howdy hellhound, how's it hanging,

howdy hellhound, how's it hanging,

this sure is a beautiful font, too bad no one will see it.

we have serious issues here that is mainly btwn youandme, but will you'd just

answer on website if need be in case my readers continuously go thru same needless struggle, worrying for nothin, your response could help them the way your responses and the readers and me help the world and the world and me and who knows, perhaps even yourself too and everyone else, fuck, who knows?

i hope so. ha ha i bet this is what i meant by "stalling", huh? see, i am educable, bob, do you eat those words now or are we in accord?

Who's turn is it to un-hook the stars from the sky tonight? Are we in accord, what's an accord bob, something that makes beautiful music together, why do some people promote uneducated writers anyway, i've got experts researching this question, btw, as if you didn't know how long i can go on like this, what do you say, no, come on, guess, seriously, you told me it's all free and it goes on forever, no shit bob, it's what we

call demons.

i just can't tell, i'm looking but can't tell

whether or not i am plagiarizin real writers right now, i look at the site and it doesn't sound like something i could put together, my job is to stand up and fall down, file bankruptcy, walk by stopped up toilet and remember i too am now choking on excrement, send 20 suicide attempts to doctor fuckhead before noon each day, bug you with that whole first line in What We Do Here, does that sound like me, 'cause in retrospect, it looks like something Cristgau would say

Note to Robert Cristgau:

sorry if you wouldn't be caught dead sayin something like that but i told

things you were gonna

get mixed up around here, i'm seeing song lyrics, un-credited poetry, whole world in grains of sand, are readers just supposed to know that's Robert Blake, who is, like my mom, supposed to be dead

right now, and like her is all over internet protesting crime he says he dint commit, in the moment it seems like i am first one sayin stuff then when you get it up on site i see shitloads of sentenses and ideas i've seen before, does this sound right?

soon as i'm let back in the library i'll read cristgau cover to cover to make sure i'm not stealin his muse, unless this is more urgent, do i need to go out and buy a bunch of new books, that would be hard right now bob, i'm all out of food money, inner bookstore shut down and anyway christgau's books are not available at Wal-Mart, only place my credit card still works for shit. Sorry, redundancy. Missed it? Skip along.

You saw what we took for my own language in print bob , ok,

fine with me, but i'm a professional victim, are people perpetrating on my writing without my fucking internet knowledge? fuck this! you know how Ayn Rand got, haywire with a nickel box, charging wreckers five cents for every idea they stole from her, and i see the point,

rapists,

turnin her best ideas upside down and butt-fucking them on the front steps of the new york stock exchange, people do this bob, now you tell me-proper tribute or prejury? is this what drove her insane at the end, molesting her philosophy,

or the fact that none of them got caught, arrrested and hanged for it?

i just hope you know what you're doing partner,

this is what you asked for right,

feelings, my friends, my thoughts, foilbles and escapades, ok, fine, just so we know they are mine alone and not stuff i picked up from either/or and not watchin enough sitcoms, ok?

just please don't give me a big heavy new learning experience like they

tried over there on bullshit psb, i realize that unlike the other one (is it too much to ask you to change your first name, the world's waiting, dr. bob) unlike him you've still never lectured me and i appreciate it, i am the blind prophet right, and you do the work, ok, unless i am turning into your own mom right now,

i hope when you grow up you have 20 writers just like you and all of them rolled into one cracked head,

ok, so please, if so, i don't want to know, don't tell me, i get livid whenever i imagine the others coming into your office without knocking, (so they've asked you to keep the door closed now, huh, fuck 'em) no one bringin you nothing, not even a cup of coffee, ego-maniacs wasting time you could be puttin on troublewaits, they suck anyway bob, i never even hardly heard of your other ones, i'm sorry, who are these people, i'm well-read but i'm sorry i own you now,

can you get dylan to play at the wedding?

ok, it's out here now, if anyone sees me usin their ideas, i am available for the beating, right i said beating, not litigation, pointless waste of time, i have everything to offer but two turtledoves and a partridege in a pear tree-

here's what i'm saying is true, if wrong, don't bother me when i'm working on the next post just be the man and fix it, move on, thanks, ok let's say i know i'm sayin something from a book, i'll just type the words exacto, then put authors name at end, let's try and see what you do now mogul:

"For a long while i have believed, this is perhaps my

version of Darius Xewreses Cama's belief in a fourth function of outsidedness

-that in every generation there are a few souls, call them lucky or cursed

(i'll take both, thanx),

who are simply born not belonging, who come into the world semi-detached, if you like

(why no actually, i don't),

without strong affiliation to family or location or nation or race,

that there may even be millions, billions of such souls,

as many non-belongers as belongers perhaps,

that in some, the phenomenon may be as natural a manifestation of human nature as its opposite, but one that has been mostly frustrated

(yer shittin me, right?)

throughout human history, by lack of opportunity. And not only by that,

(corpses piling up)

for those who value stability, who fear resistance, uncertainty, change, have erected a powerful system of stigmas and taboos against rootlessness, that disruptive, anti-social force, so that we mostly conform

(???????????)

we pretend to be motivated by loyalties and solidarities we do not really feel, we hide our secret identities

beneath the false skin of those identities which bear the belongers' seal of approval.

But the truth leaks out in our dreams, alone in our beds (because we are alone at night, even if we do not sleep by ourselves), we soar, we fly we flee.

and in the waking dreams our societies permit, in our myths our art, our songs, we celebrate the non-belongers

the different ones, the outlaws, the freaks.

...Our libraries, our palaces of entertainment tell the truth. The tramp, the assassin, the rebel, the artist, the mutant, the outcast, the delinquent, the devil,

(hi mom)

the sinner, the traveler, the gangster,

(hi dad)

the runner

(hi bastard daughter)

the mask.

If we did not recongnize in them our least-fulfilled needs we would not invent them over and over again, in every place, in every language, in every time."

Salman Rushdie, The Ground Beneath Her Feet

nufsed? ha ha ha

they wish

ok, hound-dog, we cool? need i add if i don't see this on my site exactly as i sent it i will find you, try seeing me determined to put a blanket on your bed, the very thought of you and i am almost

love-making

angry buster, oh sorry, truly very fuckin sorry,

right? right?

does that sound right?

all trou-oh forget it, you wouldn't understand

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