The happiness intrinsic to the mysteries we certify to crave for release.

Nothing’s quite as it should be, or so it seems. Why are you so ... dissatisfied?! she grilled me. To be perfectly honest, you complain more than anyone I know. No shit?! Really? I’m embarrassed; [but that’s a sovereignty; if you don’t complain about the state of ‘reality’ and try to shift it, you may as well gospel accompany the goose-step with the problems themselves. Damn right I’m ungainly; battling denizens of ‘existence’ takes wit and courage not to mention a supernatural helping of humor. I exasperate myself on romances with imposing odds of enlightenment; trucks miss me by inches and I suppress my aghast ... try to learn for later from it. They were screaming at their occupant, one the phone for a reason, as I legally entered the intersection, and they blew the red. Never even hit the brakes; god damned bicyclist. It’s my fault, see? I should have seen it coming. There was no way to see, but I should have felt it, not just right before, but by a longshot, or a longer shot, late last week, or a month ago ... I missed every cue along the way, and you wonder why I’m hard on myself. I veered for no reason at the last second, and the car missed me. At least I’m still alive, if that’s a topic to jeer or rejoice, ignoring all the lessons which led to it. I ride life totally exposed to offer myself, like a sacrifice, to suffering. You are taking a fraction of the risks I am; so it seems like ... and your friends ... {happy family archetypes} face it, you don’t read the paper, because it makes you dreary, and depressed. If you’d seen people slashed with knives bleeding profusely, healing before your eyes, you’d think we’re inhabiting an unspeakable ignorance about our ability to be more than we’d imagine. You’d henceforth judge by meteor trail, not the miserable rabbit runs we follow to ... ] I had no idea I came across like that. Sorry for being a downer.


Earnestly, I wish I’d screamed yahoo! As the truck barely missed me; scraped another life from the lost and found lottery! But no, the ominous overwhelmed the joy quickly followed by anger. I thought it my civic duty to follow that truck and ... what? Make a big scene? Idiots SUV drivers on cell phones vs. fragile cyclists, the latter wins. Drag the dude or bitch from that environmentally-unfriendly capsule and ... funny I didn’t know the sex of the pilot, though I looked point-blank right at them. They, as ignorance on earth, burn me up. The me is only worried about itself; fortress onslaught against family and friends, let alone strangers ... ‘the enemy’: etc. There’s a catastrophe of depleted uranium ammunition in each mind, poisoning its own environment. Who cares rules the plant and animal world; I breathed healing and tried to relax past, the shock which embraced the beating heart of mystery’s system.


"Well, Bin Ladin said that one of his goals has been to bankrupt the USA... he surely seems to have managed ... to move us that direction, since we've re-allocated some half a trillion dollars, overall, to 9/11 related activities. Actually, what’s more alarming, is General Lebed's tale of the missing suitcase nukes (may he roast in peace) introduced another twist:—the KGB was purportedly planning to bring these ‘lost devices’ into Europe and the USA. If the US pisses ‘them’ off sufficiently, could be a Russian finger on the trigger; US then nukes Mecca etc, the oil fields go up in flames, and Russia and China suddenly have new spheres of influence round the world.."

And I’d heard that horrific rumor too ... that the them might be Osama, as third parties are needed in destruction’s coup, and the deepest tier of the perpetrators in any moral madness, must remain intact.


