caffeine-ridden semen

Hard work will save us. More specifically, Blake said hard work will save us. More specifically, he (you know who I'm talking about now) said, hard work is what it will take, to solve our problems, "our" being people, and that's not such a big deal. Or something approximating that, is what he said. So there, I worked out a fragment. And that's not such a big deal. Fractal memory banging off the mandelbrot shell, neuron-pong. The a, misdirected pronoun. An article of faith or delirium. Yeah, but this that and the other makes her shake with recognition when she wishes she were something other, wearing a necklace of retinas, juggled by tendons, judged by no one, like they drag the lake - it couldn't pass for the back of a plaster support.

In times like these, I often wish I had a bucket of pine-tar. It helps me grip things. Come to grips, go to grips. A good all around substance for when you're slipping and sliding, and mumbling, and miming, and going through the motions. In times like what? Well I could say, but it's so mundane that it isn't worth an explanation. Un-non-sequitor: mundanitude is not WHY it isn't worth an explanation. It isn't worth an explantion because... it's unholy. And everything follows from that. Sapphires, rubies, emeralds, every good boy deserves fudge. The necklace jiggles, in case you didn't know, and it juggles, for your information, and it judges, in mundanitudinous robes. Maybe I only found my calling when they sentenced me to five minutes in Shawshank. "Just give me FIVE MINUTES with him, your honor". True justice isn't hard work, it's play. Or so says the next stain on the assembly line.

I'll tell you a secret: I haven't slept in half a day. But nobody seems to notice. No one is the loneliest number. And I don't care about any heartache I ever had that I don't have now. It's all juvenalia, everything past. Life goes on. At some point during the day, I manage a sneer. Exhibit S, if it will please the court. The jury, do they consider themselves cynical? Cause if so, they may find my jaded pretense charming. It's just that, well, I want an ellipse, but they won't give me the time. Like there's not enough time. Only aeons to go, arches of them vaulting higher than your office towers. They're not my office towers, but I admire them as I did the major league baseball franchise that played in the nearest adjacent metropolitan area... But they will wait, and call it deliberation, and they'll think they're being deliberate, drooling towards consensus, a thin gruel of justice, pooling on the floor, combining with moral fibers.

A series of spheres with mandelbrot meaning juggles and jeers - at me, the center of the. Contri. Langue. There's a grant in that. Life goes on, and someone else pitches a sitcom that will become a series on a major American television network. I got AIDS from watching you. My brain makes strange noises, tearing sounds, pops, when I come out of a dream suddenly, like the coming out of the dream was the result of the noise - and it's beyond creepy, like I'm "hearing" my brain, like maybe something clogging the synapses, synthetic chemicals that won't metabolize, fragments, deposits, foreign objects, things that precede strokes, aneurysms. I hope if that happens, I'll quickly be in the zone where I won't know this, but I might know that. We'll say anti-gnosis, like anti-matter, anti-time, maybe all this and that started in the past, maybe it leads to a tweaked eurethra and the crack of light from under the black door on the black field, as a weak brain signal, an image composite with limbic undertones, yes, limbic undertones, those limbic undertones, overlaid on a retina, in an upside-down eye, being fed by a head looking out a car window, what they call a child, meek and mild, what they call a christian upbringing, the merciful kind, no Perceval trial, cause there ain't no grail, unless they chroloformed him after baptism, the water was holy and spiked, and that's alright, until they draft you for the, whatever it was called, in Kurt Vonnegut's "Player Piano", where you're a worker bee, but they call it the military.

Weasel will dream in a minute, hopefully with no tire treads to mark it up. There was a good one, he almost remembered it for a second, this male weasel. The weasel is me, just to make that clear, because I'm stuck with this slack smear, and sick of fragments making anything mean anything, can't see nothing in that, but a mudslush slick on a window, and why am I a weasel? Cause I left a good-hearted girl from a heartless world to fend for herself on the streets after I promised I would come back to the shelter and see her. Why? Cause I wanted, I dunno, sweat relief, peace of mind, and I mostly have it, and I guess it's all worth it, for that sweat relief, because they don't make guilt like they use to - but we're still stuck in mud slicks and tire tracks, and those industrial grade cleaners never quite get it all out.