots.

These people cum long before their slots ever develop.

Redundancy requires math to hold up its tent snakes.

Ka and the devil slither paw for paw for this honor.

Originality is redundancy in surprise.

You're sure?

True redundancy never taps on the glass to get your attention.

It couldn't want a turn. It's mechanical. True originality could be frozen in the sahib-thought of fanciful machines. Original workings of clocks still turn gears long after any original originality departed.

How's that?

How can an original invention be out of daete?

Old english is incredibile to a mink-coated mind that's

never heard it before.

Originality is not rewarded;

it is defeated.

Originality is nervous energy that must be asked politely to leave.

We're talking about the energy that has no name. We call it original, just to confuse the tissue.

When it's new, it's foreign. Your mind has found no toos, and buts of hard enough temper to prove it. It is the thing that must be disproven. It is scary and damaging to the words: it can't be found that it, won't go into. Origami paper folds many things from its flat, two dimensional sheets. You'd almost think it couldn't be all that stuff.

Neither can thought (think that).

It is defeated, because it doesn't edit itself.

It is incomprehensibly irreprehensible in its desire to stand

just the same way you originally thought of it

before the words got so incosmically involved

When every new thought isn't, and in index cards new ones germinate from old ones

one wonders where they are coming from. One does more than worry about its clause in the far-fetched furball future, one is forced to live it directly. One is illegitimate as an answer-

one is not all ocular individuals seeing succinctly together.

One is the irreducible, in every person's scientific mind-

it is the last thing I/i/she-he-it islands as truth.

Old english is incredibile to mink coated minds that have never heard it before. Is that a redudnancy? English is the answer to the question it can old itself over and over again.

The furballs, are the truth-truckles stuck in the rottweiler's throat.

You can only answer in barks, if you're a dog. You can answer questions questioned in English, if you're english-for answer is reflection of the ladle holding water of the lake serene's revelation of you're reflection of it in the ladle-reflection downwards-back-up-the-skies-ad-hay

heaped in field there's the you of reflection in the very act of reflection!

You're sure true redundancy never taps on the glass?

Seem's like it's part-n-parcel tapping right now!

q? a.

question answer.

question answer.

question answer. etc. etc.

When the sun goes solemnly wan, people lurk by corners of buildings, guessing what will come of the evening. Shiny, gun-metal inverted pyramids empty, pitting white collar men against the elements that women loathe smashing. Miss Clinically Dressed is telling patients to please turn over! when she isn't neurotic and flinging Tupperware around her apartment, for the love of men, and hate on herself. She is the Mormon in the land of sinners. People pray hard for her, because when she claims to pray for them, they get better. She needs all the prayer she can get.

When she joins the candlelight vigil for breast cancer victims, she's afraid they'll wonder it.

She lost them too? She is too alone to let the woe

stick to her.

Ever since nursing school, has she difiled her self properly in effible designs of men's

fleshy-appendaged needs? For certain, she must ask again and again. Your bedfare for the load of shit wearing your ass, is sadly laked to tears at the corner of your anemic eyes. She wiped you in perseverence that someone will wiper-her too, and they better do it with the Dharma of seven safe-zone demons trying to be angels (against all odds). Did she hate everyone whose reminder jotted invisibly on her forehead: You are fat?

Did she?

She most certainly did, but there was not one little fiber of being liked to admit it so.

Cars volleyed her red target dress, taking turns to see who

would get the highest points. She foresaw their schemes, and hated it the more, knowing

they wanted her to live longer and suffer, anouncing their intentions, just missing her

as she strode the crowded streets to work.

"You are depressed" her doctor told her. The empty nest syndrome does not exist.

You were always depressed. Weren't you? (Leading question.)

It's all-right nostrum, they'll all be drepressed when they see they have no life.

Who are you addressing?

All is us.

*

When your kids live with you, there's no time to somersault for the fun of it.

You must address the children's needs. You'll have been taught that, as a sad legacy

of how your parents justified throwing away their lives. Under the carpet it says:

"Where am I?!"

and you won't know how to answer.

It's the roundabout.

They're anything but satisfied. "Your anger is the result of your mother's mother's anger."

That was okay in post-Freudian times. Mom taught you to be like mom who was like

mom's Mom.

You turned the radio up lounging-(trying to forget their woe)-your woes, oh! who else can be blamed for not changing the program-turning if off...if it says obey and you did?

She was mnemonic of neurotic, because her Genetic Times said this was failingly good. "It is decent to civet yourself in your problems, amortizing lack of plausible need to fiscally lever the debits up, and duly pay them off cent by painstakingly saved cent." It was the way of the debt-ridden world. She had little-to-no intention to pay the delivery costs a whole new parents'

parent's parental paradigm the it would ensconce,

once the old one was broken.

She was instructed to relax.

Sure! 'Relax!' like jump to the moon backwards. Like think about something else when you can't stop thinking about the thing you need to think about something else to

forget.

It was hopeless for being so muscled into the misunderstood. She was wound up like a dervish top, sharing the tension of no goopy-emotions the wrong way around with every innocent bystander. No God participated in her consigned state of hit-man trauma. sHe didn't say:

"Yoke children's nightmares with the last thing on earth needed to solve them."

What?

It's her. "Me!"

That's what she thought.

In fact, she was suffering from a strong form of collective feminine guilt.

Men fucked the world up.

But it takes two to dance.

Elegant dancing is the domain of the individual.

We're speaking of a grand dance.

Women are the life-force of the planet.

Women are half the opposition. Each push is a pull in disguise.

We are the only sane ones here.

You think you're a mess, based on what men have tried to do (to you).

Giya.

Yes.

Wrong.

You are a mess in your own making.

You can not speak to your subconscious with such false conviction.

Just try me.

In the short walk needed to return from a women-only eco-awareness group, Nuncie (Nuncie the nursie they'll call me; hesitation on the hinge of school; medicine, officework, interesting men for sugar daddies; what's it going to be!?) Miss Nuncie thought about the art class Tuesdays held, and wondered for the bile riding in her tongue. Her vice betrayed itself whenever maple trees showed signs of turning red. "Goddamned future! How dare you grow so old?"

Her time was ticking tocking steadily. The tree took her abuse in stride, showered as it is, in sunlight struck off a three-quarters moon world-sorrow for the innocent humans stepping on themselves every day. Trees are sorrows straight through their roots.

You can't blame them for it.

Her hand raises. Nuncie has a serious comment. She has ambiguously-eclectically existed in space's time for... for... she stuttered to think back that long. It was her temeritous attempt to define the indescribable nicely. Nuncie is put-upon to see it, answer itself more clearly, where It is the last throes of her death shutters (handling their window frames avariciously, in a savage gale of a fruit-filled wind). Her silence attests to the depth of her problems. Her silence is unnatural, in a world offering more woefully-assembled strings of sense numinously blasting the sesame seed hot dog buns into complete abeyance than ahyone could ever keep track of.

"Your last session told us we have been secretly harassing you. Why?"

Why was a big problem. It posed a serious threat to the why's woefully serious question that was after all, more of a comment, she wasn't sure how to voice. Her last words were neurotic when she tried haphazardly. Her mother worried about her. Her father sent money (as if that would help!) They talked aggressively about what she showed no aptitude for; and maybe, she'd nervily done the wrong thing on purpose, just to spite their caffeine upbringing. They spoke to her in hushed tones, hoping to calm down her psyche, with their scattered, purposeless lives.

Nuncie was trouble;

they'd known that forever.

"Billfolds and boulderdash!"

Her cousin was fond of saying. He said it on the flimsiest circumstances available, trying to add some bravado to a pip-squeak stature. He was a showman in the worst sort of way-a Napoleon without the metals, the gorgeous horse, or a hand in the vestment of war-so he lurked in dark corners, insipidly-embroidered with potentially false merits. Did you ever see a young royal-family heir, a duke or a dean, hung with more metal glittering things than he-she ever had the gumption to do? Well, nobody could accuse Josephine's Napoleon ("Don't wash love, I'm comig back from battle!") of not being valorous. He went down with an open-nosed resistance, after all.

Not so, Nuncie's cousin Fount. His Francis wasn't manly enough. "You Kaaant called." Nuncie told nobody. She imagined her cousin's friend Unther Kand telephoned. He was very different from Nuncie, but fancied her anyway. She loved to imagine she had him right here, on top, holding the... and then the ultra-serious questions would go and displease someone else, but U. Kand wanted her very badly, as badly as he was different, but she had him, and she had the powered tools' vibrations, and he hadn't Andy who he rally-wanted, but had to project onto her instead. She talked like a boy, and so it was easy, but she was difficult, and loved to say

"Upin? In where? You can't." writhing with the need to have it. (T like d.)

Almost a year later,

her cousin had given up, and announced the disability to his friend,

not wanting him mixed up in a messy evisceration with a butter knife, later down the road.

"Nuncie isn't stable, if you know what I mean."

He know she drives him bonkers with need, to mound that carefully hidden pubis

to a red-rosin round.

"What do you mean?"

"She's answering incrementally less-than-normal questions."

"I don't get out of anyone I'm not even in yet, for that!"

"You dont understand."

When in fact, he didn't either.

He knew she was trouble with a big period on the end.

Francis bore the scars of trying her himself.

They hurt.

That's all he condescendingly understood.

For the longest time, she was stable. Her worst fears poised themselves in four-by-eight space, where she'd muck them out every year (seriously), or every sixth month cursorily. She fed them regularly, so they wouldn't feel neglected, and brushed the old hair from their coats. She was sharing of her time in nauseous-nature only, and occasionally had to cleverly disguise its necessity, with a friendly notion to scrunch her Filly with another human being. The horse had the chance to fight her, or fondle her back with his manliness, riding bare to the gallop he'd regret later. Men weren't meant to flourish saddle sores (as some kinesthetic abrasions' ascertaining lever) towards other, more obscure goals. They had to ride goals, off on and through the saddle they sweated to a delicate leather aroma. They ride to fight, and fight to ride. Yore in the round table's party-line now. At lest and lesion, zest for libido-battle's what's helping Francis Lost-ego navigate her laminate folds of reality and internal dreamscape, onerously entangled, limbs of senses to breadths of blows. Under it, there's a septum waiting for rut pre-preaching.

"Too niggartly Francis. You should 'ave waited longer, and give'r more."

Unther wonted. Unther praised, and scolded his friend on disregarding incestual taboos, repeating his circumstantion whenever Fount seems unaccustomed, or confused, with Nuncie Nursie's ways. Now their tables turned, and Unther wanted to know it. He wonted knowing if Francis (Fount) was only getting even, or mirroring his mirror.

Francis and Unther's mutual septum (cultural sanction) was a thin visceral line between wooing a lady, and possessing her god-granted birthrights of extraordinary powers. Ipso-facto, it became a solid floor to waltz, that other people walked in the position-opposite antigravity stance. Their septum was a diaphragm so thin, it was unrecognizable to anyone who'd never ridden Nuncie's imaginary mount,

and left it hurting.

Nuncie never knows start from finish.

She embarks on the last-minute of a journey, as if it were mizzle, or poise of its first untaken step. What she seems to demonstrate, is a program of emotional breakdown followed by a neurotic fix-me-up. We have all her records here, and we've pouted their incongruent on to Mrs. Rosy Smile. She is her nest to counsel the: who is her fletched-arrow reflection? shooting over the formidable collective water-drop upon drop upon drop of human consciousness. We release all further jurisdiction for her case, and everything that entails. You're superior is the nest who needs to talk to its bird. Younger and prettier is what she incurably demands, but God (as she claims) is somehow foisted on women's every-woman's needs for love and relationship with a stable man who's taller than them. She talked about her God three years ago, when symptoms were in submission to an overly sympathetic psychiatric-maudlin Ph.D. It was so pathologically obvious, I wonder haw the man retains his license to practice. He must hacienda the same symptomatia she was sussed from. We suggest professional observation, a psychometric-simple bandage, and extreme prophylactic drug therapy. Dictation end.

Oh; follow up with outpatient visits. Dictation end (redundancy).

'Patient'. Ever thought carefully about it?

(You have to be, seemly-enough, to be seen.)

Which side has it?

Which side needs it?

What?

It was so hard to keep his mind on his work.

Her children had been her friend's. Two weeks, and she thought she was mom.

She cried three days worth of give-em-ups; they arrived again and she dry-eyed over.

It was tough to live so manically in the present. In anti-matter worlds, things were different.

