Want to make an extra $5,000/ea month??

Finally sharing my secrets on making mad money with the internet
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Want to make an extra $5,000/ea month??

Finally sharing my secrets on making mad money with the internet
This has been working for me! http://www.cnbc.com-uk3.us/?Article566666

It appears that I am not as I should be. I do not understand a hidden. A hidden is a man who is hidden, but not certainly. He is hidden from a few, in an attempt to— to what exactly? This question, asked surreptitiously through time and space, still reverberates in our cavern. For asking this question would be easy, as is known. A simple: Why do you hide, then? What is it that you fear? would be perfectly suitable. And yet, the reason, it is known, is that we would both rather not hear or say the answer. The sound of an empty telephone wire greets me more merrily.

And so it is that we mount this odd carousel, where left appears right and right appears uppity-West, and where none of us know at all what is going on, other than the fact that yes, we are, it is true, going in circles. What spirals are these? Not never-ending, for they will, again, it is known, cease eventually. What keeps them going, if not our own fretting, fettered nature? We are tongue-tied to each other, convulsing yet undeparted.

We have stashed ourselves away in stacks, some more comfortable than others; I cannot say for certain. Some of us have learnt to fear reliance, to recoil at the thought, for what horrors, what crudest of terrors may that reliance bring! Oh, but we have seen it. We have grasped it in our view, danced in it, reveled in the sands of pain and yet, stashed we remain, afraid, twisted in little serpentines where the wood is most comforting. We are accompanied, and yet alone. We have forgotten, and yet still remember. For the memory has become a heartbeat incessant, a palpitant globule in the semester. It is there to stay, to be accepted.

But hidden is the answer to this; to hide until the beat drops. The drum will sound farther away, and it will all be under the bridge… or at least, so you would hope, for I expect the bridge to become clearer and clearer as the time comes nearer, and pardon the pun, but, there is no avoiding it. It will collide into you, knock you about, and though perhaps I will triumph in your brain as the Master of Evil, the creator of pain and misery, at least I will have left in teaching. A teaching to the self and the other, whether positive or not. Hidden you and I remain, and hidden we will stay; yet until we come off, the trace will remain. And when we wish to see things brightest, the shadow of the spot from which we peek our bushed eyebrows, will barely let us see. That is what will be hidden.

Don’t come. Don’t come to p-Mountain; it is a hidden place, a pink place that

shouldn’t be found. I went to-Mountain one. It stuck out like a rainbow in the dry

air, markered into the sky line by line, scratched in, like canvas, carved out of the

foamy blue. I climbed to the top. It took some time. The purple rocks melted,

sonorously, under my hands; I held onto dough and kept on. I could not stand still.

Standing still is to sink. To sink is to perish, crushed under the bright-paint weight

of p-Mountain. Halfway through I reached his house. It was made of pencilphite,

it was gray with soot and plated in crystal plateen. It had two big black plantains

growing by the door. I took a plantain because I was hungry from climbing. Maybe

this was a gift from p-Mountain, so hallucinogenically impressionable was I at the

time. The old man came out and slapped my black plantain out of my hands. I

cried and watched it, entombed in the swirls of visuality of p-Mountain. Then I

looked up at the villain. He was pointing at the black plantain. It was covered in 

dark purple worms, there, on the floor, with sharp teeth. When he, the old man,

turned around to leave, I saw it was you.

Your house was melted in and the door jabbed shut after you. I knocked for an

hour, hopping and tripping on the cheesy, breathy floors. Open the door, I said.

I did not hear back. Then I walked to the top of the mountain, to the curled

cotton ice where the trees grew yellow and baubley, coated like Christmas. When

I was there, I said Open the door. And the door opened, and I dropped into a white

cloud, inverted as the world was, and as I fell I forgot about you, old man, your

bestest of deeds, and your jagged rodded house.

I am the sun of hole, a whole in depth and of alternates. I put the paint in

buckets, I do not mean to wall this: I encase it for you, in satchels. This is

what they call an obstacle, and I will elaborate if you let me. I am let for.

Imagination is reality in the brains and minds of the tarnished. I promise I

imagine, but falsehood applied to reality is not imagined; rather, I’d say for

myself, more mean-spirited. I can paint my house any color I want. I can 

paint your house any color I want, a neutral color, earth; this is earth. They

like the word ‘soiled’ like it’s talking about chocolate. I liked the word ‘oiled’

as well, but for different reasons and not the ones you would originally think

of. Today my stomach roars. I pronounced stomach like a fake Italian who

can’t really act as such and yet receives praise while I childishly fume by his 

side, forgotten in my mediocrity. Imagination complainer. Maybe this is what

this is about. There is a girl with a lisp that speaks about anthropology and I

am not sure I like her: she is attention-seeking. She is not a whore, but I am

inclined to see her as such. She is talking about pink flamingos and about how

she should write a dissertation about it. He speaks in a drawl, intellectualizing,

greened in a square: it’s about a dispute, a tree with a chopped branch 

revealing a house that was once stashed and hidden as if in drawers, he drawls,

I do not comprehend what he is saying: they talk about the pictures of the 

house they saw before they bought it. I am comprehensively acquiring and re-

acquiring your information. No anonymous man or woman is safe. It is terrifying

when the reflection of an eye-opened face stared at you through a reflection.

