if: i ever finish the Dune saga: at least up to... the God Emperor volume... if... but given the nightmarish scam of the movie and the rather: pale-by-comparison prose... i'm still to read Deleuze & Guattari's Anti-Oedipus... but... coming to think of it: do i have to? Edie is my mother-Oedipal age difference lover... as this book is a schizophrenic critique of capitalism: i'm hardly going to open the floodgates to socialism... bad set of cards... but regardless of that: i came to an interaction with a man in his 40s who was: living a life of deception after not being diagnosed with ADHD early on... hmm: i thought... kind sir... you were: NOT diagnosed... but see: i was misdiagnosed: early on in life with: schizophrenia... psychosis... etc they couldn't simply call me hearing a choir and a great wind dispersing it: anything but... until i "conjured up": bilingualism to offset their schizophrenic superstitions and then: hands folded: twinkle toes busy thumbs fiddling... what explanation was there? kosher humanism coming to bite back at the psychiatric establishment? oh i went through this romancing the sad mental nut job case: so many poems: pointless... but if someone who hasn't been diagnosed as: leaves clues for someone who has been misdiagnosed as: for someone's reason of summation: his diagnostic relief was never my acceptance of pigeon + hole = eureka! philosophy like poetry is something quiet different: a poem a day keeps the psychiatrist away... until you sort of become one, unofficially, without prescriptive iron maidens of white pearly dough for zombie(s)... read enough and you get to start reading people: it's almost like an X-men mutant superpower... almost... read enough books and you get to read people.

you get these: "types" in the security industry:
too much PTSD
and not enough ADHD
former army types: almost typos:
as they stress their credentials of life lived
governed by the jobs they
performed: adhered to or not... whatever:

i'm still so bummed out about
getting a Green Day t-shirt:
it feels so "uncool"
unlike getting a Red Hot Chili Pepper t-shirt...
i feel so bummed out
just out of FOMO: fear of missing out:
i didn't miss out on anything
beside this guy running up to me
and telling me his cousin (female)
smothered him with two punches
one punch shy of him returning
the favor...

    oh jeez those pretentious former army
boys who talk about work ethic
my tongue is a razor but i hold it back
trying to explain to them:
but all you did is prance and make postures
in uniform
but have you guy did any actual:
productive work?
i feign... i wasn't a roofer for 20 years
but enough to know:

what's the army without
the construction industry?
what is the security industry: without people
who know how the construction
industry operates?
seriously?!
these army guys: protection from what
what wars what what what?!
Iraq was pretty ******* safe
as was Libya... now what?
boasting boas in peacock attires
like: i know i'm a traffic cone - at the end of
the day:

some visible divisible incognito: i-what i-who
have-i:

           yes: that too!
but oh jeez who might want to play politics
with the street cleaners
or the fad of punk as music
like otherwise: conformist because
the money started coming in?
best "punk": no punk alive or one poet
poo with some glee at the simple
effort to scribble: doodle-blah-blah...

these army guys working in the security
industry are funny:
because they never worked
in the construction industry
they tend to think that civilians are these:
anti-motivational anti-organizational
typos: of types of people...

and the bullies...
this is the perfect industry to study people:
to watch people:
you can become a class A psychiatrist
working in this industry and having
enough patience
to allow people to: EXFOLIATE
into their modus "ad hoc" operandi...
if: you have enough due dilligence
to also study for self-worth on the side:

learn some Latin some Katakana and
infuse it with a: huh?! "concerning"
cuneiform...

man... i'm so bummed out about getting
that Green Day t-shirt...
i wanted to do the Pearl Jam gig
and get a t-shirt for my debilitated uncle
with two swimming pools worth of brain
and eyes of water in his memory
but... jeez: i'm force-listening to Green Day
and i hated punk from the get go:
come to think of it:

i'm no music fan
with a playlist that these days invokes
Faun, German folk, Wumpscut,
Fiendflug, Wardruna,
                     Eivør Pálsdóttir,
            Heilung: most of this stuff is stashed
in the metal section at the record store:
since folk: neo-
is not a "thing" or chapter: in a music store
beside reggae electronica
classical jazz and other "black" music:
whitey boyo tunic in ethno-grime of folk
is relegated to the obscurity of metal...