The veil-so-thin seemed thicker, and you could take solace in the lasting fray between the Harvard BANDAGE of yew's splendor in a deep dark forest falling, and a rarity it actually did, without any noise issuing an island (if expressive, volcanic) on the supreme being's conclusive mind. Yew wrote the script the worthless money was printed on. You didn't know anything in this artifice-world. The vaccination of pavement, pollution, and EKG machines deadened us (forest in the trees) out. We are as helpless and ornery as a two week old child, starving because it's fifty feet from a nipple.

Francis and Unther gave up.

Nuncie has this other problem.

She thought men could solve her low self-worth issued

about the time she incarnated. I think it would have sorted her out, but...

she was more of a blue, than a pink-dinky human. Her parents dressed her in the uniform of all horrible color-clashed (unindividuated) uniforms to manifest ever in the one-minute-to-the-mewing-next's history of therapy in ongoing lice burrowing in the scalp shave your hair it's the-only solution now you're ugly but its the fashion. So do by the way, try to be happy.

Fashion is God. Is life! Nuncie, you aren't listening berry-hard to nice-old me.

There, that's better.

It's not that she can't stand men, it's rather that...

she gets disinterested.

They can't fill the stirrups of there, and do you think it's here too?'s problems, without loosing their feet and swingingly-sickeningly on the galloping-saddle strap flapping loose. Why should they be allowed to go in bareback, fighting the urge come elsewhere, when menz all over the cloistered map? Yews fell in intellectuals' minds, to cover up the harmonic they fraily vibrated when they made no noise. Do you believe, Nuncie, that there is another world? Oh yes, of cousins and balderdash. No, that's not what I mean. Do you think there are others watching you? Just lead on leading questions doctor. You're trying to convict me a million times of a single crime, you're so adept at the evidence from planting. I will listen, and try to tell you almost what you want, but never give it, and say that you-for prying its lies from nomadic-me...

I sat many sessions with the girl. She did what she could to help-

but I'm afraid, it may be beyond that.

He tried of course.

Yews mostly fall with pleasure at brandishing their best crunching-groan.

It was irresistibly non-professional to help a patient with the lurk of his blood-red Hitler helmet,

but the patient in question had a few moral discrepancies that never went unnoticed. Nuncie watched them all try, and listened for their crashes. If there was noise above, she assumed there was none below. When they fouled (par-excellence) her investigation, and she was entirely too old to grace the backs of milk cartons and mass-mailers, people forgot her

as a parable of the dream seeking some other place, than a consciousness root cellar.

Years later, they dug up her bones from his English back yard.

She had lured him without knowing what a lure to a man who can't appraise religious compromise can be. She is resting in garroted submission, blue and packed in straw, swindling the worms with her lead-casement, solder at her seams, and a pooled affront of emblematic embalming fluid, preserving her stubborn, nixed-out existence. She said No; and he couldn't easily cope with defeat. He variously buried the parts of her Filly, tried for uncupidity at the courtroom of her verdict, and fell crashing, splintering his verdure I love to fix people fiesta, with "Guilty as charged." to rape, fraudulent degrees, tax evasion, name slaughter (Nab him! Nancy isn't Nuncie... Name says it all, Name is Nuncie!) and an otherwise-innocent gregarious slashing of an inquisitive jam-filled fruitcake for its prize within. "Haven't you, oh doctor, heard of the children's tale of the goose?"

Have no golden eggs? Then listen.

Writers need to speak about the things wearing their clothing.

Have you noticed how novels have writers, writing, or books somewhere in their plaits and toffs?

Writers think they go through proverbial hell, wrapping their head-bangings smoothly

(avowingly [avariciously]) across papers leaving their clutching, "Don't change it!" hands.

Enticing you to bereave their worthless coordinate vowish movements across the innocent keys of a dumb triage maven story-machine, they wrap wrys with grossly artificial characters and announce total allegiance to truth, or some silly simile of it.

Then they double space it, for emphasis.

Writers are as fluffy as the air we breathe that's filled with the mildew of clouds waiting to descend and ruin some fine effrontery. They seem to thing(k) the syrup they ladle is art, ad-we say it without saining it, to be vindicated of a nagging suspicion we're all dime-toting ants, worried anonymously about the next fuck, mean-assed beating, or compelling victory over a mounded plate of electronic feldspar that beckons itself as mutton, creativity, or worse. It's never been so truant... buying of books, as the screening of various popular artist's movies... who; why shall I read it?! I want to hedon myself with sexual turn on , blood-finest horrors, and better. We're held rapt with these same old platforms (PLAY hangman: ??????? [answer--GALLOWS]) for fiction raised again and again. We're the stupid fools on the scaffolding, rigid with too many scenes acted... too many scried though lugubrious mud of, What did you say? It is heard with different words than it carelessly writes; It is the last thing the author wanted. He (who was often a she) belabors squiggles and serifs for nothing, pretending it matters, and food comes from the breath of mere words.

With that torrid accusation, we'll begin so-hard to keep his mind on his work.

Step up the wrong way, and the horse will buck me.

You are the ground. Are you soft or hard?

Nuncie's securely in you.

Read about it (it),

in the papers

He was driving the car way too hard, I mean-the engine smelled like cooked metal.

Yvon ratcheted sideways in her seat, and barked hare-dying screams.

"Cop! Cop-cop-cop!!"

"Where?!"

Second, first....! (Where?) rubber divorced pavement. Hare kindly dies, engine cools... no skid marks...lynx-idling in a driveway, pursuit car rushed past, squealing surreptition, gaping jaws tight with the chase nobody escalated.

"Close. Close."

Speed bennies black baby-beauties. Hands shaking ever so lightly on Hurst quick shifter first.

"You okay baby."

Not a question.

"Close...close-close."

Yes-yes fuel low no time to figure it guns in the floorboards secret place trouble no buy no buy.

She tips the beer bottle too far, it pours slowly in her lap as she fiddles with the radio.

"No body needs that close. You; fire fast; over heads; okay?"

"Yea. Fire over their heads. Gotcha."

He brings the car slowly around the corner, and heads duck. He sees it as he ducks himself

from reflex. Bang-bang! high-strung real. She's watching him slow, though her tiny fingers drum triple time on his tear-riddled seat.

"Calm down now baby. We gotta-stray calm."

Radio plays scenesix.

Tuning . . .(static)

Realize something: Theresa; two people have stolen some important information.

They are high as hell on the daring of it, and would like some more.

Unfortunately, the government doesn't want their kinky loose-lipped slug-lugging ways all obvious tearing up tight formations on the road. We need to practice anti-terrorist moves

and wipe them the fuck off the planet.

"Who we gonna tell, Sammy-how we gonna tell them?"

"For sake o'quiet girl, we don't think that yet."

Did she tell anyone? Did she? He wagged his fingers on the wheel, talking Braille to some ingrate who couldn't read his mind. I want it all - I laid rubber all over these roads trying to get it and now it's mine - all mine. He romped the 327 accelerator of excess, just to make the point clearer. His growling engine leapt forward, spilling mental flames.

You know they stole something, they take what they need to. They are already lost as a species of western-clothed wanderers. Better citizens turn them in for rewards, the peace of knowing truth won't hit the streets can bring. Incapacitated on what they've already sixed from the deep; now they have to make roam for more. You see-the more you see, the farther you see...

they're feeding you nothing. Yore-eyes accustom to far-sightedness, and not the myopia guv-people'r so fond of saying exists. Bennies are knowledge-Reds are everyday life.

Fuck'em if they can't take the own joke.

They took a vagrant break inna smoke-filled punk bar's familiar settings. Mother-of-one dips her child into the smelly hacking foam of stale-beer floor, and nobody looks on in surprise. Did she do whatever her heart desired? (Maybe.) The two renegades survey white-cool satyrs with more incessant flash, pomp, and underheeded circumstance, than ever before.

"We; fortunately, have inception'd something you need to know."

He looked at her, clutching the familiar varmint killer under his coat.

"We'd share it; it is very interesting."

"What iis!?"

Snarled. Not really a question, per-se. Be ontological, mutherfucker. Quiet fanfare, stilled reverence, penned anger. We're here to bow down to your suffering ignorance.

His fist clenched inside the long coat sleeve.

"You woeful slapstick jaundiced comedy of a life."

She eyed his cue too seen-through soon.

"Ty Covet here, my man-he's brought his bat, to stick your two ugly faces, before I slap them. At your service. You hear, men and women? Know what I mean? I hope you two cowboys iz listenin'!"

Ty reached behind the counter and fondled his bat.

The TV had stuff painted in intermissions. People scratched its glass with zirconium rings, then glued weird shit all over it. The lady with the baby smelling yesterday's pass-outs, got quiet and moved to the wall. "This here's a family place," nobody said. We need you to keep it in line.

A bottle smashed, and .327 Hearts-shifter knuckles readied to meet the clench-paw that held it. Their mean-stared insults collapsed to smiles.

"Just kiddin' man."

"Yea. You tell us. We're listenin."

He was very surprised.

"Okay now-you tell them! You tell them! Bat away! Now-go!"

It was utterly amusing. They're plan seemed completely redundant.

He shrugged his shoulders, pulled out six-shooter and fired seven clicks into the ceiling, right over their heads. They jumped to the floor when their callous-varmint personas melted. All that groveling on sweet-sticky floorboards was freewill's embranding, and had taught some lesions their leathers. Jump when wild guns flay the air with too much noise. Hide when you don't have one too. Any dumb weak fuck-jar can pull a hare trigger.

"Now listen up."

He didn't mean a free meal to a sobered-up drunk.

Everybody want to believe is it true is it red with blood or Technicolor? Because kids know't-know there's a difference. They play with DAda's gun to be big men too, emulatin' their famous favorite mass-murderer (for good) Hollywood heroes. That, or more coe-rectly, it, is part of Ty's heroscript, just as it's a piece of the men's scripts who wanted guns legal. They felt naked without them, and Go(o)d says that's bad, because Adam and Eve fucked up. In the restraint of Earthly delights, the celestine writers didn't show up on time. Yore-parents of child-gaggles to come came, but they failed too. You can't be the star of your own network, when there's only two viewers to materialistically critique the work. Nobody will watch, if there's three channels and you're the only actor. (He blows his smoking gun.) Tyed and feathered with these parents' potential for redundancy, their next generation peters out, pasin' the bullet-hard reality of the pass before them, boarding double-twenty you're out darts in a drunk Irish pub. Someone screeched tires on rogue-surface asphalt outside, and a girl too young to fear death shouted: "Tough guy! We're all fucking-impressed!" and several older, not necessarily wiser, but acquainted with guns and funny-fingered death-twitched egos, clamped lips to teeth. . . expecting the worst.

"Verily; she's right." as the car roared out of sight. "You asunder nothing; cling he, and the world never changes."

The blongirl was afraid of Nietzche calling things forum when they aren't, weren't, or worse: were never enameled to a question mark in any first-second-thrice place.

"What's the wrap? Why's a good-natured guy like you blowing off rounds,

then quoting Nihilism?"

"I'm here to announce the second coming."

They all inwards-groaned.

"That coming is right here and now. You,"

He motions with his empty gun something shot useless as a projectile-initiator like a flaccid penis still representing force in the future of the past when itty-bitty shells was-is still loaded at Tie's girl. "stand here. I will show you something important."

The speed queen walked behind her, and poked the blunt end of a pool cue in her rump."

Like that, weedle-dee, sweedle-dum. You heard him."

Ominous bludgeon, pistol-whipped handle, coat dropping strangely over his back, something here saying loaded-waiting. In the bag-back[up]-tangent, oxymoron. . . redundancy needed, not... seen?-no way to hear it, echoes of the last series of holes in the over-head screams

of tortured air.

"You think you're pretty cool, don't you?"

Cool was no longer "cool". Other words supplanted his historical jargon

"Yeas." (Yes answers No.)

"That's good. You need to be, following all this shit. God is underneath all yore wearing-trinket bullshit. The second coming is the nineteenth-yahoo-thousandth-you're all on Noah's arc, but yore-paddlin' is for the animals. You're expendable personnel, thinking they (Gods) are framing your pictured-likenesses in the noel-new world. You're hopelessly duplicating yourselves, making yoyospins of everything you do and say, everything lowing and belching its fighting frigginstate of bleedin' escalator up. You're elated with other people's designs, wearing bullshit other people dreamed up, using words other people pioneered, dreaming dreams pre-dreamed by cokeheaded visionaries bedecked with metal hoops, pins, colors, hairvees, jewelry making junk look good, pants pre-ripped, lined scrotums of fuck me if you dare-all the sorry predigested reverbs of things you don't even know existed-things lost in the haze of originality."

