Bliss & Blister walking down

Take the adventure far away and lose yourself recreate yourself in the image who is like god.

I drowned in the Arizona with the rest of them. We popped out like gas you don’t need to hear the rest. At the green sand beach down by Mauna Kea.

Quiet as the prairies pararies praries five years ago.

Bliss and Blister are walking down the street in 1776. Blister tells every gentleman passerby whose eye he catches looking at Bliss, Don’t tread on me.

It’s hot work in the field a neighbor passed out and was chewed by a fox.
I don’t I’ve heard complaints, I’ve heard singing to the work to get it to slip by.
You can’t hear no more over the tractors, machinery and trucks, roar of death.
Who cares? Gat ta start somewhere. I learned the truth trying to bring toys and comicbooks into the waking world from inside my dreams. Writing is the gateway between waking life and sleep.

Use the photos.

Heroic Tales of Homeland Security.

Thank you for letting me start today.

It doesn’t matter if you had the first ipod all that matters is whether you have one right now. The past is mulch some of it is rich enough to grow the rest of your life on.
Forget.
Let’s go throw the ball, piggies.
Bust a seam or two.
Too hot? That never stopped you before.
Would you rather abuse yourself?
Alright, get the gloves.
You could use the internet to trade up get rid of some of your dubious shit, stuff that isn’t so important to you anymore, consolidate and get the records you want but can’t find or are more interesting.
I don’t know the prices.
The word. Writing is about dodging the cliches and stereotypes.
Short and sweet.

Hand assembled, partial manufacturing, primitive, simple: wood, paper, faded, faded.
Look back at who you admired, pay homage, keep their memory alive. Appetite.

The following is from Waiting for Nothing by Tom Kromer, 1935, Knopf:

I wait, and, Christ, but the hour goes slow. I stand in this soup-line. Back of me and before me stretch men. Hundreds of men. I huddle in the middle of the line. For two hours I have stood here. It is night, and ten minutes before they start to feed. The winds whistles around the corners and cuts me like a knife. i have only been here for two hours. Some of these stiffs have been here for four. Across the street people line the curb. They are watching us. We are a good show to them. A soup-line two blocks long is something to watch. These guys on the curb are not in any soup-line. They have good jobs. They have nothing to worry about. It must be pretty soft not to have to anything to worry about.

Failures in the age of mechanical reproduction. Doubles. Flaws. Slips. Beautiful accidents.

Recycle vernacular when will there be no time to read a complex of images we are the caretakers of images. Images become a language.
We will only understand one another by the vividity of images instead of language.

The sky. Boat anchored. Drinking juice. Listening to music. Smoking Canada. Winter can be deadly. Snapping along the line. Blue as the sky. Waves lapping. Ice melting in the juice. Necks hairs rising with song. Mouthing the words. Haven’t seen anyone for awhile. We collapsed on chairs. Heat holding us still. The water is a clear blue. A web of ripples dancing on the bottom. I don’t like the water. I’ve drowned too many times and no one was ever around. I am unconvinced about this boat. I am afflicted with constant analysis. Let things unfold. My first dream, I think the first dream is the one you remember, was about finding a comic book, thinking it was the best I’d ever found, i knew I was dreaming but I wanted to bring it back into the waking world. My thought was, if I only hold on to it tightly, the word cling comes to mind. If I held on to it I could bring it into the waking world. Of course I couldn’t physically do it and I was heartbroken. Is nothing real? It is vanity. It is more important to live despite. Being absolutely alone is breathtaking. You have never gone so far. Stop clinging, you can’t take anything with you. My passion is writing, art, love, experience. Writing is reading, words, language. Art is anything visual and beautiful. Love is dignity, respect, beauty.
Experience is history, people and places.

I hate having to be so hard. I am required to hide my despair, my feelings crushed. To be a witness to pain and suffering. Constantly. To be placed in a position of fear. I remember feeling safe.