pathetic attention grab

He ventures a stab at the oblivious hand of the blurred passerby, a smear in his artistic hangover, a ripple in the puddle that reverbs his heavy life, soaked in blue gravity, rich in ringing tragedy, horizontal and on the concrete of a busy street, waking up groggily, how else would it be? This first person voyeur likes to watch himself in third but is horrified when he lays eyes on his dying self. He's fresh back from Mandrake's land of hellgames and simulations of diabolical dealing. Cosmopolitan to the point of being unable to communicate the time of day to his unenraptured brethren, he goes commercial and starts a cult, but he has competition. Cultox. The pox developed in the DuPont labs. A sort of psycho-fertilizer to be distributed among the fields that grow the mass of minds mined in agricultural schemes of vegetative spirituality. It's the pharmacological template for the cultivation of cultization. A molecule. They sprayed it over the ashram air, they slipped it in the stranger's drink - they sold it to a flaky american state on the west coast. Created a market, supplied the demand. And the rest is tragedy. And then farce.

The day is a slur of delirium, dream, and live action sitcom. He rises to his knees and blows his nose on a damp pantleg. Then he sees the corpse he really is, imploring hand stiffened and petrified in the tan utopiopolis cleansing atmosphere that wipes out all memories of the previous slaving day. Every citizen a king who only has to whore during that teeny tiny little smidgen of waking life known as the WORK DAY. Only half your waking life, only MORE if you're lucky, you big earner you, you go getter, gaining your gluttony with gusto. Get while the getting's good. That's what we're into, there's a place for you at the table, you got INTO the club my good man. No gringo in your own country, amigo.

cheese of nihilism

sneak a bite of provolone in the night - leave one slice for the homeowners and skulk away from the fridge - guilt ticks in syncopated time, the twitchy second hand, can’t outrun - got the provolone though, thick comfort - ziploc keeps the terrors beyond a plastic membrane - meat is non-mammalian protein paste, nothing alive or dead, nothing finger-pointing, nothing but something oddly filling, oddly desired, oddly scratching some buried itch

conscience suggests restraint, one slice of provolone was enough, don’t capitalize on this opportunity to mooch from the fridge, don’t take the glut of initiative and sharpen your future jowls on this clean-living kansas family, agricultural loans are a commodity, that middleman is the keeper of this suburban inn

in debt in a wood-paneled, linoleum-enameled house, sustained on the buffalo-cleansed plains, maintained by the banker, fed by his clan, naked pinko citizen of canuckistan sans health insurance, quaint fur-trader, inheritor of false heritage, indian murderer, christ/spice worshipper, shaman poseur, draped emperor, sustained in a fantasy far removed from satori, second zen cousin to nirvana’s mobius strip

nihilistic cheese, unease in my gut, informs me in the nuisance of gastronomic gnosis i'm taking up space - everything ziplocked, ever-shrinking baggies, ever-higher prices, the lightbulbs are flickering, do i really wanna conjure anything?

could sleep the sleep of the just, the just that, the just so, the joe sixpack and jb menthol, the most cigs for your dollar, unfiltered, thousandaire, joe fate, pawn scum, passenger, consumer, phased-out machine tool, sagging, anal leakage - trust the universe is waiting to absorb me