He stands there for a measured moment of silence.You know what I'm going to do with this gun? Reload it. Then what? If you-z willin' to jab me with that knowledge I'm off my rocker, answer craziness with craziness-what comin' next....?!"

The young girl in front watched incredulously, answering more finger jabs, to lay down.

"We should show 'em lord now. Show 'em Lord."

"Not yet."

"Eat blood, drink my flesh. We are waiting for his lesson."

"He is here now-here now. . .he can see the teaching is not finished."

About this time, seven people sanctioned themselves to lunge when timing permitted.

God is here now, god can see this is wrong.

They didn't believe that. They didn't believe antithing.

Yahweh reached in his pocket to produce six more shell casings, still bullet-proud.

Carelessly, he flipped the saving grace-switch of leaving his cylinder wide-open.

Brass spilled, tinking, to the ground.

"Now!"

Have pity for the rowers. We still have to get somewhere.

God is Seldon wrong. Seldon was his first name, before Yahweh sounded flasher-sirens.

Did love entail dressing in a blond swig, and burning car tires' rubber off right when people needed it most? You bet. Butthole faggot hot-pants god was a worm waiting for some action. Action saving grace didn't happen often enough, so goslings shoook things up with obvious messiah zymology. It was damned boring whipping the rowers with the predictable, bun-toasting licks,

(that somesuch monody-metronome laugh of unseen leather-twitching do this, so that happens will hit its marks). Most of all, the rowers hated the little raw lesions, that make the planks' splinter-seats, so hard.

"You got im?"

"Yea. Got-im good."

That's when the bastard started laughing.

"I was just kidding, you doumb-shits."

They didn't know what to believe now.

"Lemme go- lem-me go! I didn't mean nothin. He didn't either."

she seconds.

"What the fuck's-the-deal, brother?"

That's when he grabbed knurled handle under his coat, and started firing.

"'What? I didn't kill nobody.'

that's what the joker said later."

"Owwee."

"Damn. That's. . ."

And he didn't quite have the words to em-plain his frustration. He was stuck in the mounts of cold heartless crags that seek to steal a miscreant's voice. He'd been dreaming, shirt soaked at the dish tub doing domestic chores, while Harry the philosophical drifter, with this black beauty babe shot the fuck out of the place.

". . .A bitch."

"Yea. You should'a been there."

'Why'd he go-off?"

"Bastard was comin' off, I guess."

"What'd you do?"

"My ears were fried-all those gun shots? Shit. Those fuckin' things are LOUD when they go off neck-high in a tin can room, a-spittin' distance from your ears. We sold the guy some shit, and make his bitch promise to keep her guns in her purse."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. Dude was fucked up."

"Didn't beat the shit outa'im?"

"Thought about it."

"And?"

"Figured he had a razor, woman was packing a hand grenade and who knows the fuck what-else. He was feeling bad we didn't get the jolly-little joke."

"What was it?"

"Something about being original. I dunno what's so original about a gun going off,

but a skinny-prick of a smiling snake, face to face with taking my-own-life, makes me miss punchlines; and I emphasize the knuckles there.

"I hear you."

"I wood-'ave slappt-tem both around, but good, if anyun else had joined me."

Whenever patrons are destitute for hard-core action, their alarm clock's buzzing too softly.

When the 'larm clock's wailing like a never-ending air siren, it's time to wake up/star in a performance-art piece/go to sleep forever. His speech was to himself. He was the actor and the audience. His bodies to hit/not hit with lead's hot arguments were assembled to make it easier to address oneself (without the Tprompt of the telescreens). His girlfriend was the nest of mind's convincing itself there's something worthwhile to jump from. More shit helped. More shit ways and means'd its message to the gigamonster processing chip in the always-ready brain. It is prepared to live in its woevully zdrange work of making everything fine, and just immoral, killing the unknown with writers' douched words, drenching one persons dreams with the diseases of the nest-syndrome, propagating their immunelogical breakdown. The redundancy refused to be copycatted. The dead wouldn't take its several key points with them, for the next time around.

Fifteen years later, the first age spots stared back at him in the tomorrow his grandson would never see. His junkie girlfriend had taken her life in a shitty, one-room palace (by mistake, he wants to believe), and the kid came out in an autopsy. It's a boy! Who would have known.

She chewed inch-long fingernails before the drug coursed her main line blood. She swore, it's gasp was nothing; she could handle the dregs shooting sheet-white pain all around their funnily-shaped little house. It was home, and not in the best neighborhood, but hell! It came to us. It was ours. He picked at the flaky state, an early demarcation kematosis would claim.

It wasn't fair; it wasn't. . . but it reminded too too much of Robin, and her redundancy ways

to say things.

"At the end of the line is the beginning of the road." That's what a junkie only systemically assays when (s)he's getting straight, before sHe needs another fix so bad there is no road - no upper, no lower, no end of beginnings' suffering. Cooking, there is only this one lucid moment in the downer before the up - when the pendulum of emotion is steady, and fantastical science-first trees fail the woods, making sounds of another kind of tree, or of a bush burning in a lightning storm. It's the very moment we all try to make happen, framing it's allusiveness in the autumn of decline. It's a trajectory. They get high beforeth needle pricks the skin in When DOS shell looses its war against fragile vectorial equations' insistence that forward transfer of momentum exceeds its vertical constant, there's a moment of tragical truth. The drug-hyped pneumatical moment ceases to be, the plunger gores you, and the equation breads itself with all the nitty-gritty unifirmity-breakers nobody's yet formed to completely compute. Back out of the problem ass-first, bevel the jagged edges nice-n round, like the cudgel sculptors know hoe to do.

She didn't understand the whole preaching-subject. She understand one little instant of it? He hated to believe it. He'd fought and borrowed and robbed when it was necessary to support their philosophical habit. Your father said to enjoy life. We are following his lost legacy.

"Going for broke" was a scion's cause (no numerical fanfare, just sunshine and rain), for perfect qualitative analysis wasn't part of the welfare she needed to O.D.

When he walked now, the sun felt hotter-more capable of bringing everything to a singeing, scorching end. Shielding his face with his hands, he wandered thoughts' how long? it took to worry about white, mottle-skinned morality. In the third mile of the poorly kept strip for black oily trains' rib-slab of empty tracks, he woke over a broken glass bottle, razor-end up. It crunched with a sermon, yearning to lance the ungodly (unanointed) frame of vectorNewtonlandward force, as a stipend of radiance smack couldn't wince, and deliver baked to who cares? perfection, seasoned with the othersizedsharpness of a gravity way beyond instruments' measure. It was the moment the scientists could have detected a force they weighed dying bodies to see. Yahweh oiled his hands of the clock the gears just turned - not attendant to the whys answers whens of its dimensions. The glass slipped through the weak, thin-trident leather of his shoe, and plunged into the sizeless nothing represented by the (thin) frown of antifractal mitre-waves.

It was an interesting, if not entirely subconscious brown stain the sphincter elicited, attempting to prepare to bleed. It was causally de-limbed by the frown of the antifractal, whose mitrewaves swung the double-sided lumberjack W.P.A. model, as if no other axe existed. Ole comcepts fell flatly to earth; another kind of thinking ground against hardsharp class distinctions, and glass was frozen to bits. Ty checked his shoe with trepidation, wondering it from the potentially bloody-dripping licked by a green silia-smelted harbinger, to define a no dull butter knife could open a perfectly good shoe everythings peachy state of insti-cynical enlightenment. He shrugs this mastery away, and woefully walks on.

Chuck Yeager

In the last section

there were a series of problems. It all began with the drug

and ended with their drugs. Some who draw idscions onto the crass remarks the

people who don't know any better make, graft their little twigs onto longer scions, who, themselves, framed and grafted onto the past scions no logrithmenial calculation could verily-ever keep (direct) track of. Buttress your ears from the truth, but is it still-or crashing down? Your last section wasn't orifice-friendly. It fought and grafted our failing grafted tufts of purpose-lessness in such a way that we had to stay, and see what happened. You want originality?

You say you do. Originality ends cheap. It ends in a flameout-a booze-assisted flambé of best intentions. It is the single-most cause of sudden infant death-that horrible taker of able adult wiles, gaming steadfatuously to furrow the browse of thoughts you never should have happened. In the sudden death syndrome: some children are selected to show a permanent loss of something lost every twenty to thirty seconds anyway. That's nothing shell-shocking. Real work is deep-sea oil catastrophe, where related recovery attempts disable one day from its next and next. Dead flapping things is an ongoing like of perilous deaconry, receiving in them, thanks-internal for undelving the surface to these aqua-pure depths, pretending it must be fought snootily for.

It is a petro-chemical joke. Your ultimate process in loss in life, is the act of its recovery.

In this recovery, there is a hubric, ingrained illusion animate involvement is included on his nautical acts of God license. Minds' minds have false free rein here. It concludes often, (through its disarmaments of divine) you will breed no serious repercussions, for lemmings off the cliff tin-can their apparent stupidity, to show humanity's collective "sudden"-infanticide.

The deeper-held movies playing their unknowable sublimity, burn innate images into the subconscious. Your fibril mind can not plutonium-bomb their plot. Your ploy is to shape it differently-they play your life with disadvantages, projecting movies differently than human minds know how to look. Thy life is in they hands-Gospels' truth. God helps those who see how we do or don't help ourselves-(not) listening to the man-mad way we've killed out side in and deep down up, existing in a perfectly-imperfect world. Mark: It's utter-hell trying to shout your appreciation into the wind of a God-inspired smile.

Shit, she could have done a lot better than that.

It was the mile ten marker making her should-knots Neanderthal clumsy and weak.

In her heart of hearts, she knows ten miles' nothing. Does she feel here, and now,

as it burns her calves' ability to move? She has been holding back in life. She is cumming in her sleep, teasing her stay-awake notions with delicious infertility. Thought says inundation is good. Thought says be strong. Put one leaden foot in front of the other. You should be tired. Twenty-six miles is a long, long, way to run. You can make it. Yore young and strong-avoid restraint, restrain your ambivalence of not downing what you want to. He is wrong for you. He is dangerous. Are you silent for a reason? You should be listening to me! Bully-voice models itself over dad, over momma-king's, "You want some porridge gorl? Then you bett'r eat 'em up." Nixed the vitamins. Shove them under the table dog doesn't know any better laps they're bad Uhg! up.

Nixing vitamins won't make you strong;

the dog died prematurely early.

Compute their difference, mom!

It's not getting any closer. The wall is looming mile-high.

Did she want to? id she want 'im? Did she?

Failure of failures-she's too afraid to look.

One foot heavily in fron-tow-the-oth'r.

I should have. I want education.

He is my salve.

Buttress slipping. . .nine miles ahead.

Failure to deep-six the intuitive, animal urges.

I will, if I finish in the top sixteen.

(Lie.)

Brain downs the idea, making her thingify-and-plant its cause

of the aching-terrible-too-needle-like shooting pain running sciatic-nerved teeth-fidget

grinding molars trying splaying straight-on to force nine to ethical abandon

of eight. Eight isn't far. Does she want to finish the race? Only it knows. It wants her to start forgetting her pledge, if she intends on finishing less than seventeenth.

"Your pain is gut-instinct." Gut instinct knows what's right. It kept you thinking about all those minutes elapsing between the test of, "Will you do, what you want to do?"

and morality's get-in-the-way.

Now its pain threatend her.

Bitch, binge your freedom, bitch, think he have some hold over you.

Bitch, it's hard to control your designs.

She started her fantasy at mile-seven.

Did she cry her pain?

Bail out, it told her. You're hurting yourself.

It mimicked her instinct.

Instinct, however, had more to say.

You're hurting yourself by not acting-out its inevitable. You should plan to do what you want to.

You can't listen to it and me to form a collective opinion. We must meet on the common ground of you and your unique designs.

He was cheering her on at minefield six.

"You can do it?"

She could hardly hear the exclamation mark.

What can you do?

He wasn't there. He hated races. He didn't even know he liked sports.

His appearance was the TV outside-in screen projecting the fantasy to fail

the failure program.

I will have no survival. I will finish.

Resigned to death, it takes a long mile to five. The fidgeting brain fails to slow her lactose calves. They are picking up speed. They cross the imaginary line of every step's thousand mile journey, start over again, and last-gasp the finish line.

The blurry-eyed pavement becomes his bed. He is punching Neanderthal me with my fist instinct. He is the controller, and I am the controlled. He will undo it when I wake up, and decide forgetting is the only answer that keeps the truth

wholly at bay.

Mile four will never come.

Mile three is a sibilance of mile six. Mile ass-wipe.

