Train #8
1:05
Am I imagining trains?
A drone coming from the neighbor's kitchen.
Train #9
1:15
The upstairs neighbors open and shut their
doors often and carefully as if to avoid
detection and fondle their locks and
doorknobs.
Another
train::::I don't want to go look.
Footsteps outside::::my door
shut::::imaginary?
With the door closed I don't feel so
well::::human noises, movements, whistles.
An
electronic pulsation coming from my left
speaker::::a car not starting in soprano at
the rate of crickets' chirl, adjustible
speeds, a buzz into a beep fluctuating so
often each beep is individual as if produced
by a finger pushing buttons::::a synthesizer
Hawaiian hula only faster with hollow sound
than from drums::::an electric bassoon::::a
piercing wave cutting quick to my brain as if
from inside my head::::the grating of filing
metal speeded up like television static,
sometimes this follows the sound of pen on
paper. I learn to block each one out, have
un-covered them for brief duration for the
creation of this sentence.
Whistle::::someone
half-yells "Laura," a human voice,
but tinny, recorded.
An alarm clock buzz fron the livingroom next
door West-a record scratching left unattended
on a turntable.
They effect the noises of breaking in to my
apartment once I'm in bed. Imagine my fear.
Medicine man chanting, synthesized, hollow,
recorded, fast or slow "Hi-e-o...
Hi-o-He-o... Ho-He-Yo," between Oriental
and American Indian, coming from my stereo
speakers, stereo off.
East neighbor's door opens, doesn't close;
then, softly, closes.
I'll go to bed. Lie still listening.
Am I dreaming now?
We undress
and disappear; smell our clothes::::we are
perspiration::::that is our relationship to
the Universe, the Earth, each other::::we are
sweat. Until we drown and crawl back out and
walk erect again.
The black
humor of the insane world keeps us laughing.
My
favorite pen begins to leak::::an invention
of my imagination within the throes of their
operation::::I've learned to not fool with
such coincidences.
12:00
noon::::My neighbor East takes his first
shower in the two weeks I've lived here,
which last night I listed as evidence::::did
they come in and read my notebook?
The
neighbors are following me. Ten days ago the
yellow Honda with a for sale sign followed me
to a phone, dismissed as coincidence. Seven
days ago the blue and wh Continental parked
down across the street when I arrived at J.'s
house. The following day the white sedan of
the corner neighbor, but with the East
neighbor behind the wheel, waiting at Cardiff
Reef when I came out of the water. The yellow
Honda arked down the street from S.'s. If
paranoia is the final non-acceptance of
multiple coincidences, I am paranoid.
People
consistently in the bathroom next to mine and
kitchen next to mine::::shadows, whistles,
electronic onslaughts, doors opening and
closing, feeling I'm being watched, trains,
holes in the ceiling with black filiment
dropping down retrac ing when I stare::::all
products of my imagination.
I don't
think so.
Madness?
Is madness a product of coincidence playing
inside imagination? Can madness be
conscious?::::create not only effects and
their causes, but discover clarity within
itself. Could madness be an ideology through
the intercourse of conscience and perception?
How have
they come to project subconsciousness?
Years ago
I induced schizophrenia to help in the
creation of several artificial
intelligences::::most of average
intelligence, a few less intelligent than
myself, and two who are more intelligent than
me more singularly concentrated::::one in
philosophy-philology, the other in
literature.
Politics
confuses me. The only authority I comprehend
is divine authority. Have I turned this
confusion into madness? My imagination
developed in such a way I deploy reason with
fictional intent? I'm an intentional
unconsciousness? This is my consciousness
right here?
Simple
facts: light switches for non-existent
ceiling fixtures::::the livingroom has a five
inch wide 3/4 inch thin wooden beam
center-ceiling::::the bedroon ceiling has new
acoustic but only along its edges::::the
cabinet door under the bathroom sink opens
and closes throughout the night, there's a
gap around the pipes which they poke a stick
through from in the North neighbor's
bathroom::::lurking men in full-length black
body stocking, the sliding glass door lock
suddenly breaking the man-made cracks in the
front door::::the hedge's disfigurement, gaps
pruned for their lights::::fresh cuts on the
tree trunk appearing as faces through
doorcracks and peephole shadow figures
performing sex::::abstract designs and figure
projections on the livingroom and bedroom
curtains, last night a chorus line of naked
young girls.