            fine fine: my peeve is still with the army
guys who don traffic cone yellow jackets
with that sort of post-army audacity:
preferential treatment?
never worked in construction?
ever?
           ever shoot a blank ***-by-ya?!
i once managed to ******* with a semi-limp
****: climaxed like a girl ******* herself...


eh... sigh... insert no onomatopoeia:

      those army guys in security are somewhat: funny...
protestant work ethic what?!
protestant work ethic what?!
the immigrants you bring in while
you waste on social media rot?

bang bara boom! i'm on the internet:
IN OUT:
quick: snap!
in and out...
                      
                ex army guys having a hard time
to do any other job that might
make them...
             called "assured hilarity" of sequences
of cures without allergies...
   when an ex army tells an ex construction
worker: behold! the demeaning more: more of
nothing like: outlasted the generals
and grand chess masters by
filing all the proper paperwork...

          i wish i could also boast like so
in the open about a former path in life...
                  i would still be in construction:
if i didn't begin working there
with my father:
who...                    for lack of the better word:
claimed quality assurance: perfection:
cloning of: half and half but all in due
to work...

                  these army guys are: funny...
psychiatry? well: do i need qualifications
on that front
to dish out mind numbing obesity
inducing white paraphernalia of pills
or just conversational prompts
without any attachment to hierarchy:
how's that for starters?

              am i not? a priest a psychiatrist
a poet
because why the hell am i so open
to so many conversations and some of them
seemingly "too" intimate that:

          yellow vest protests in France: traffic cones
arise! ha ha...

     regardless: too many trigger-happy bullies
in this industry:
3 years and counting and i have yet
to make a physical intervention
when ejecting someone from the premises:
sweet talk them out of
whatever the hell they were about to do...
point of honor? hardly:
i think about violence as much
as ***:

*** is violence
*** is violence:
but for there to be pleasure from
*** the violence has to
be "violent"...
tamed... measured...
as i keep telling whoever asks:
but we're sober
and these guys are drunk:
that's... such an unfair advantage
and i know the ****-pants
boys who take added measures
and learn martial arts
to suppose: "protect" them should
any physical confrontation come their way?

me: sweet tongue of Eden and cider
each confrontation i've had
i managed to slither in
and end with a hug a handshake
and a sorry:
do i like doing this job?
i like the weird hours
and the commute and the days in between
where i can choke a blank piece
of paper with ******* cognitive junk: juice...

i'm waiting though:
to get my hands *****:
i'm still waiting for
that moment of clarity
in the saying of the Joker:
an unstoppable force and an immovable
object...

which is not true:
since any object can be moved
regardless of an existence of a force
given the fairyland of telepathy
and Sisyphus' punishment was all
the more telepathic requiring Rodin
to sculpt the Thinker
than any actual repetitive toil:
or at least that's how i found Sisyphus:
thinking about the stone:
sitting on top of it:
rather than finding that old gods a bit
******* clueless concerning
Prometheus: no... not the fire was the gift:
but the cunning and ingenuity:
the spark: not the actual fire...

          ah these ex army guys working security...
fair enough if they actually started
a security company
but to be working in high viz jackets
with half-citizens of elsewhere:
must be demeaning: not to be wearing
adored by women: eh? uniforms...

          if i were too from the grand bearskin
balancing acts of too many dishes stacked
on my bead and in red jackets
and black trousers
passing out on high noon in June parades
for the Emperor of Japan to come over
and admire: ah! si! si! zee numbers!

         i just changed vests from construction
to security and:
lucky me for not being a brain surgeon
and claustrophobic in genius
and precision
                 or claustrophilic: that is:
with gods head aflame
about to go cycling drunk and... somehow:
somehow! actually ******* mind the traffic
and just with mouth agape
watch and exclaim:

how did some of these people
pass and have: a driving license?!
and weren't the RAF pilots drunk as skunks
combating amphetamine high
insomnia Luftwaffe? last time i heard:
the drunks outwitted the 8s ***** for eyes
coming from Bavaria.

p.s. Frank Zappa became
so disillusioned with music
that his one notable outlet
was Bulgarian folk...
               likewise: i've become disillusioned
with music that i'm seeking
alternative motives to ingest: digest
sound... it's no longer music:
sound... although i have salvaged some
aura of pretentiousness
with the help of silence:
although: you can't really conjure up:
"hearing": "silence"...

can you?