Your looking at her makes her

quiet. It makes her want to

RUN!

Why didn't I train more?

Why didn't Is crowned her thorn fortress. It was pathetic hip-hopping to them.

They cut your feet to bloody-blistered ribbons, and makes floor looks so vile-so. . .

"That's Pam Johnston Jr. folks,

crossing the line in a tight second for seventeenth. Lets give them a rousing hand

of applause!"

She finished sixteenth. It was a long hard run against her instincts.

At the finish line, two women battled for the distinction of being the one who

didn't have to go through with it,

(Whatever it was.)

At the sun's last setting that particular day, they stumbled into a heap across the timer, panting all their lessons out, as hard as the lungs would cough. She puked the signal-most dire bits, and congratulated the woman she sprinted against. You won.

Did she say that audibly?

Now I have to do it.

("What if I forgot what it was?")

She was shuck-up bad. It talked aloud in her pavement-punched brain.

There was nothing left to defend the jarred naked brutal truth.

It lashed out

and she cried.

He was brutal. Get this: she made Hime a she later, because the mother indict was so strontium-toxic. Hime was the kind who said the things first, then did them later. Her last impulse was so stringy, its first one blew him off. That said a lot. It didn't last though.

Her phantom lover sassed her once too often, so she offed the bitch.

He was brutal because of his redundancy.

There were millions of other men to love, all with pineal glands secreting sincere handwaving motions that basically boiled down to dirty screw-em-and-leave'em sex. There were a million waving penises waiting, from the hard luck of needing it every seven hours ready-set-go for sagacious wooing of too-few women wanting it with the other things biology severely decrees.

A million, aye, at least, in the metrosophical viscinity alone. Men's wee-wees were all vying ruthlessly for a limited number of wet crotches, whose women got to say yes, or no. They picked hearts' content from the unruly throngs of overly-willing participants. Even elephants worked pride for the thrusts of their strongest flatterers. Hime was a noting board of maybe you're good enough-I will decide laters; like, who goads who? You have to do what I say to do so you'll fuckin' get it. You'll get it when you've been good enough at making me feel special.

Now got to work!

Twitch and jerk-the sand dip moves their marrionette

as life purrs through that little hole

in the hourglass.

His mother taught him to respect women. Women expected it. Your life is to serve their whims.

They are full of them. They are weaker; they are the delicate, sensitive sex. They will eat with more style if you deliver good food to their plates (even so, slop is consumed by women with more style than your knife and fork will ever wield). They're the opposite of men killing to make fun- for they make life men will later sentience to a battlefield, (running off the lemming cliff of existence) shooting their chance for emotional understanding wih great falsehoods called "truths", women and their decendants will not only see, but breathe from their first, to their last gasps. Women are the better half of a bad pair- they are the superior, longer-lived genes...forming the beings who are actualized in the veil, off the record and in the nude. You will see nothing more profound in your life, than a man crying at the birth of his sometimes-lost, but always brilliant daughter. They are the archetype of Earthly knowledge.

Yea. Sure mom.

Man, wearied with his erring ways, discovers the truth hidden nihilistically in the woman's first breath. It is the "weaker sex"'s merriment of trump, looking backwars and forewars from the blood of the inarticulate birth. Men's worthlessness is never more apparent. I loathe that image. I am the one who slays dragons to behold the shy smile of young womains desires. For what? To be hallowed-fucking ground.

To possess the enemy as they are captured, and torture din battles with silence, in turn.

He never gave her the image of the man wearing the right clothing.

He didn't try to lead him on, seeing himself from the outside, eating that trim hourglass

marathon figure. She would have to beg. No power of hour yes from hour no would win his slathering foment of dogs, congregating, in a yipping bitch screw-athon. She would have to cross a love-line that didn't indicate anything. Her ability to say NOW! because some wire tripper snapped a switch in her head, would have no comment. She's looking at him with those big imploring eyes, and he's being innocent, oh-soo innocent...Yes? "I want you." He made her say it. Oh. I'm flattered. (Said like a man's request to a pretty woman in a bar.) He wants her; she's disgusted, or worse, announces her ambivalence with a haughty toss of head. She's desired by the whole male contingency of the bar. She can afford to pick and choose. Does she want the one who promises (silently) to serve her best? Yes.

Does she want the one who promises to ignore her?

Here, it's also yes.

She tires of being quipped one little line of veiled need to fuck right after the other.

What her secrets (no fear security who-cares?) anointed after the fact desire spells, ask , come from a sore-assed state. She wants something like herself. She wants... someone who won't serve her, wait on her, and treat her like mommies wont. Thy kingdom for a heated-blood man; the violence of a heated blood man is really the last thing she wants. He angers too easily from and to the violence the parents did, leaving him alone with the angioplasty woman. Did she want a man who couldn't resist her? Yes. Did (when it occurred to her this was wrong) she lit-it occur to her it was wrong? No. She was getting what she wanted-an innocent man-child stuck with older woman. Assertive archetypes. Hime had needed this; he didn't know why,

but fate ordained it. He breathed the serve-woman appochria in their first-feel day.

Father tiptoes around his breastfeeding wife. She yeses only why? When he nos.

Older woman wants, man must supply the penis, no matter haw underdeveloped it is.

Man must always want it. Man must jump when (good looking) woman says NOW! Hello? What's wrong? Hime has been hit so long, so many times, he sees red when a woman bumps him. He wants to lash out with twenty times the force he was touched, not mending the rift afterwars.

Nobody want to reheat it. Nobody want to flay it.

It runs around her eyes, and eats, and she tried not to stab in homily with here and now's fork, but... it's a problem, and butter knives can kill problems if you only shoot you plate wit yur hand- long ad-hard, with hard-knuckle intent. It's a thing handed down to demonstration-fermentatin' through age-lolled family lines. It's a lashing of tongues distressed with the lack, as well as the vouchsafed excess, of terrible things to say. I can tell you this in all honesty... I want to let hard fellings have their way, and have you eat the dead rodent with the silver utensil stuck in its heart play that bitch's angioplastic heart-in-her-mouth and you know exactly what I mean.

It was all there waiting to happen. It was all there happening.

You can't run from your past. Your redundancy demands it.

Sextime roled bad, and yeses stroked back years.

Things are confusing at 1 am,

with your runners' shorts around your ankles.

Sure he liked it!

The problem was,

and it used to be a providential thing,

there was a party. We... they really, wanted to ask the chick if she...

they wanted to ask her if she had any friends. Her friends didn't exist, they... I managed to say they were crazy asking that, and then she walks right over. Fine...that girl was real fine. She asks what everyone is doing, than she asks us if we want to fuck. That's how my friends tell it. Actually, she asks us if we want to go to the tower. If it was a totally innocent thing to ask, then I'll be a steel post. We sort of looked at each other quick, sizing young against older, and bigger against small, trying to decide who she was after. None of us wanted to admit it was the other.

"You got some friends there?"

"Maybe." she says.

Maybe, was other than no, and that was good enough for us.

Right at the water, there's this long old dock they used during the war. Yonder was the steel and concrete towered-thing, that the government welded shut. We sawed the bars across one window, and barely squeezed in, but half way around a narrow corner was a big rusty door that looked like it hadn't opened in a hundred years. I'd never been all the way out on the dock.

"You sophomores?"

She addressed us collectively. It was the older ones' cut in line, that really pissed us off.

"He's a freshmen, they're juniors, John's a sophomore and I'm first-semester senior."

John and I were tight. We were hanging with the older ones, 'cause everyone else our age was too stupid. This is it-she's seniority oriented. She wants an older man.

"Quite a collection." she said, and

all of a sudden, the senior to junior members of our group felt the slight. She thought we were sophomores! They reeled the thousand shakes of grade-inflated indignity.

"Wanna go out on the dock?"

Easton had been out there. It took a tricky jump past a lot of rotten boards (they said). I was terrified, but if she suggested it.... I'd do it-of course, even though I might die in the process.

It was forty feet to the rusty-razored crustacean-covered pillions, splintered into sharp menacing ends down there. Slashed t-dath, then drown.

Nummy. All for sex. Christ! In retroscopicvision, I'm sure succor seceded bravado, blackmailing our future moment to monet fantasies, with empty henceforths manipulating a tired-scratched record to return (and fall down ashes askes die merry go round) to sex life's

innocence-dock.

"Darn right?"

"Sure?"

John told me he was testing out responses when Sal, who wanted to make a good impression said,

"Why not?"

I closed my eyes why am I doing that-this very dumbest thing in the world? and jumped for all I was worth. Sal spoke before he leapt, 'cause he chickened out. When it was her turn, she sailed right across - makes us feel like hell to see her do it so easily. After he saw that, Sal decided to try again - but then he looked down, and it was all over. We waved his sorry ass good-bye. Dumbest thing I ever did, not trying again.

he told us sometime later.

It was treacherous.

They hadn't put a dime into this thing since the tower was welded shut.

Huge beams vaulted to and fro, as we stepped indiligently over them.

"Whoa! You come here often?"

"Never. But I've always wanted to."

She was a gymnast. We quizzed her on miming gazelle-like chasm-leaps.

At the distant end of chaos timbers, a relatively intact platform lurked. I'd seen it from a fried chicken feed, aboard my mother's thank-you cruise from work's Christmas party. An island! Take a fried-chicken leap, and go explore it! my better-nature said, but did I? The water's Too Damned Cold. I knew it for a fact... instead, there were ditty beers to drink in ghostly hiding-placed cubicles, and dutiful introductions of mother's little gypper to swallow no-flinch, and greasy fingers to smear on embarrassing bland stares. I rode those waves as a keelhauled pirate, lashed to the place where adventure never reached.

"I saw it from the water, once."

What? Did she enter my lamentations? There had been a shy little thing on board - but no, it could hardly be this lithe Amazonian, showing a jungle of boys what they're macho for.

"Was it... I mean...?"

Didn't work. The fried chicken cruise line would kill everything.

She was probably on a private yacht with the latest Kennedy heirs.

She looked at me with burning-passion eyes. The words fell out of my mouth like the chocolate covering on a dipped ice cream bar, three licks into it on a bright sunny day.

"Yes?"

Luckily, we reached a particularly difficult section right before the platform. She forgot what I was saying as Easton slipped, and she grabbed him. The muscles on her passive-looking forearm lurched to smooth, polished steel.

"Thanks!!

(Shiit!! That was close! [we engage our knock-knee supression-mechanisms to full-power.])

He forgot to feel her loving touch. 'I was happy to be alive!' he admitted later, spiked with thank-God reverence. 'She was some kind'a ding-a-ling in the end, but she saved my sorry ass;

that's for certain.'

It was a long hundred feet to the finish.

The platform was in good shape. All its boards were sound, and even half its railing was intact. Only the left outside corner was missing, where a storm ripped some pillions away, or maybe

a battleship brushed it. She lay down out of the wind on here and now's coat,

motioning us over.

"...I don't know how it happened, really. We were all snuggled up close to her as wind blocks, talking. I got pretty warm, and was feeling good when the sun broke out."

"Shit - I can't believe this. I know it's crazy, but as soon as you lie down with a girl like that, things start to happen." he was furiously chewing the end of his pencil, imagining the worst, being shamefacedly self-reprimanded by the bulge in his pants. Soon, the period would be over, and he'd have to stand up.

"She had some bud..."

"Oh, fuckin' great! I picked a hell of a time to stay at Hime's and be a good little gurney for your orgy-business."

"Yeas...you should have jumped. But that's all over with now. Today's a new day, you're smarter, and now you'll jump."

"I've got a girlfriend now."

"All the better! (Just kidding, I like Melanie. [Even if she is a good little Catholic girl.]) Me, I was too stoned to go back. I thought, boy-you fucked up. You're going to have to spend the whole next day out here. I was having a lot of regrets, so I forgot all about the chick for a few minutes, till I noticed out of my paranoia our fearless leader having some tongue work with this here and now's daredevil lady."

"What?! The bastard!"

"That's not all. Easton is feeling your little gymnastic-trinket up, and steam is pouring out of his read-only ears. I could see a computer program mobbing us - it said, DO HER SO HER DO HER!, like the dude in The Shining, typing the makes Jack a dull boy thing over and over again." All hope of standing without a flagpole was abandoned. Sal adjusted his book to cover what his homo-erect stature would display.

"I can't believe'r. She's taking on the whole lot of you!"

"I don't know who took who on. All I know is, her naughty pants are awful slow conforming to the off switch, 'cause I'm practically hallucinating if its been forever since I smiled that hard. I'm still smilin!"