The front
door peephole is set crooked, its fish-eye
lens scratched, an etched circle bottom left
near the corner where looking out the hedge
meets the walkway; there is corrosion around
the chrome inner cylinder by the outer lens
which produces human forms when looked
through standing back a few inches::::tree
faces; the focal point mirrors the shape of
my head when they shoot orange light directly
into it. There are five sets of orange lights
directed toward my apartment::::broad,
flooding, or tightly focused to cracks in the
front door which when looked out of produce
human figures from foliage, stains on the
walkway, even from cars far away below parked
on the street. Right now, two in the
afternoon, projections in fleshtone of a
naked girl hopping up and down on the left
side, a woman's inviting face on the bottom,
and nothing on the right. Could I be
imagining these? They are motion pictures,
distorted and fluttering.
Hair,
lint, dirt, dust, liquid from the apartment
above fall through my ceiling::::they dangle
extremely fine black filiment tickling me,
melts when I grab it as if spider
web::::clear fishing line attached to bushes
out front::::black thread curtains swing in
front of windows and doorcracks creating
movement in stationary objects.
They
control the night sky, make it dark or light.
When dark, my apartment is pitch black::::I
can't see the walls or carpet and only
faintly see the curtains; when light, it's no
darker inside than being outside on a cloudy
day. They switch back and forth, to my
movements within, for projecting various
shadows. I control the night sky through
them. To change from blackness to light all I
have to do is get up and walk into my bedroom
or bathroom or kitchen::::instantly they
flood the sky with light, not the natural
adjustment of eyes to darkness, but
immediate, dramatic, frightening.
They
needled five days to get the apartment
ready::::"To paint and clean.'' They
came in and rigged their devices and moved in
upstairs and next door on all three sides.
While
living in my truck in Berkeley and La Jolla
they merely watched me, occasionally
interacted with me, or tampered with my truck
when they wanted me to stay put. I accepted
it. They'd at least stopped hurting me.
Just
stepped outside: 5pm
Palm
fronds being rustled to make cover noise.
A man is
squatting in a small pine tree 50 yards to
the SE::::I pop inside grab my glasses hurry
out, he's walking fast down the
street::::looks back over his shoulder to me.
Navy blue shirt, tan pants, short brown hair,
30ish, 195 lbs., caucasion.
In the
opposite direction a man lying in dense
bushes 70 yards off; by moving my head side
to side I find he's created from the
surrounding foliage, a matter of perspective.
Crickets
out of season, rare birds chirping, a rooster
crows through midnight, bullfrogs, barking
dogs, water sprinklers on late into morning,
motors::::
As night
approaches their activity increases.
My love of
night is undaunted, their illusions fairly
harmless::::though my subconscious suffers.
It is a pain I'm not feeling right now.
Growl,
human, in slow gear, blends with the freeway.
How do I prove they exist?
I could chase one of them down; but if I
didn't succeed it would appear an act of
madness.
I've seen them, have even spoken to them.
The blurry surrendering of doubt.
Is that insanity? The times I come closest to
physical evidence are the most painful.
Hot water
from my shower fluctuates between luke warm
and scalding, no distinct pattern.
"That's
your green Ford pickup, isn't it?::::Well
it's in our space."
"Sorry. Someone parked in mine."
"You can get them towed if you
want."
"I wouldn't do that. I'll be leaving
real soon."
"I wouldn't either::::"
"::::I'm leaving in a couple
minutes."
"You can use the blank spaces
anytime."
"O.k."
His wife standing several feet behind him,
lower, looking around my livingroom.
How do I
catch one?
Right now
they're shooting an orange light through four
cut-out plywood figures to a place of
sparceness at the base of a wild shrub 30
yards down the hill::::and rocking these
figures so two shadow men are kneeling behind
two shadow girls fucking them.