There is a girl that looks dead to me here; I think I would like her, but she is dead 

to me.

MA CIVILIZATION

This ROYGBIV is getting. Is getting to. I am walking like a pastry chef away from the boulangerie and towards the pain the boulanger. This walk is stiff; stoic like a leather monster, creeping forward cautious. Of spanish descent, he says Spanish like it’s a disease of the good kind, the kind that flows and grows and affects. I am chromatose with it, with ROY and BIV and his G’s like tactile notices on my door. Missing. Missing out on. Missing out of. I no longer miss misery, a lie to be told when asleep, when listening to Britons talk history on the radio. This listening occurs with my legs outstretched on frozen pavement, glass-coated like an Elton John sunglass, like a rapid fire spin, extinguished by a breath so poisonous it is toxic to watch. You are muck of the good kind, with the slurping positive, the ending in high notes. Wish you thought, wish I didn’t. Depart, do not claim; your words sound empty, like a paper clip shaken in water, empty like a heart at war. Hearts like crevasses, empty again, waiting to trap arms and legs and keep there all that is keep worthy. Unworthy of bodies and odors and houses that open like legs on Fridays, I will miss. Save this chromatose. Initiatives run rampant on streets, valleys and parks but you run on an empty tank, vibrating soundlessly underwater. This poison you and I have made me become is chromatose, the chroma emptying, the tose still there, alive and well, palpitating like mornings in the bed. I grow used to my disease; this car in steady park. Come ROY it, what reads in the chromatose brain of a stranger friend, holding fast, worthy and tilting like a tower in Pisa. Quelling the color is to bleed the rainbow out of the womb: is the coma on its way out?

I must absolutely know the things

that you want me to know. I must absolutely

know about circumstances up in tow. I must absolutely

think about the consequences this may bring. I must absolutely

cringe, not for this but because I thought of this first. I must absolutely

consider the littlest things as on they grow. I must absolutely see

the things that you want me to see. 

I must (reserve the right to) absolutely be whatever the fuck I want to be.

Today I am writing a true journal; you know, like the kind you find in the purses of fifteen year old girls? Not that you were looking, of course- but everyone knows they’re there, leather-bound in marmalade pink, empty like the girl that bought it. The ideal is there, though, and even if the journal remains unwritten and the girl moves on with her life and marries and has children and leads a ticky-tacky suburban life in the outskirts of Boston, the journal itself is all the counts. At one point in time, Miss P or D or J bought that journal because she thought she wanted to write; because she thought that writing was glamorous. And it was. She is just less inclined to glamor now.

I have misery business today. It’s not an atypical day at that. I’ve realized that things move in rows and flows, kind of like in that Joni Mitchell song. Like angel hairs. It makes me wonder, to what extent have I become an imagination of myself? Although I haven’t felt this happy in a long time (minus the assassinated times of misery business), I can’t help but notice that life has been a cloud. Since the summer ended, and with it, my grace period for self-recuperation, I haven’t been living: I’ve been enjoying and working steadily, like a complacent machine that really liked putting the taps on toothpaste containers. I’ve been told that this is what it feels like to be happy; life becomes fleeting, almost invisible. For a second, I believed that this is what life was supposed to be.

The past was slow and heartbreaking and ugly. We learned a lot and it was misery business. But useful misery business. The people I hated taught me to hate less. The people I loved… to love less. You live life today. Strangely, I can recall those hours and months and weeks and all that with painstaking detail. Maybe I am a misery businessman of a sort?

I am a satisfied man, not a sick man. I’ve failed as an artist because misery business is heading to breakage. Happy. Go. Lucky.

Maybe when the wind sweeps the rest of this dust again I can try and gather a few pieces together and see if I can rebuild parts of the puzzle. Not all good things come in threes, now I know. With a subtle knife you’re out. And now the moral of the story is to remember silence in the face of browns and truth to the inside and outside. My moral for myself.

Feel and think what menacing connection I cannot find

Find me a think

I’ll find me a feel

and when the sun rises, beyond the blueberry bushes,

I’ll rise with it too and you’ll see me anew

and baked in sunlight,

baked, not like a tortilla or a mushroom, but a

cake. You’ll think of me as a cake.

And I will feel as a cake. Maybe only then

can we belong. For my sake, for your sake,

let it all turn into cake.