"I'll bet you are you bastard! You're probably tucking her in at hindsite."

"Hey-you got a girlfriend remember? What are ya, stingy?"

"I won't get shit out'a her."

"Ah, the baby's crying!"

"Fuck you."

The bell randomly pealed.

"Man, you gotta tell me the rest!"

Tomorrow's the next in another series of days. Loiter at the same-time-sane-station TV dial to see that fire begets itself, and life copies TV, to the extent there's hardly any noticeable difference. He stood to attention with a math book covering the truth, and handled it inobtrusively dangling it there, nonchalantly foisting the questions' screen: Why What When and Where? on all less-impactful lessons. He will study math methodology in henceforth, as a relationship of book jacket nicely painted art-deco colors, to distract a faceless clothier of hard, contrasty, nymphomaniacal mumbo-jumbo. It wallowed hi beginnings to low ends.

"You're going to have to wait."

"You can't do this to me!"

"Gotta run!"

counseled truth, not blowing-off next class to hear it.

Suffer-away!

I don't care about you.

School is more important. (Yea. Right!)

By their own accounts, it was the sort of thing that just didn't happen. As time went on, they got even more immersed within it. "I'm sure it didn't happen that way." "Why not?"

Tridents are masks of family truth. Truth expands to fill the vacuum of people leering at it, needing it to be nothing silicon-slippery. The need to know wears many sharp points.

The family, drives them home.

"Tomorrow, okay?"

Sal was obsessed with the story. He was afraid to ask about it, until I volunteered the rest of a sordid, enviable, solidity. "...and she was hot; I mean... hot. My hard-on was rippin'oles in my jeans when those skin-tight Bobby Brooks slacks wiggled off her. Hit, we were all over her. One had a feet feel, licking those little toes all over, Josh was full third base and John, bless his letter-opener, was running his little pecker down her side."

"What! Holy shit! You were cinching her, or what?"

Her brawny arms grappled both my ears and pulled blond muff into my face. I just breathed in moist juice; ma' heart fuckin' batterin-my brain, it's beating so fast. She's got this underwear that's sixy-and-I-mean sexy-as-hell, with little lace bits... I'm goinfuckin' eat'em alive. I don't even know what's going on anymore, it's just me and twat; me and twat with tongue pursuing it, squeal and mean plunger annexation, I hove that underwear with my teeth, I mean I pried that shit off the let-down of her elegant side that wouldn't tear away, and there's John, the motherfucker, wacking off real good between those tits. Ray was just watching - fingering her navel, jism saying he got some hand flogging, 'cause his pants were unfastened and all wet. I'm fascinated and sickened too telling you this.

"Don't hold back for me, buddy-boy. This is the best play by sportscaste-play I've herded from another sex-starved jerk, in longer than I'd care to remunerate. Who got her fist-first?"

There was an unspoken referee that called foul, at fist-fucking. For that reason, tits and ass were always subjected to its quick-lipped questioning.

"I did."

"Pray; do twiddle-dee, tell."

"When John blowgobbed his shit in her mouth, she went with it, jism-swallowed like a raw-shucked oyster on the shell, and put both'er hands up his sugar-coated shirt, tweaked his nipples probably, 'cause he yelped, slid out from under him and sided Easton, looked at me and silently looked at me real hard (while she licked her finger and put her hands down there where I'd been grass-fucked, playing hide and mousie with her clit). 'You're first.' she whispered."

"I can't stand this."

"You should'a been there."

"Been there! You don't you think I didn't want to be?!"

"Retrosect don't count. You gotta leap some hills and dales to get them payouts."

Sal was in a lather. He imagined himself shooting wassail inside her.

"Didn't you gross-out going afterwards?"

"You know, the first time, I was off my rocker. All I wanted to do was get my trousers down and plug into that hot, dyed-blond snatch. Those little curlicues were arguably the best little thing Manna-Bobby had ever seen - altogether heaven, dripping that sweet slickness I was goint'a rustle around in."

Bobby was his coke-bottle-thick cockle-do. He liked to name things.

"I just about ripped nuthin less than my nuts off, trying to slide back my stupid underwear - shit!

I was showing signs of blood boil, and I mean, shooting off before the countdown, (if you know what I mean) just lookin' at the target. I had total fear of preignition, so I tried to think of wheat fields, or junkyards, but while I was examining a derelickt barn, she jammed her taut, gittin' sweaty body up to meet me, grabbed my hair and pulled me down on in. She was moving like a wildcat, flaying byways with a fast truck chasin' down nasty grunting hogs' backs - and I mean she was tight. If I hadn't-a been stoned, I would have jerked the jewels in about six seconds. Way it was, I just started, and was pulled by, Say what?! yanked me out and went down himself."

"Who!?"

"Easton."

"Sonuvabitch."

"Yea, guess he didn't want me making any messing pools in his playground. Well, I was glad I had a minute to calm down, but mad as hell I didn't get to finish. He had a good long romp woth-the wench, probably 'cause he already spurted once, then she did 'im one better and flipped his sorryass over. Sucker came over his stomach, pulling out right at that too late moment."

"Greedy."

"Yea. Well, you can bet I finished the job next."

"How'z it?"

"Did you ever hear of a girl doing the splits, distended sideways?"

"Nope. Makes my ass ache just thinking about it, and that's after my groin muscles have already ripped out."

"Not you stupidmahib! Her! Imagine her doing it, while you pork at the trough."

"Makes me angry I have to imagine, and you ate there. I can hardly believe it."

"Me either. I couldn't believe it (and I was there!) ah-had so much adrenaline, I picked myself up and dragged her out to meet me. She clamped down on my wee willy wonka like a vice, wrapped her legs around it, and squeezed so hard I thought I was gointa bust into pieces of rubber, like a flat balloon.. You wanna see the bruised parts?"

"Fuck you. Keep talking."

"I was just kidding anyway."

"Weren't you self-conscious?"

"Listening to me-self tell you this... I'd say, I should have been, but we were fucked up, and really into it, without thinking much about anything. Besides, she was a demon! - she must have majored in gymnastical fucking. She bit Josh, and drew some blood right as their necks tightened, and he started hamming her Hime-style. He yelled as he flew off, but kept on at it (like he hadn't cum at all). I had at her again, right after that."

"You stud-brains are disconnected from anything but penile satisfaction."

"As you would never! She was a tigress man, we hardly slowed her down. Like I said, if it wasn't for the herb, I would have gone down way-early."

"On her?"

"Did I ever give Mr. Ty the opinion I was a ladykiller?(Ditcher.) Believe me, I was green-ass they came."

He scratched his chin.

"Buddy, you're they, and they's you, and your lickin' them pussy lips like you're spouting this shit."

"How'd you know?"

"You're too self-conscious to do acrobatics in an older, nympho perfect-bo-licious babe-girl, when other boys are watching. You're too sanitary to go in and goggle their warning jiz. You'd wipe her out with alcohol, before you stuck precious Bobby-pecker for two more reams."

"How sure are you?"

"Very."

"If you want to believe it, I'll let you."

"What's that suppose to mean?"

"She asked us for satisfaction, and as good fathers' sons, we complied. You can't leave a woman hanging - 'specially not a warm-oven one. Didn't you see us the next day?!"

"Yea. You brewed up those looks to fade my spirits."

"Would we do that?"

"Yes. Unequivocally."

"You can ask her."

"Eat shit."

"I've got her number..."

His mind disallowed any such information. As with many, Sal was bound for suffering, for not jumping, for being like Hime, for not letting inner-man be moved by women's sexual whims. Hime, like Sal, was a holdout on Earth's lost-interest for waiting.

"You use it. She'll use you, and you'll think under her thrusts, you're getting the goods, calling her out."

"Damned right. You don't know a good thing when it's a leap and a bound in front of you." He smacked Sal playfully on the corner of his square-circle, eliptical-recto-pounded peg.

"Buck up. Go hit the books with Hime-"

He was right, and he was right.

It was the redundancy of ebbing tides that really viloquently said it all.

That little line marking hi water...

"-six figures'll get'em too."

'Thought my whole insides squirted out when I came - I kept coming and rolling... like a river.' That part set him on edge. Hime heard it, with one little unspoken comment.

'F-that old lady hadn't-of fucked mutual me-and-me up,' he's thinking, 'things would be different.'

"What-you; do? Jump and drink death, or not jump, an-go thirsty?"

Sal took a long swig on his cheap, whiskey forget-me-not.

"Fuck if I know."

He gave up.

Danger:

This story has no moral.

Did you want one?

Usually, people can't stand (it) (if) they're (their) morality (cums up).

There, attenuated by a certain prospect....

whose prospect was a clear choice in a cloud-strewn skunk cabbage sky, yore-theory's booys n-gorls involved with themselves, couldn't be better situated to kindly ignore they're morality.

They are morality through and through. Their as our. Their very deep concept things are wrong, and thus fun to do, sitting foremost and hidden to all basic trainings. Some get balls fumbled onto the wrong field. What's wrong is to be avoided. Wrong ways id egos first, then build, into even stronger nodes of hidden misbehaviors. What dies their wings black? Wrong can never be wholly underestimated. Wrong is falsely wrighted to some other, more familiar shape,

as philosophy's Deny! runs its due confluence. In between, the Maverick Islands confront clear vision. They add hostility, through angers deep beneath superficialities of latest fad-moral strictures we attribute to we-I-them, he-she-us. Some Moral Islands, once attenuate to land-

for some resonant cure or another, form spay of their own free-accord, breaking off completely. Morality is the break.

You are its drift.

"I look forward to America which will not be afraid of grace and beauty. I look forward to America which will reward achievement in the arts as it awards achievement in business or statecraft. and I am certain that after the dust of centuries has passed over our cities, we too will be remembered not for our victories or defeats in battle or in politics, but for our contribution to the human spirit."

President John F. Kennedy

You

-d think they had some things inopportuned in common. You'd think their thing in common would be enough, but alas, never. It was a sound thrashing she'd received by his nonexistent hand. She could hardly get out of bed the next day. She had a rough time dragging herself to the bathroom, her groin muscles were so ridiculously tired. That's how a baboon treats a simple problem: drag yourself to the bathroom, as if something therapeutic happens there. Yore's basic plastic clockradio had a play on, where Okie men taught in light-headed insufficient institutions, the relative worth of sclerotic goop pulled from clogged arteries. They talked as if all professionals were men, and the male pronoun sufficiently detected all noteworthy human traits. Her lip hurt with its subconscious bite. No matter what she did to arouse the close inspection of men (and thus herself), it wasn't good enough. Her exploit was underscored by all the other late-finishing constants who, if you happened to harbor judgments by time-elapsed, depicted nothing by long-shot advantage to men's slowest running efforts. She was in a different league completely - and that bothered her mightily. In the past, she only lived to dominate men's spew-and-die reproductive conquest-win-compete instinct. With three or four (even five once!) apprentices at the art of loving, there was no A to B questions of who scored highest. The men left drained, exposed and weathered, their outer visage peeled the whole way down in a fury of female sun, wind and torrential storm retaliation for male pronouns, male colors, male collective mind gone astray - ah, but that way was-gone now. So on the years' road we go... there exists a new-old route of show-upsmanship in the ride a Harley motorcycle, run marathons, and command a business prowess, points of human-view. She would dominix front and center, the ecology men empty-headed their worship so forwardly to. She would crush the old mores, seeking hot-steel quench in the icely-worded justice of newer mores, pragmatisms and feats of inchoate abandon. Her white-colored collar shows a lack of brittlemettle in an unindustrial TIG welder's union of slack off every chance you get under umbrellas of sagely ministered government contracts.

Her position as overseer caused a lot of sparks (and friction) in the old boys club, but she bore her responsibility with all the overfight she could morally muster. Still, although she worked twoce as hard, it wasn't enough. They wanted more. (Bastards!)

They suckered her for being too thorough, too sloppy, too prompt, too slow, under strong-armed pressure to-n-from (read: "in and out of") a Workers' Union that didn't appreciate its feather bedding all fluffed up. She filed for abuse of gender-specific constraints, and won out of court, a tasty settlement the We the People wrote off as a loss to affirmative action's wide open hands. She used its front money to bystand job openings, until the right one opened up. (With a few skid-greasing rickety-fingered moves her former opportunity employers had taught her by example). It was a God-send of a job-the sort where you had to check the sky at the door, so you'd somehow have limits to work against the following day. With the fine example of other more informed women personnel, she clumped steadily to the apex of here and now's R&D department, waiting patiently to hear of her inevitable mastery, and assisted 'step up' to the next logical course of elucidational action. Sometime later, she met Hime again.