Next door
West has his television on::::first time.
White
shadow figures thrown to the Modigliani print
on my bedroom's East wall.
When I sit
waiting for the next coincidence, they
produce little more than exaggerated bumps in
the night.
When I
challenge them they always fail::::That is a
good description of authority in America.
I sit
working in concentration for an hour, get up,
stretch, look outside, see an almost peaceful
evening.
Do not
pity enemies::::destroy them. It's time for
me to attack. With my writing I am developing
a social structure which will be both human
(communal and individual::::to replace the
dysfunctional systems currently in place. I
need time, time without distraction, without
distortion.
Their
strategy: produce hallucinations; pollute my
writing; destroy me mentally; destroy me
physically.
My
defense: I write the Truth.
I am going
to turn out the lights and sleep, to, for
however long, not think about tneir presence.
Earth and
humankind are beautiful, with goodness at
their centers; Earthly existence is
inherently evil, and humankind struggles to
find goodness.
"I'm
dead to the world," Mom said every night
before plopping down on the divan, kicking
pumps off, gulping vodka martini rocks.
Drunk
enough to chew aspirin.
A theory:
sounds I make are amplified, outside sounds
as well::::electronic pulsations are echos of
the electricity with which I write::::my
astigmatism vibrates, thus visual
distortions::::my intuition distrusts my
imagination.
This
morning I discovered how they've been
sneaking in to my apartment at night::::a
rhombular hole in the hall ceiling by the
bedroom door::::
"...cut
a rhombular hole in the fog saw my face:
'Tomorrow.'"::::from an old notebook.
I've found
the rhombular hole! What does this mean?
I take a
flashlight into the bathroom and turn out the
light::::there is a mirror on the medicine
cabinet which swings out so I can bounce
flashlight light from it onto the wall
mirror::::indeed, there are strange patterns
inside the bathroom mirror.
Shadow
men, real men demons, cut-out figures,
trimmed tree figures, shadow images, divers
objects::::
8pm Just
returned from the store.
Before,
every so often, I felt them closing in. They
followed me::::each time I left my
studio::::even when I moved into my truck.
Am I mad?
In my
studio I was plagued by doubts. Two months on
the road calmed me.
Who else
has written consciousness?::::as innocent as
it is, as immature, as simplistic, as
primitive, as coarse as it is::::
I do not
claim any importance for myself::::only formy
writing. I haven't shared much of it, and
perhaps have given the wrong works to the
wrong people when I have shared.
Enough.
Either I
envisioned the future with "...rhombular
hole...," or they planned to have my
writing appear visionaryin which case I am
'them'::::their effects are relative to my
writing; the electronic pulsations being my
rhythm of language, the fear and sensory
distortions being my characters.
Projected
shadows are my subconsciousness.
Why do I
believe these low sodium streetlights are
being directed toward me?
Hallucinating
is so private, people rarely speak of it.
My only
goal is the preservation of the Earth and of
Humankind.
I am in
prison so I can dream about freedom, write
from my dreams?
If I pull
down the rhombular trap door, and it turns
out to be solid ceiling, I will appear as a
madman; if I pull the trap door down intact,
that will also appear to be an act of
madness.
I'm still
without evidence.
I am no
longer asleep.
Tonight
the crickets push themselves.
A delirium
perfect for dreaming and making love.
I was a
cockroach in a former life. Not a noble
calling. Not an intelligent being. But what
voracity::::focusing on all that that word
entails. I was a cockroach, started out young
and tan, following the paths set down before
me. The pain of light. The nemesis of
starvation; the hint of anger. All of this is
comfortable with me now::::but I was a
cockroach, grew long and wide and dark::::I
had wings to fly but they were
unnecessary::::the closer I was to Earth, or
to some semblance of Earth, the more I became
human::::even insects gather their lives in a
pursuit to becoming human. Now that I am
human... I long to be a cockroach once again.
