constant endless beginningless war.
who's gonna stop it?
               [repeat]
who's gonna stop it?
               [repeat]
who's gonna stop it?
               [repeat]
who's gonna stop it?

we may be tricked.
we may be confused.
he lights another cigarette.
|_|_|_|_|_|_|
               the project is the object.
to dismiss the absurd for no other reason than it is absurd is absurd itself.
               rationalogic is suspect.
there is no proof of this however, for obvious reasons.
but we've no time for that now.
we're letting go and holding on.
wheee!

he breathes for a little while.
deprogramming.
then some cheez-its.
another cigarette.
he's all mixed up.

squirrels in the attic.
he sleeps.

sitting now at the counter at the diner scribbling not poem into a notebook cuz he ain't no fucking poet drinking from the cup but is another useless government bum as the server hands him a triple shot mocha he orders eggs and toast while thinking about everything as much as he can under the circumstances that makes him feel a bit dizzy at times but that is more or less inconsequential - but does it matter as the world is at war?
glorious war.
taste it.

from night to night as the songs on the internet jukebox play he steps outside for a smoke watching people walk and drive by as the sky drizzles on the scene he wonders if any of it might be real as it appears to be real based on our dubious sensory experiences quietly absorbed into our brains so strange now and then dreaming which is his main occupation now everything else has faded away into infinite obscurity toward oblivion as he comes back inside onstage at the burning theater sitting again at the counter replica waiting for the riots to begin.
dreaming of scheming to hijack the planet away from the bad guys as if that were true.
a fantasy blows against the empire thing we make up and improvise to our heart's contentment.
we're not putting you on, there is something going on.
what?
where?
when?
who?
how?
why not?
we don't know.

nevermind.
it can never be what we want it to be.
nevermore.
our childhood dreams are over.
our memory is fading.
it's no use to imagine anymore.
give up.
surrender to common sense.
it all means nothing.
everything is ok?

sentimental jive.
it's great to be alive but this is all it is?
gee whiz.
robots patrolling the streets showing no mercy keeping us in line all the time.
songs of lost love... fate from above to make our lives misery... it's no mystery why... don't let them see you cry.
it won't do no good.
just behave like you know you should.

a despair of words that don't make sense anymore to these children of a brave new world.
happy pills for all the spills.
no memory deeper than a puddle of piss.
this is what they now call bliss.
give it a kiss.
walk toward dawn's horizon.
forget the pain and pleasure until it turns to gray mush and no one can tell what it is anymore anyway.
it's nothing.
was it a joke?

no time like no time holding onto whatever it takes to survive in our uneasy balance of desolation like no way before to our sense of reality.
reality?
hello?
[we stand on the rocky shore watching waves crashing]

still sitting at the counter scribbling like it's the old days he lived in cafes around town he could get around that are now gone.
the end of that life once and for all.
what pleasures are left in this time is $$$ world faster faster faster like we had not quite imagined when we used to believe we were on top of it like nobody's business and then some.
it's all fake anyway.

loneliness is all he's ever known, even in a crowd.
people freak him out.
he prefers his own company and his imaginary friends to others for real.
the for real people are sneaky and creepy.
who knows what and who knows who.

he closes the notebook, leaves, drives home.

(to be continued...)