The wire we found was rotted through. I wonder about the reality of things, but usually the message is that things and people (in their lies) are wondering about the reality of me. I'm saying, "Hey man (woman), my hands are up.. Yes, I can hit the ball back, but my sides are sore. I want to know what is happening inside me. Both the literal and the figural are things which elude." I take a small drink and with a flash know that I am alleviating my well-groomed coffee addiction with a slightly less well-groomed alcohol caprice. Sometimes, I also think, most of culture is about a process of lying. There's a message behind the lie. "I'm in this prison of lies and silence, and it makes me not like you anymore." All these things seem unspeakably boring. I think upon the donkey. I think of how just this simple quiet f(a)un could be made to burst forth and conquer a thousand peoples at once. This is easy shit. Look at how dull and pathetic it is, bombers low to the ground carrying mass communities of flies in tight-skinned giant golems of panty hose, They float ominously down like spirits in comas and settle softly to release the plague of classicism. Painted boxes of broken pottery. It says on the side: We deliver! Only those that can't dance themselves cheer the dancer? No. Dancing is the eternal child beyond all determination. We are determined to foul your array, to split and demagnetize your syntaxitron. We'll have you crying at your dead grandmother's feet by noon. Nobody cares in the rainforest. Caring about this is against the law. I've used my dick a lot. There are churches. I'd use it more, but I don't want all my time to be spent in houses that feel like stopped-up noses. I need something like mystery and Spain, and you send me back to Seven Eleven for more Mexican beer. Who are you, and how did you get in my bankbook with all those t-shirt designs? There are unbelievably gross and retarded people in there. I hate saying that, but how dense and painful does the world need to be? I don't judge things at all, but what do things want looking like this all the time? What does the goddamn world want? I'm sick of trying to listen to all the crackling and screeching. To find the message is like having to pick the kernals out of the turd one by one and line them up, then make a model of their "positionality".. If man is blind, and made from masa, then all that says is that the religion of the grotesque is universal and old, and we are all members of the Dirteater family. Bull-leaping in the Augean meme-jar-din. Like Roberto Bolaño says in Tres, "Our own shit is eating us." You see how he interrupts the circuit between Stendahl and 'tile junkie'.. He knew Stendahl liked rough teevee. You see the connection he makes between Thomas DeQuincey and Revolution. "It's a mark." Revolution is the opiate of the m)asses.. Revolution is hiding and dying...