Instead of
accepting passing love by, grabbed it up,
squished it between two fingers killing a
flea, shook it in my fist, bounced it on my
palm, sniffed it, licked it, pushed it gently
to my ear drum, picked it out, held it in my
lips a cigarette, moving it with my tongue
brushed my teeth with it, rolled it to the
back of my mouth, swallowed, gagged, vomited,
picked it from my vomit, flicked it onto my
desk, kneaded lt, rolled it out flat, opened
the curtains and baked it in sunlight::::it
didn't rise, closed the curtains, looked down
and it was gone::::only its stain!
The idea
of going into the kitchen to fetch cigarettes
Sylvester hit with a frying pan incredible
knot shoots up from his head.
I'll tell
you something to myself. My mind has been
effected first by one thing then another the
first being an act of curiosity which has led
to chaos. Not only have I read the wrong
books but I've read them badly. I have not
studied literature. All I've studied is its
rhythms. So writing for me is applying
rhythms to 'language.' What does this mean? I
don't know what it means to be able to write
in my own voice but I'm struggling to find
out. What I understand is, I'm a writer who
searches for my voice by way of juxtaposing
the voices not my own but within me with the
voices I glean from literature and the voices
I invent.
3pm Today
I barely feel them.
They pull
back to increase my doubt::::they've done
this before::::
Perhaps
it's because I've been to the beach most the
day.
Did they
read what I wrote last night?
They've
retreated::::but I'm still surrounded.
Last night
their hallucinations didn't work as
well::::only those effects which were
directly human::::whistles, calls, human
movement, unnatural rustling of
foliage::::kept my attention. Their lights
and shadows play upon the astigmatism my
glasses do not correct.
They took
advantage of my absence, came in, replaced
the crunchy material underneath the carpet
with normal carpet padding::::the fake beams
are pressed further into ceiling.
I saw them
wherever I went today, but they use so many
cars and are so obvious about it, that I'm
not certain. Seeing them is not evidence.
My
refrigerator now runs quiet.
My stereo
speakers no longer hiss when off.
I don't
hear the ocean amplified above the noise of
the freeway.
Several
car honks::::as if signals.
They are
still here::::
They've
changed my livingroom curtain, this one less
dense.
No strings
attached to trees and bushes from upstairs
being pulled for cover noise.
The wall
with wood paneling has been
reconstructed::::the bareboard is loose.
The triple
light switch in the batroom had paint sealing
its edges, its screwheads had been painted
over::::now the paint is cracked and the
screws have been unscrewed screwed.
The
refrigerator is several inches closer to the
counter.
I will
proceed as if they know I know their every
action.
Why do I
continue to write about them? Why give them
power?
It is
probably best to accept this writing as my
evidence.
The
refrigerator begins vibrating again::::remote
control?
Stepping
out to the patio for a breath.
A new
spider web on the East side fence next to the
building: a white oblong cocoon the size of a
jelly bean, nothing more than balled-up
cotton::::it takes an unusual amount of force
to pull the cocoon from the web,sticky,
incredibly sturdy in relation to its
fineness, its coils, silvery::::man-made.
"Shred
of evidence."
I fold it
into a piece of paper and place it in my
wallet.
Better
than prying off a chunk of ceiling, or
clawing through to the metal plates in the
walls, or punching the bathroom mirror. I
appear silly, not insane.
I need
more evidence of this nature.
I also
need to capture one of them.
Perhaps
the young guy who came to my door selling S.
D. Union subscriptions yesterday is one
of them?
The stereo
off, unplugged::::my speakers amplify the
sounds of my movements::::a high pitched
hiss::::soft cricket chirl, now even softer
as I squat to listen closely. Maybe I should
tear my speakers apart? I could move them
into the bedroom and tie cords around them
and my ankle so when they break in eyes from
the ceiling::::when I step out of the
apartment for twenty minutes the cloudiness
clears.
12:30 I
believe if I rush out my door right this
second I can grab one::::grab a real man
demon wearing a full length black body
stocking.