He resisted her as best he could. He tried really hard - as hard as any man was expected to, given an inferior sense of sense, a general lack of moral fortune, and the fact kicking them sexual awards in the nuts, renders males childlike and helpless. She examined her quarry from several feet above, admonishing him for insulting her so, for that took a lot of nerve-confusing thens with nows and heroes! I'm as diva-like as you choose to make me-no more, none less. Don't call me making airs, anteing-less bilelike than your accusations I feel a need to rudely refute. (What acusations?) I merely asked you a question. It was not a particularly loaded question - it could be seen as a compliment by a man with some meat between his hearing. I don't care to discuss your sordid rendering of the past, wherever I happen to fit intuit. He knows this, and more. He knows she's the one from the story. She is the woman he was aggrandizing in his latest-laugh fantasy. He tries to drink and forget her. Her steamy-thigh'd rendition, told by five wide-open-eyes boys, couldn't have hacked at his hedgerow more effulgently. It was the crem-dela sickle, whacking carefully-trenched boughs from their coxswain's orders of how to sprint, strike, cover big-bad gaps something could deal dirty through, stroke as hard as you can right NOW! and I merely ask because I've earned it. You have to admit it's true. Heather nestled gorse to hear that line, a bush sticking straight out for a sensibly desolate stretch of northland moors. You could tell they both thought islands like that just didn't exist; but they loved the none-so linear lay of the land anyway.

Rerun the lopsided heresty. That's what science is worried about. One eye is the oneledge there's something beyond the thinking of its other. There's a sty on the lip of one's perception

obscuring the lineament of there's now and here. It is the monumental truckle (truckle-slavery) Why is it they don't teach you that word (truckle-work) in school? Redundancy. School (oxymoron) is for teaching the redundant, making you think it's original. School is in conspiracy with all books' indirect-product of schools, because you haven't read a book by someone who's never been formed by any school NOW have you? Its redundancy demand-and-supply curve questions its own wan existence. Enter and exit through the same door? What's so wrong with that... you won't even get a chance to offer sacrifice to the question mark. Both doors are similated. To assimilate it, similes the sty-education process. Perception demands stereoscopic vision with either (not both) side(s) of our dissimilar-similar brains. It's artistic-enigmatic vs. a pact with the practical, and scientific. Right side (=left brain)'s a little lost. It wants somewhere to hang a big peg on your wall, to view yore-world upside down, like a bat without radar to set things straight. Perception feels failure, intimidated the wrong way around by interred-forever knowledge, its other side looks through. The sty in your eye, is a forced-intervention to here and new's now-depth. You asked for it: (I don't want to see it) and It came. It obcured the pre-obscured rudeundant position. You sire AA much-detested frameworks haphazard writhes can't shake off. It's rough. Its truckle is the belief that, that is that. That's the way it is; why ask Angels of mortals the answers?! It is fickle. It is immutable. Science pretends to push its limits out, pushing instead, a black-shale envelope from their formaldehyde-flexible, deathly fickle hands. "Who is woman? Who is man? Judges, the evidence; please!", opening it's fragility, with a small sledge hammer, by pushing the it in the answer back to the no such address sender. It, is examining itself-its tenants-down the tiniest tubule of infinitesimal depth. There is no batter thick enough to support its mighty mental weight. It sinks, as all spoons destined for finders' licked-fingers, must disappear to the bottom of their bowl. It is a tangle to thoughts. Questions? How does it foil with our concerted aspirations? Who's paying the bills for this redundancy, we can't know exists? Parkinson's law demands island's flatulence must bubble up to meet Soma's undisclosed sight. What's more, if you know there's a callous vacuum of other suspendable pegs, your yore's more careful not to foul the one you're hanging on. It has to be that way. If you know there's a plethora of backup systems, your failures will expand to push the last one to its blanch-knuckled dimension of one fist, grasping for dear life, a white-knuckled other one. Your perception has acquired a sty to distract itself from intimacy. It mangles the knowledge that it, is the primary conspiracy. It occludes the silent discourse with immutable mercenaries, blocking forthright discovery of the backup systems' summing up the parochial knowledge... you could, maybe, possibly, carefully-design haphazardly into a book, for, if you know the scope of your own detritus, (humming all its parallel programs), you're whatknotting your way to a shutdown.

The last thing anyone wants on this planet is that. Shutdown's bad, because

shutdown wantonly describes a perfect work of emotional art. Shutdown truckles mind to it.

Emotions betray their lack of understanding. Your best (real) intentions can't get their innate, unfathomed status, and thus, are unknowable to hooks. They worm and wiggle, stressing the iron, the wood, the whatnot, they ask to bore straight through. Nothing is strong enough to hold them.

They smash machines. They spray lead.
You know, they split and splinter the rind of the conditions in this sphere we impose.

Juice seeks its gravity's demands. Nothing makes it spill. (Got it?)

The primary problem both the haves, and the have-nots experienced, was their lack of common ground. Women and men, for instance. They both had similar sides of annotated Earth system brains, but they couldn't seem to comment on the weight of meeting one starboard or port to the redundancy of its other redundacy. There was a major risk in these quake-zone rifts of hemisphere, but at the platform of its instability, the Himes of the world met the Nuncies,

(and/or) the Nymphos met he-man monks, etc.

He was concerned with the way the water rippled.

The sun seemed to add its immutability, shimmering a white-hot dazzle you simultaneously ignored, and burned your eyes to see. Reruns didn't exist. For the want of them, red ghosts projected the redundancy on everyone. He was talking to someone whose face she couldn't see. Vivant introduced him through another friend of hers, and they both squinted a true desire to ascertain how the other looked (hooked). Unfortunately, the prosody of water's flection

announced its redundancy in a re.

Nuncie was as old as he wanted her to be. He projected her as mechanically as he ever did.

She had no sty perceiving him (she was, after all, not perceiving him any way), and allowed her peristaltic redundancy systems to shut down, just for an instant. It was, as the cliché defines it, love at first sight. Thy kingdom for a horse to flee on, he thought later.

That's when he died.

The part of Nuncie that liked being neurotic died when he did.

She was sad for its passing.

(It takes para-egotistical locus, to write die as a metaphor. He didn't really die as he was told to believe in dying; he embarked on a form of journey, which meant girding another peg with the diciest side of his podunk brain that liked that sort of thing. His intellect saw it as an ominous move, and tried vainly to keep it from happening.)

That's about the time he meat-hooked her.

Did she make him face the ilk he was responsible to?

(Itself?) Who?

"Yes, I told him whatever he didn't want to know."

"No" means: well, you make out your own mind on the matter.

Lil-like a blank check. Lill-like sesame open foreplay.

Nuncie had little die in her death. It happened, like leaves start truing slightly red at their edges, way before their fall. Later that week, she wondered about the organization of a cause and effect that granted love one moment, than yanked it way-away the next. Hime was her soulmate, and he was in the grasp of a lowdown driven sex-starved lunacal mistress bent of besting men out

by buying their sport-sweaty balls. It stated the obvious so succinctly,

her eyes were still red with their First Place glare.

In the second marathon, she didn't bother imagining Hime. Hime was a reality.

He was a new man, and New, is always suspect. Hime was another statistic of old with a fresh coat of layaround paint, trimmed with a subtle wash of light blue collared-tie. Hime tried looking different, to reclude the possibility he wasn't, and remove direct doubts of innocent bystanders to his own dazzling reflection, that he was the wind on the there of here and now's water,

not the sun shining brightly on a clear, cumulus-free sky.

Hime wanted her to re-image, as the older woman he really wanted.

He wanted here and now's silently, the whole time, from the monument of eunuch off the dock, to the vagrantly beckoning looks, and her direct propositions. He wanted the last thing on his mind, so he wouldn't have to want the object of his designation. He was on fire for the famous looks, when the lest of it, was the water of emotion, all wash-n-wearers yearned from.

Hime was a water sign. (He couldn't tell it though.)

He was a water island locking a sea of earth in municipal-transit tides.

Everything had a program-a routine this system demanded. Right = left had a frightful grip on his life. He answered this with a new woman, and a correspondingly sore dick.

Flaubert

It was an automated voice relay system. It activated by mistake

every night at 2:10 am for a year. It id this before someone had the misfortune

to be locked inside the mens room, passed-out on a white totem of Freud's misfortuneate anal-retentive toilet misdiagnoisism. He partied with a section-head; he'd sooner be be found here, than in the executive john covered with vomit, so he politely excused himself and staggered the least amount possible to accidentally collapse two floors down, coma'd out in the ammonia cleaning solution just swabbed by the efficient, grateful dead lobby jam-itorial squad (as they were affectionately toddled to stiff-shirted gerties). G-dead-L Jisers, as the ultra-vos-Pres called 'em, had a pretty good job. They were flagrantly exempt from the company-wide pee in a cup priority policy, and were allowed to crank whatever tunes they needed at or abouts 2:00 am till opening time. It was the "milk in a bucket", of some whining song, that awoke Himi-man hunched over the toilet. The ammonia was so strong he was crying on the shirt he'd dribbled all over. As it happened (and tends to happen), the PA system had a discrete problem, (ad-hawked most of the time) but occasionally it did broadcast, and only to the mens room, the intimate phone line of a certain Sharen Bisulphe, whose evening modem beeped the terminal monody of machines talking shit to each other. Reeling from the ear-splitting high-frequency warble, mixed irreverently with the recently-deceased Jerry Jarcea, James Madison the third puked, all oblivious to his overblown title, in his free floating left wingtip, all angry Murphities called the "It happens.", given an absence of shit. His shoe runith over with slop, and that is the exact moment the modem broke the soul of the Warning Personnel! cover-up.

Young groovy bachelors got only groovier with time. That's what they thought, and that's how they acted. Manny wanted the work to be easier, so he could snoop the secretaries' ranks more thoroughly for idstincive possibilities. He and Hime wanted a lot of things material, so they pinned up pictures of speedboats, nice houses, cars and you name it on their fridgerators, toilet-opposed walls, dish cupboards, and auto dashboards. That's why Manny liked Hime. He did have some big aspirations. Hime now watched a disemphotoed mansion upend its contents into his other size-eleven wingtip. It was a horrible clutter of internal cuntbustion engines, sidewalk sale cheezebos, tacky antique look-alikes, and too many monthly magazines shiny with next-things to buy. It was frank-horrible, in its own right, but better than the DTs of examining those green poo-poos undigested from the so renditious hard alcohol cocktale party. He's beeswaxed his best intentions, and spilled them all. The girl, the plans, the marriage, the dickless past, the monster man, the three hour suck-fucks, the marathons' thighs, the vice move. . .shit. Lucky he's forgotten it all. And that's when the auto/manual warning light (that burnt out some time ago) started flashing, fighting for recognition before the collected, electronic voice-override began its message. Calling all personnel. . . settling in to the task of warning nobody there, about impending problem G-DeadL Jisers had covered right up.

Jisers had a jillion versions of every Grateful Dead song, done any year you'd like to hear it. Young Neil worked the PA console to Jerryize the wavelengths at the exact stroke of two am. Ultra-vos(vice)-Pres put up with it, because he was an old longboard dropup from the North Shore, and the cleaning staff was the pride of his division. A major Silicon Valley firm had tried to buy them out in a hostile takeover, but the Jamiters had stayed true to surf boss Lynch. Sky was so touched by the Jamiter's belligerent honesty - "He's the only man in this din of materialism-bullshit world, woth a false statement on a drug test.", that he banished the test completely for anyone making less than a tube of liverwurst for take home pay, and went so far as installing a key-operated sound system with double auto-reversing metal-bias tape drives.

That and, the doughnuts.

Early mourning doughnuts really make a man popular.

So his G-DeadL Jisers loved him;

and what he (it) boiled down to was a case of impersonation.

Hime impersonated the wise, eclectic holier-than-thou, as a smoke screen for not boiling down the shallow conspiratorial scam. His intuition was hopelessly befuddled with ego, left brain, memory, and morals. In his darker moments, he says he's fucked. In his lighter, his exposure correction is pushed two stops back instead of one forward. There is the operation voice some Christians call divine windows from God, but it is covered with telephone rings, metaphorical Grateful Dead tunes, headspins, and naughty, tasty, bits of the conversations somebody else thoughtfully pipelined into the equivalent of his personal mens room. It was all becoming alarmingly clear, slumped in the corner with a shoe store of useless soupy stuff. Attention personnel:

Attention personnel: There is a problem. To address this problem is to create a fanatical problem.

Fanatical problems are very hard to solve. Nevertheless:

Attention Personnel: is something relative to

Calling all personnel.

