The Fargo Kantrowitz'z Literary Campsite

Where do old hippies go when no one finally cares?

dirt. (catch yourself, you never know when the hoochiesmooch) lots of dirt that time dirt. Old dirt. dirt that didn’t do it for you anymore. dirt that didn’t care anymore. good dirt. soiled dirt. ingrained dirt. the time of dirt. dirt.

always wanting to end something before it’s begun. the journalist in me… but the in me says…

not the eye puke

better, like the next word. eye word down but not out. forgot the aspirin. maybe the pain will go away.

runon sentences make you a bad writer. forget the moment of bliss and wonder. just kidding. really just true love. more later…

Merilous fulsomes in the dark. welcomemats Joycean style bad style run on style bad writer just kidding. really just love. more later…

for the moments of bliss and wonder were real, or were they?

(we interrupt this message to bring you this announcement. you have reached the other side, i repeat, you have reached the other side. the other side is sign for death, sign only, the import of it’s mystique, the atmosphere of it’s contents, but not real, just a thought of, just a thought of and nothing more so love for a moment of bliss and wonder, makes you wonder about God.)

God has a rap sheet.

Hip Ho a Hibbit.

habits of movement of head to bob and weave your way out of the next real solution’s enigma. what do you see between the flying conundrums?

more flow perhaps? where every boundary is broken? twisted turtles and slower thoughts slowed.

a documentation of what you were doing at all through the very reality of letters strategically placed.

what futility.

but what of the wonder and bliss? You can’t stop thought. your brain folds and unfolds. but after awhile you have to let go too. you’ve got to find your way, the way you should write. the view that you can accept and once you accept that view you have to understand it