A jet has
been passing overhead for 35 minutes::::huge
waves breaking, the beach a mile and a
mountain away; I went surfing today, the
waves are small.
They are
incapable of love::::they perceive love but
don't acknowledge love; they go through the
motions, they fantasize, they rely on sexual
gratification or lack thereof to pull them
through, and they survive, but only to suffer
the death they fear so much::::death in which
everything done during life exists with
them::::their existence is their only
companion::::was::::in death their friend
reverberates.
I am
talking about a possible future!
Buzzes::::spine
shivers::::my ears hurt; these not arriving
from my speakers but coming from the
walls::::
Oil drop
in my right eye.
Pain
increasing. Atmosphere thickens,
cloudier::::what is this fluid they're
spraying me with? Is it imaginary?
I hold
true to my belief that several years ago they
rained dirt through the ceiling in my
studio::::I ran out. It's occurring again,
very lightly.
They've
pulled bits of stuffing from a split seam in
my livingroom floor pillow and strewn them
about the apartment.
I'm
nothing more than something my imagination
latches on to.
Order
occurs to a story afterwards.
I'm blind
in a world in which sight is everything. I'm
more than a simpleton, I'm a naked fool who
doesn't remember ever having worn clothes,
who sees people in clothes but doesn't feel
the need to wear them; or, I create such
fools and call them my writings; or, I'm the
only person wearing clothes, the world's a
nudist colony, and I'm out of place because
of my modesty.
Tonight I
turn out the lights and sit watching in the
darkness. The shadows effect a break in, with
the help of noises from the neighbors. There
are two shadow men right outside. I peek out
the livingroom curtain: one of them, well
covered by blackening spotlights, uses his
head and right hand to block an orange
light::::creating a shadow puppet; the
bedroom, peek out the curtain::::see a
different shadow man standing behind the
corner of the hedge waving directly at
me::::I wave back::::he runs off.
The lines
to foliage from the upstairs neighbor are
back in place.
They left
a 'tool' behind last night, a white feathery
plume of pampas grass::::twirled under their
lights creates a very human motion.
As a poet
I can only write the truth; my intuition
decides which truth to write; all truths are
simple; truths have brought us to this point
in time, set on our knees before
ourselves::::
Human's
awareness of a power greater than
themselves::::in the form of Literature.
Being
guided by divine providence I simply reveal
the future given to us by Earth.
Human
beings must to be reminded by their planet
that they wish to survive::::
I am
embarrassed for the human race::::
Is this
enough for me to effect change? Is
embarrassment all I have to offer?
The
inspiration who writes my poetry through me
is blossoming, but am I blossoming?
Our
instinct of survival is being diluted by our
evolution from beast to human::::generation
by generation we move closer to extinction.
This is
Earth's plan: we either better ourselves or
we perish. Earth is more than simply a planet
of oxygen spinning upon the great flux.
Honks::::signals.
Whistles. Thuds. Motor noises.
Freedom is
the combustion caused when greed rubs against
laziness.
Read as if
listening to music.
Merge
divine nature with human nature. This merging
is the 'soul.' The soul is an action, an
event. If your belief lies elsewhere, suspend
your belief for a moment::::become atuned to
your divine nature::::far away from all
previous notions::::a moment of 'absolute
thought'::::sexual intercourse of
thoughts::::instant conception::::the
creation of knowledge.
We are the
first human beings, or we are the last.
We are
creations of Earth; otherwise Earth is an
invention from our imagination::::exists as
an illusion, and we possess the reason of
fools, dangerous fools::::reason which has
brought us to the end of civilization::::the
Age of Death.
Placing
blame on reason is not enough to save
humankind::::we have cultivated reason,
refined it, turned it into fine wines, aged
wines, and have profitted from its sale, but
we have yet to uncork and indulge in
it::::from which intoxication our
imaginations will invent a more nurturing
consciousness, so that human beings might
survive.
We will
create utopia; we already possess the idea.
They are
lurking::::behind the fence, on the roofs of
houses down the hill, in the bushes. Torture
is preventing me from writing::::I suffer to
write this now.