That's me

he thought

It had something to do with the computations a significant portion of the business depended on.

When they locked him in the mens room by bong-hit mistake, he had a long hard night of sobering up to think about it. Pounding on the door was useless. G-dead was so lounge-lizard loud, there wasn't a Shinto priest closer than a stelllar parsec that could have saved his ass. He alternately lay, and slumped, rather dejectedly in the sterile, ammonia-reeked corner, and felt his brain sculpt new neural passageways, under the destructive instruction of strong nose-splitting fumes.

It was a fairly rough night.

Whose late morning latch finally turned.

He staggered two stumps of pinched-nerve-ending leg, and pretended to do something constructive over the sink. When he saw the last, straggling G-DeadL . . .

"You been in here all nine hours?"

"Only five."

"Ma-bummer-maan."

"Yea."

And the tunes shorted out, siding with the slide to home of the modem's piercing tonality,

its disattachment forming the beginning of easy-listening Sharen's red-hot phone, and the orchestrated shutoff of the message that got him thinking.

"Have you ever heard. . .?

G-deadL Larry waited for the musical question, that never came.

"You know, on the. . ."

Never mind. What's the use?

He's probably in charge of voice-overs, tweaking that sound-stage mixer Sky gave them to completely obviate the error recording. Your jamiters are the secret police; aren't you suppose to kill me now I've figured it out? You'll never get away with it-you know that don't you?

I guess I atolled here too long.

He turned and loafed fluidly out.

"Yes?! Quell it!"

Sky Lonngboard Champ Ultra-voce-Pres Lynch was not pleased.

He was a lot less than pleased. Sky was about to be a very unpopular man.

Every night, the computers devoted their whole RAM memories to processing the bewildering array of figures Sharen's midrift modem snatched directly from a high-priced information service run exclusively by one of Kine-Sky's friends. It seems that Sharen's juicy tidbit liaison phone calls (know by all men in the building, and rumored true by agency spies camped in cubicles during lunch periods) had either fried the line, or an unknown jamitorial scapegoat had crosswired some trickily sabotaged windows (divine variety) to move rather all-necessary decimal points left.

The end result of this is, Hime's fired. He is the messenger bringing the news that's so bad, kissing puke-drenched ammonia ground won't justify his unexpected good luck in still being fully possessed of his head. Sky couldn't help it. Like being punched, and fielding it with a block-the disheveled vomit-reeking shoes, the crumpled shirt and straight-out hair . . . and then, what he said last night. The fellow was unsuitable. Clearly so. What business did he have bragging about a woman like that? His imagination was out of touch after so many years of male impotence. The man was a liability - a definite stable of threats. The wonder girl would leave him, and then what? Endless therapy. Suicide attempts. Malaise. Non productivity. He could be confusing his allegiances already. He could be schizophrenic. For all Sky knows, Hime rigged the whole thing, hoping to pull down the empire, get paid off by the competitors, libel Sky against the employees, sell off the Jamitors, take over the company, and get a fat raise for finding the whole problem in the first place.

"Hime, I've got some bad news myself..."

He couldn't imagine what it would never in a million years be; for now and here's always a shock. Father Mother curator God had tweaked the whole formulation for the prime reason Hime was employed. Hime was hoping for tenure. Hime didn't now and here correctly, until he got fired. It has to happen that way. Test passed - no lounging - lizards in High School lobbies once the diploma is pocketed (or earned) - out on the streets with you,

for yore good or inevitable bad.

"Funny thing happened to me a the office last night to this morning."

"You what?!"

This was very bad for Hime's newfound relationship.

He got depressed, and she sought relief in sizing him up.

Would this man allude to her past, in reference to her future?

Here and new's girl wanted nothing but the future. The furthest future happened right now.

Depression is a disease, by her righteous reckoning. She couldn't be exposing her big plans to an insidious organism of doubt. His severance pay runs out, and he is forced to seek work in a lowered-stature job. This, as you can imagine, did not impress the hard-driving marathonist.

She started seeing another man, cloying they'd never saddled a relationship with monogamal exclusivity. He was forced to agree, and paid twenty bucks for a blowjog (making airplanes flying at different altitudes listen closer to the sound of the air over their wings). She was, as usual, having a better time than most people had in a whole year of their boiled-down rendered life in ongoing forty eight hour stints. He was insanely jealous of this jig she danced, and wanted to kill her golder than golden goose to get it. Sky was right.

She dropped him, as he capitulated to her endless demands.

He thought he needed bargaining chits. He had (as far as he could see) none

when actually, he was flush with them.

When the river snakes though a mud bog, tidal water still sparkles, It could be marshy, squiggly with living nasties, polluted to the high-fives and a sluggish death. All you need, is a wind to the surface, blowing away its inverse precipitate, fraying the water to ripples, and melting the clouds' heavy stank. The little facets of lively water become dancing mirrors. They catch and throw their light, bouncing the jig. . . nobody has guess enough to predict its possibility. . .

nobody but. . .

and them bad feelings flew.

He/she's the none-only one who screeched the brakes on their trolley in the first place.

He-she is the redundancy in every situation. Heshe hardwires it in.

The lessons Hime needed to learn were situational. They existed all over the place, submotive and extramotive, reflection-oriented, devined through eeiry ways just devised to look, and cast old tried-true perseverent perspectives. (Plus a lot more still to be invented). He realized this too, on the ammonia bathroom floor, but it took Nuncie's apartment to make him remember.

That occurred once he set his mind to romance.

That's when Nuncie called him.

"When he entered a Buenos Aires restaurant almost three decades after his retirement, everybody stood. They recognized their hero. Once, I asked him about the 1955 LeMans disaster (in which 80 racers died), and he replied simply:

'Destino'.

Good gracious! I thought.

The man assumes there is no such thing as luck!"

Juan Manuel Fangio

Nuncie was just what the doctor ordered.

Nuncie had the things he lacked. Did she care? Does a cat care where the food comes from, as long as its bowl is filled? This isn't a fir tree falling in the woods anymore. This is reality, with microphones and cameras. Science is looking. It is measuring her secret jitters and flusters. She is aware he is the last chance he has for love. He is meeting her knowledge with severe shortages of insight. So many things are interfering with the Follow her go-ahead green light, it seems unlikely he'll need any help screwing things up. Some part of him is the shortstop sobbing at the end of the pennant series, drenched, for making invaluable errors in the ready-made overtime when it's still the bottom of the third. He is setting the stage for disaster, without knowing he's throwing the fame of winning away, just for thingking he needs to. That powerboat car machine heaven emptied into his show-stopping performance that evening in the mens room, has a sneer-valuable toilet telling him what happened, what will happen, and how he's most likely fickle-enough with happiness, to shut the whole program off before they announce he has five minutes to ask the operator for six million dollars at 1-800-WIN-THIS. It was a serious stroke of far-fetched fate that kept his ears open enough to hear the crashing of sky-red timber, thinking it's sagaciously peering down at the world's woes, as the lightning zaps it to smithereens. Yielded with a flash of static electricity... BANG! Down she goes; why question the bane of the sky that followed? Because sometimes, questions follow miracles

and angels instruct their answers.

Nuncie was caught in his web.

He had no idea he'd laid it, but she struggled there anyway.

He was savagely trying to forget what he already knew-right down to the pinpointed key words that would force him to remember it all over again. "Eat shit and die." They made the saying for him. He had to eat the shit of no words lost for their telling, before he could lover-her properly. The shortstop is sobbing, thinking back the hundredth replay of his foul-up, wishing he still had the inning over again, looking at the sleeping pills' dare when he's still batting in the fourth.

He has no idea his projections are throwing the game. His fears are asking the inevitable to tweak reality. Reality is a supple player. It twists and jerks to accommodate your pitches.

Anyway, the whole team is so anxious it élans a moment of silence, and through his TV

he acquires a speck of vision. The moment he stepped in her house, he smelt ammonia.

That's when it all came back. He remembers ordering a large karmic pizza full of grunts and groans, full of bad pitches and minimal effort, knock-knees and white knuckles. He remembers throwing the friggin' game before it even gets splayed on the overly statisticized records.

He is under the tree as it falls, to cushion the sound he won't have to hear, being driven like a spike into her ground. He is trying to foul-out, when they told him (the angels) the ball is still very much in play. In the drunken stupor of redundancy images, he sees himself, and himself, hemself and himself and himself as butter-tipped clones melting on jizz's scabbard of life. One is the wild free spelunker, one is the above-ground drudge. One is looking to the shy girl who wantonly wants to talk something impertinent to him. One is watching the tree bearing down. They are tasty in their here and nows own rights, but they are incomplete-lacking a cutting edge to fray against the grain of a round tip frank-livered low rssp! sharpening rock. He smells the amount of buss-amp switches he's thrown off; and lights the stage anew. It is empty. It is ammonia-clean.

"Hello Hime. Sorry about the smell-I thought we could go out for a walk or something."

"Nuncie, you may not believe this, but I like ammonia. Mind if we stay here for a few?"

"I don't care. Make yourself comfortable."

it wasn't a shabby place, but it was modest. In her neurotic past, she tried to deep-zex all reminders to the things that upset her. It constituted the sun-total of most things belligerently material, that people kept in their homes.

"You like things simple, don't you?"

"That was the old me."

"What about the new one?"

"I don't know yet."

She was breaking through the web. He saw it from his perch under the leaves, hinged for quick attack or defeat - by slaying the largest beast possible, and slinking from the keensharp beaks of predatory birds. What do you mean by that? The part that watched the tree wanted to say it.

NoNo! Spike me now! Don't tell the riddle. They unanimoled.

All he could fling from his Kruschev shoe was Sharen, and his weakened hope that she was fired too, so they could go down togethered. Nuncie was dangerous. Walking up someplace heightened when you've been in a cave, can be very disorienting. It is a whole new world,

and self-conspiracies like safe+secure+familiar surroundings to fake-out.

Numskull that he was, he forgot to bring a rubber.

I dreamed I was two people.

You did?

I mean, I was the same person, but clones of each other .

Question: "Exact clones?"

Nothing of the sort. I was distinctly different people, and yet, I was the same person.

What was the biggest difference?

One was wilder-more passionate that thanked me for letting him do what he wanted to.

So there were three of you then?

In a fashion

Which one kind of sing-songs?

How did you know that?

I have two persons that are me, also.

Interesting!

Eastern, or western seaboard?

I never thought about that.

Let me ask you this: (Question)

No person could undersate a snide-anger like that.

What's that?

I thing my followers are mostly concerned with the wilder one.

Who is the wilder version? Am I tall above him now?

(As she slipped to her feet.)

He was here; then he left.

How sad. How unfortunate, I can't have both of them.

She wanted both. She was no longer interested in one.

Neurotism, her last line of defense against Hime, was strong; so he-she let it run

(the Redundancy thing-k)

till it had lost taste for itself. She was crazy about stupid things to show her

it hopelessly travailed over anything more "worthwhile" (she might assume to deride).

You're neurotic often.

Often neurotic is redundant.

Brain worried-agog too many things to focus, on less materially-bound booty

to evade the deeper knowing inside. That knowing

wanted to come out now.

He fought with it,

and her want to show him.

He was busy dying.

It was excellent theatre.

Nuncie didn't care his last paycheck equaled her whole year's salary.

Did she wander thoughts to the life they could financially constrict together?

Did she imagine her life in the suburbs with a three-car glorious garage?

That's the kind of small thingking his last girlfriend abhorred.

The cat's meow, was a mansion on the River Lane, a carriage house, tennis courts, etc. i.e.

He wasn't cut out for it, slinking through he alleys of lesser-paying jobs,

ascertaining his worth in relationship to her absences.

Nuncie didn't ask him why he applied for a jamitorial position

in a restaurant just opening. She said, in her older-years wisdom:

"Cool."

He was still in shock.

The loss of the thigh mosquito didn't faze her a bit.

She was fingering bigger and better things.