The mad conjunction of nows pushes us headlong to the edge, where the turbulent waters funnel down dark holes, and sheets of apparently placid expanse bend over hidden perpendiculars, spilling their liquidity in glassy fragments of tomorrow we’ll climb and blunder over. The midget transvestite is smoking a thin, elegant cigar, and leaning against a bike rack, watching the pudgy northern English legs walk by, bruised and welted by some unseemly object; he’s at eye level; and her years betray some innocent pats on the ass, mingled with over-mascaraed tear streaked eyes, as he inhales and holds the carcinogen in, feeling time wick thin, as the inner bell sounds, trembling him back to the battered door with no address. Bin Laudin wants to bankrupt a country which reprints its treasured buffalo nickel, it has to recall, because the animal we annihilated in ruthless slaughter for the sake of killing, is shown with a penis. What will the children think? The population is fully divorced from what fuels its hunger to eat. How more backstabbing can you be? Check the bloke next to you, and realize his own knife is in him, and yet, we persist in worry we’re next. By whose hand, the question to ask ... this blood on me? The quiet lunatic is raving to himself, recounting a lengthy prison stay, "... hope it wasn’t the third eye, know what I mean?" "If you’re up to it, and why not?" "When you’re up for twenty, any port in a storm feels just like home, I reckoned ... gettin’ the sea’s better’n fantasizin’ bout it. Any day; you ask me." I like that—any ole port in a storm. Nice metaphor; at which point, an ex girlfriend in a big trashed 4wd truck pulled in for gas, a tiny wiry number brimming with madness, her energy gyrated by genius, emptiness and self-destructive egotism, you just knew its splattered demonic mud job was her handiwork, and it bespoke hardened daring. She was Flowers, birds, LSD and solo ascents on word of mouth routes sane climbers abandoned. I watched the bruised tart recede, wondering how the classy midget saw her, then turned by and by, to my enigma of male and female. Though co-dependent, belligerent, destructive, and cray-zee, I have to admire her. She’s a work of art, prancing around in a state of passion, stirring the shit, and making the mundane interesting. A time bomb to date, but ... what the hell. She schools experts in explosives.


The lunatic, who was probably a determined Stanford researcher, stupefied by the intractability of any problem’s deeper levels, who dropped out and found a purpose selling exotic designer drugs, mumbled some nonsense, before getting quite agitated, and mentioning Hitler. I checked his face for ethnic cleansing, and detected speed rash, which had a slight coherence. There was a form of meth with Hitler’s moniker, in full pharmaceutical jargon and form. Detecting an audience, the tide of concert turns, and he tells me, the ‘Furor’ ordered he be cremated with the last twenty liters of gas in Berlin, afraid they’d [his dreaded enemies] would see his self-murdered corpse, and realize what happened all along. We both looked at the station, dispensing fuel to glutted Americans. The dull, base, political razors countries shag each other’s private parts with; ‘Can you imagine—

Twenty liters of fuel left ... in all of Berlin!?

We scour our reality, to conform to this thought. A capital city. A world power, which nearly extinguished free rule. Overfed humans squeezed environmental death into tanks, from tanks, to spend driving to stores. It would be termed petrol though, which is more poetic, the final twenty liters of Berlin fueling his funeral pyre, the fitting though melodramatic performance for the next act’s world, playwrights would mention. I’ll bet his attendants cheapened him, by pouring half that bounty on Eva, leaving the skull piece, with the hole in it, showing a late-breaking cower/dice. He appeased me with a loud guffaw. Did he really kill himself, the should-know-better speed-phreak asked. I rounded his corner; well, he did die in a struggle at the bunker, as the allies entered his city, and the refuted third Reich fell.


The drive for romantic love can be stronger than the will to live, researchers have discovered, as if they’d never read Romeo and Juliet, or the obituaries of jumpers, or jilted boyfriends, after they turned the guns of anger on themselves. The MRI brain scans of fervent early romantic activity suggest ... not unlike a drug craving, an all-encompassing hunger, or thirst ... which worsens if rejected ... you’d think these scientists never experienced raw soul-stripping emotion, to speak of it as regions and neurons. A native American with a fresh orange hospital bracelet was groveling around blocking the doorway people politely avoided; I draped him over the bench, his face barely dreaming, a nearly lifeless corpse of a human being, soul dimmed to a candle flicker. I’d seen him in alleys for decades, drinking increasingly-potent circuitry-smashing elixirs, but the end result was hearsay then. He’d never dreaded death by alcohol more, than the moment he forgot to fear it, winding him into this state.