How To Manual

Retarded. Out of literature, on a different flow, flowing gowns of clichés. I don't know how to explain this. It sounds like some paisleyed gown of profundity. It doesn't make sense how much that makes sense.

How many iterations this phase of mortality? Once not long ago, in what might be themed a gasoline flavored peak, it seemed to me that complete understanding was present in all I perceived but out of order. The tragicomedy of my linear thoughts could not assemble the grand truth, maybe I should have taken that other hit of acid.

Just coughed, my hand is now spittle flecked. Sorry. For simple reality. Ah, the grand glut of senses that could encompass. Cryptic and lonely. Why are my egos so quiet? When did they get so humble? Bouncing words off the cold blank armor of others is a game for tundra dwellers, abominable snowmen. I only really connect to the work of the poets I KNOW, personally, and then only when we interface in those apropos motions of the ocean. Ah, assonance is trying to teach me something like McKenna's elf tykes, even in these carefully scratched up meta clauses, praying to buddha for a plastic rocket. The Shadow knows.

Could I have ever imagined novelty crusting like it did? It was a new crust, a new pattern of entropy. A half hard, not-totally flaccid bit of flesh responded, barely, through the haze of excess brain chemicals, to the pattern. Which means, to be less lonely and less cryptic, that thinking about lack of options and the running out of new things to say and see and do, led to a visual image of a transient drying out of a very limited mode of thinking. It was transcendence in cartoon form, ironically taking the form of a little plastic castle in a goldfish bowl. Oh great, Hippie Craque, a metaphor that only Raz will get. That's so very un-solipsistic of you.

At least I limboed under meta's mind. Mostly. Ah a dense hunk of useless meaning. Semantic scrapyard. Back in the control room of the Detroit Syndicate Club.

Okay, scrap that. There's doors I haven't opened yet. There's the silicon forest. Come on. Emotions in the canopy. There's a cool breeze, the void of adrenaline. There's bark with a button. The barkives. There's a swinging gunny sack, empty of extrapolations. Empty, all the better, to substance. Verbiage roughage foliage.

Tommy was a social animal. Sex drove him, as it drove everyone, in odd ways, up the walls, in to trees, into gutters, into tunnels, underground, out of the way, warsaw sewers. Cryptic, scenic route. I tripped a laser of liking my writing. For a split second, the alarm went off. It rang, reverbed axons, neurons firing, egos burning like lightbulb filament, eureka, a utilitarian use for a bundle of nerves.

Hippie Craque, what now? He's been Hector. He feels like he's flanged into third person, drooling genetic rifts off the tree of sonanmic syllables, taxonomic pools of twin slurs. He forgot to smell the roses. The scent surprised him. And daisies were in the distance, hardly suspected.

Hosebag, prosehag. Oh, the sweet gleaning of arbitrary meaning. Low-hanging fruits of synesthetic calisthenics. Yeah, I get it. Old paradigm fun, before I knew my cells by name. I still see the traps I'm in, even as I'm in them. People have defined the walls of my cage, as I have defined the walls of others. But I'm no guru. I probably make a difference anyway. Good or bad, who can say? We aren't chaos architects, we are leaves on the wind. How profound. Found.