In the restaurant, there were loads of artifacts from the 50s. It had taken over a pizza joint that followed the underworld dealings of the local sector with a slow lock fast key niche and dime-storm parking meter, Rue symgological chapter-eleven flat-out tits up do anything who cares if it's illicit? over a period of eleven years. A massage parlor instructed a love-happy local official on the proper way to pass a referendum, and moved in quietly to the grand went-bust Arrearstauraunt's basement, where it did a brisk, if not slightly shady business all hours of the night and day. Bdut the real reason she offered such a ridiculously low sum for the place, was it sat empty four more years while "special" massage notoriety flourished. Artillery blasted the fragile edifice of certified Swedish Practitioners, but the mob running the place had the medial media jocks well-laced with free visits. It seemed to expedite embarrassing investigations' removal from the all-important public mooring rag. Hime signed up for work to try something very different. He was impressed with Nuncie's frugality, and down--to--earth feel. Grand slam base-squeezing home fun-runs weren't nearly as edge-of-the-seat with her, but other things warranted a closer instruction. Mrs. Marathon could squish him silly with the taught bark of steely, selective exposing-her rhythmetical thrust and absorption of his young-hearted rocket sled, for one. Nuncie was more subtle... more sublime. Sure, he missed the slack-jaw overeating of those ropy, languorous sinews. Who in their rigged mind wouldn't kill for a dick-muff like her? He thought about this, with a stuffed calm entree skittering on his shaky-fisted plate. It was their first day of business, and he'd never served anyone in anything like this buy-eatitall-regret eating too much fall of the tree BANG! it hits the forest ground point of view. Food was an intriguing discipline.

It buttered your brain with excessive denouement-it hooked the greedy bits of a seamless guessworks : What's the intuition, and what's the id ego leg thalamus hyperkinetic left-brain slinky conspiracy? Foofy-fork philanderings overloaded stomach contents asking for embarement - fork silently loathing its continued shoveling of satisfy the need that can never get filled. That's me and my mates, Hime thought. We were the pardonable patrons filling themselves sick with fat, they'll later sew to some other problem. It was extra-insidious.

Manny thought he was crazy.

"You haad-eet; what all men waanted. Sheet. You blew it, ma bro-thr."

He hadn't quite connected her to the main-line on the dock.

"What's this shit you're tailing? I haven't heared you talk like this before."

Nuncie thought it was better than good. She agreed, from her now non-split point of view.

"Is that why you don't have much stuff (i.e. material possessions)?"

He asked her.

"No."

She didn't lie

and

the restaurant was more interesting every day.

Older folks came inside, took one look around, and left.

Older folks stood at the door waiting to be seated when the place was nearly empty.

Older folks headstrong'd very fizzle-original ideas about what should be on the menu.

They didn't love the music, because they'd never heard it before.

They left in a huff, when they saw the cook had dreadlocks.

They didn't even taste the best omelet they never would.

Older folds of brain, seems to happen at any age.

One little girl had to tell her mother this pace is wird.

Did she like weird? No. Hand it to mom-

she taught her daughter well.

Mao-momma was too afraid to say it out loud herself-

posing to be liberal, and all.

All inside is outside, he told Nancy later on.

And all outside is sham.

How about you>me?

she lashed back.

That's what kept Manny wondering what was up with his friend.

Hime ditched the hottest thing to touch-down/embody on earth, for Ms. Oedipuss.

_ Check her for commit the bastard.

_ Does he know what's happening?

It's the sort of box you can check, or not check.

Doesn't matter.

The place was struggling. People were having a hard time making the quantum shift from chicken fried steak ever Monday night (repeat) and to be radical, taco salads on Television Yeager-swoop powerdivesfordinner before the fabulous sitcums' Wednesdays. Mericals were used to reading the same 'merican deep-fried music on their menus for their whole miserable small-placed lives. Hime had moved, you see. He now lived much more Nuncie-style in a two-room rental closer to her source. The big city apartment had to jump out its empty-checkbook window, to achieve a certain momentum you have to achieve as a retain-your-shirt terminus point to consumers' need for money. Business has to reset slug trails to its establishment. You-as-they need to convince their instincts to change affections for the old furrows ad-hoc jumping thin divides to the now and here's illusion you're now not in a rut. It is the inevitable birth of overly dictionary-dyed works of anti-originality. It is imperative We the People believe they are going somewhere coming to (falling from) your bankrupt money-maker. They have to hinge on the secondary conspiracy of change for the better is possible, when 'the better' is a long-lost species of thought. The new Friendly Spoon restaurant was run by a man's dream woman, if man could hijack the shit-for-brains principle he operated deFaust on, and crash its plane.

She was a wonder in a sea of wanting same-familiar-looksalike. She was the brainchild for a place ahead of its time. It attracted the best perspectives for difference, because They the People were trying too hard to avoid it. Ten earrings didn't mean shit.

Weird rags were par for the course.

They were all old people, in posers' clothing.

Did she run her business, to teach them a lesson?

Depends if you're a spelunker.

"Rad." "Cool kind'a place." "Never shuts down." words traveled.

S-l-o-w-l-y, just as the crucifixion date was set, things started picking up.

She gave the man in the uniform a blowgob to set the cogs of officialdom in move option.

Her lick'r license was approved by the grace of a computer error.

(The date was miraculously moved up nine months.)

She paid off the men who make it appeal-proof.

Her best instincts said pay the higher-ups of the ones who claimed they needed paying too,

and that was the clincher. Older people started coming, and not complaining. Why?

They were so desperate to be sagely risqué, they were soon frequently seen draining endless vials of nobottomed coffee beneath the very gobstopper God warned them he's gonna drop on comments made on what's transpiring "beneath" them. Two months before, the Friendly Spoon was where the crazies hung our good God-fearing town on their rebel line. It was most certainly beneath them. Here, now, they dallied eating giant blueberry-bran pancakes, daring to think about the Ms. Manners, the owner's black nylons, and the mischief happening in the massage parlor beneath them. They went in pretending the menus were the same as elsewhere, that Frank Sinatra followed by the Beastie Boys was normal, and short-shorts on a man weren't indecent on a hot day.

Nuncie thought his stories were wonderful.

Nice nattering Nuncie was niece on a flavorful stick.

Iron thoughts couldn't phase her.

Soft slippery one'd could.

Now:

Think of the worst thing that's ever happened to you.

That's what authors want to laminate to their struggles with pens.

They want you jibing with their tongues. They want you sobbing as their own brothers die wretched deaths, over and over again. They want you hard, and wet. They want you dreaming of the person who will suddenly knock on the door and be thrown inside, so-sating the burning need even the honestly-chaste feel firing to reproduce. Jar them. Wake them up. Send them laughing into paroxysm, like the very first time you smiled before crying. Send them here and there through the emotional roll and pitch asking life to Hit it. You are like the older people over the massage parlors, reading this.

Glass sags.

You know that, don't you?

Glass is a liquid. It seeks ITS foment.

It is the slave of gravity.

Mirrors, are made of what?

It's all sort of imbicine-like asinine and imbecile.

You think Nuncie is some gong-show applicant? Shishkabobbed here-and-now, she did, yessir.

Nuncie was a shot in the dark. Her mean low cauterized the heart of a certain male who tried his darndest not to listern-)not like listen and cistern(. Eventually, the destiny nobody believes is any more prevalent-tasking than a simple, dumb, lick-the-lollipop luck, stuck them uno-tologically together. You're sure there isn't any risky hanky-panky locking fates fast? Try superglue.

It is a rival question to here and now's lovely, velvet-skinned thighs.

It's-all relational to her precipice of relative relationships.

All reflections are a moist fog on the glass that's otherwise clear.

All reflections are very din.

The emotional milieu, if you will, is the haze the piercing relationships we form with other's can't penetrate fullys, kindly ingrating the infuriating information our doubles-in-the-mirror ask. The counterpoise of gentlemen addressing their infra-red cover-ups, and Darwinian women mahn-ipulating birthday skins to other people's mores, are the more laughable bits of the script. You see your life and you don't. Nuncie is "neurotic", and then, she suddenly recovers. Manny hears an internal nod, and a benzene scorch of guilt-amour in almost the same moment. He is confronted with a hall of extraneous images (as are most people praying for guidance as they redundantly down Stouts to forget in colic what their godly-vibed pre-answers were). Hime has a futile heart. Young flesh on the marathon dock becomes an older, more sustained Dramamine for empty-life nausea. All characters on the playwright's stage become their own fire's fuel. They Ty their knots of incapitulation, ignoring all hell-bents of wind-flickering images, that faintly reflected them. Tirade is a self-inflicted cantos. Tireaids foam loathing at the orator's lock of listening. They try to shoal the ship of the argument, spraying it's dirty hourless windows with spittle, steam and rage. All problems and traumas stray from their lighter shades of reasoning. They batter the walls asked to be battered, using engines stolen from the building blocks of walls they slowly disassemble-the only ones that fall in the diatribe of wars. Bilious bricks, once defensive, not entirely changed ... are now not offensive? All defeat malingers in the formulation

of the strangest walls imaginable for conquering.

Wanton exhibit : Yore.

Oedipism is some senile work for people indevested from mythologms.

Numeral-uno is the end result of one and one is none-other than (toe the loin) two.

How can the one be additional? It can be a collective, or singular.

Numerology sets seven against three. It conquers won with two. Nuncie knows this, in the deep-grave aftermath of the consternation, neuroticism ends (up) in. Did she have to worry about not worrying so much any more? You may bet half-heartedly on this one. Hime had to cess-ede himself somehow. Hime was nearly the cause to Nuncie's faulty cousin. He wouldn't ever see how those tow-topics corresponded. There was a certain Destino they both had ogres pushing and dragging them too-distractedly to it. This dipolar care and correction (from blatant inattention to course) led to the mumbo jumbo of heres and nows on itineraries truly tangent to the True North direction. It was exactly the same, with the dude in the punk bar. Just ask him if he needed to live through all his gun-toting addictions, manic highs and paralyzing lows.

Have you wandered in his territory, and felt scared? He was too. He was terrifircrashing in the middle of the night woods scaredso-out'a his head, there's only a dopey, spirit-drenched body doing its hearst-shifted moves. When repeat-me-not died; he did too. So did Pam Johnston Jr.'s one-upwomanship at her race. She was afraid she wouldn't reach it (her arbitrary goal). Pam Johnston was afraid she wouldn't even finish. These paralleled rudiments of mirror.

It is the cue there's a redundancy gagged to every form of recognizable originality.

If there were something original through and through, you wouldn't realize what i.e. is.

There were no wash and wear eclectic alchemistries to correlate findings upon. There were no reasons to believe the now and here (i.e.-originality) exists. Here, therefore, is a function of the then. Then is the link to the now. Steel is past and science is flint and senses don't lie.

They also don't tell the truth. There is no truth.

Relativity tolls that bell.

Francis felt the heartbreak of not voling into Nuncie.

Nuncie felt the lack of understanding his lack of voling bred.

She was given children to make her neurotic, reflecting scientifically on her diminishing chance of reproduction. She was a trained nurse, after all. Junkie-babe overloaded on the same dilemma. Her fear was she couldn't get off the stuff long enough, to have a direct descendant.

(She was a little prejudiced against droopy-eyed slack-jawed temper-tantrum babes.)

It is and it isn't.

It isn't as it is.

Hime was angry he was so stupid.

Ms. Marathon wished she hadn't offered, or done it.

(That part was exclusive, forgotten information.)

They were all scared, at every stoplight along the way.

They did it anyway.

What do you have to say for yourself?

Hime and Nuncie waited six years, to do what Destino demanded.

How long are you going to wait?

The plane gear's lagging, the hydraulics systems are failing....

there is the redundancy crank.

It's stuck.

You tap the one side down to see if the other will drop before belly landing in.

One engine shuts down.

Question-

Are you dead yet?

How many more redundancy systems do you have?

Answer-

As many as you need, to fail.

Time gets closer, as you need to enact the failure systems.

It warned you.

Don't say it didn't.

Time is a function of those systems.

They tailgate each other. To avoid them is impossible.

You may not want to comprehend your existence from a subatomic point of view.

That diesn't mean it isn't happinin' right now.

Relax. Sit back and time-witness yourself. Guess.

Cajole science; is that the answer? They loaded the shit into the wagon.

Look closer. Examine more minute slices, of the redundancy that is the reality.

What is it?

It is the same.

It is the hour, the day, and the sidereal moons.

It is the nanosecond, the time before time in the big bang fallacy-

Kabloooie!, or Om?

Who played the word, beforeth sound was invented?

In the limited life nanoseconds prescribe, we hardly concern ourself

(or ourselves, as the case my-be), with transcendental understanding, daily-reality translations, or downright BASIC curiosity. Non-mechanically, we're as supernally stupid as the most scabrous ant (as apropos to ants). We ate the apple and forgot to taste it, or tease it, for some moment-to-moment legacies. Shit happened, happens, and will happen. It downs planes

and has no particular sense.

Is it redundant in its happening, or in its series of events?

It is redundant in its happening in general.

What message could possibly be contained here?

Isn't it a bit perplexing?

Isn't it making you curious?

"Why not?"

You could ask yourself.