Stream of Consciousness #1

The goal is to write until your mind stops. If you start thinking and pause for more than 2 seconds, it’s over.

Go.

Write like a mother fucker, write like a mother fucker, no clothes lines or sales slots, no cake mixes or pick pockets with cut out gloves, or fingerless airplane lines or trapezed candle sticks or popcorn flavored gasoline, or thank me, thank me, thank me for the kindness, the utter and remotely possible intersection of life and love and fucking and nostalgic music and empty rolls of toilet paper reminded me of the food my body left for the plumber to clean or make shift parking lot meters made out of petrified smoke or leaves blowing in a toxic winter or global warming’s kind reminder to roll up your windows and your sleeves and your cosmic dreams shrink wrapped in small-town perspective, giving life and happiness to the highest bidder, thanking the people as they shove along in the fog in the dreary and desolate landscape your mind has created for you without permission from the press or the president or the maker of keys or the one’s whom only aim to please with paperstock lettering and folds with mind wrapped poises and pockets full of matter that only dreams can dream about and the kind gentleman with two left hands or the woman who showed her frayed hairpiece and her snatch at the same time, time, time, time is only a slide away from the absence of thereof or anything after of which might be voided using a silk transmitter of biblical proportions forgotten but missed and stark cold coherence that adheres to the policy that was created for the betterment of mankind or fantastic worldly possessions that despite metaphysics and the dimensions we don’t see, we may bring to heaven as long as we pay a tax in hell. Fellowship and marketing and singlehanded praise and raisehanded delays at the midpoint, or what to do, what to do with all that has left you in a multifolded purpose when your thought and your exquisite perception has been robbed from your soul and put out on market to the lowest possible scum, the one who will ruin you and the one who will suck you off and make your life whole again and who is a quitter and who is a winner and quits when she’s winning and never apologizes after it’s been looked down upon and greatness has its shallow portions and greatness may make you sick and purposely pander in perpetual petulancies pondering penniless Pinkertons planning.