A Poem to Amass in Her Bowels

Don't get a hysterectomy unless it saves your life!

Life grows in you!

You poop joy every day!

Gut-curdling smells are unique and heavenly.

Stop the stomach contents from spewing out your nostrils!

Human organs juggle the chemicals shuffling through space.

Secure your dangling cellular tissues tightly and squeeze the life into yourself!

Shit your body-at-this-time out of the vortex of dark matter!

Retrain your vision on the curious shapes that conspire all around you!

Sell your bladder on the black market.

Burn the house on the farm for insurance.

I stopped loving time.

I crept backwards and found the love deceiving me.

Askew aural prejudice damages our delight, then we fight.

Quick, beat the tortoise to the finish.

Shame won't quit. I'm too ashamed to quit.

Push, push, push, sow sticky hormonal fluid into the crumbly crust!

Reap the baby!

It's enough to be necessary and to feel the heat.

Change Eyes!

I god-damnit jesus-shitting masturbated a few hours ago, and I now I got a tickle in my penis. It's annoying, but it's more annoying that I let myself look at porn and aroused myself.

I was watching Friend Zone. It's still playing on mute.

Yesterday was Tuesday, I volunteered at the library, and I thought This is good (good for me). Work was hard. I ate pizza rolls like I planned. I watched the premier of season two of Twin Peaks; I forgot it is an hour and a half. I like it quite a bit.
When I think of it in Aaron terms, it feels like a waste of time, like a step into a grave. That image pleases me though. It feels like slapping a suffering person in the face. Like I think, "You're life might get better. Someone else can help you, or you can help yourself. My life is great, so I'm just going to do this, because I want to and I feel like it will make my life more complete, but it won't."

I went to Mom's library today, because she wanted to give me Watership Down audio book to give to Tim.

I talked to Aaron on the phone about Tim moving out maybe in May and about futures. He wants me to find a better job or read Improving Moral Decision Making.

I don't want to die? I want to live my full life, like there is some kinda shape in the future that I should fill by making good decisions? What is music speaking to? What does music say to us? Why do we make music? What do we want? Life! When do we want it? Forever. There is some kinda of recording device outside of nature (everything) that makes everything eternal; nothing can be undone or forgotten.

What are we? Exactly what we experience. We must be aware. We must acknowledge the truth. We must take part in creating what is. We must sustain logical progression. We must define ourselves and our context. We must pull ourselves out of the inside and put everything inside ourselves.

I mean it. I don't know what it means. I want to try to be actual and live actually. I want to use life and be of use.

I should apply to Tuesday morning... Dad... Deb... Dead... Daid... Shed... Sabe... Eff... Deaf... Left... Crest... Best... Lest... West... Nest... I am correct... I shall be a beaver... I shall believe the toast of many underlings behaving sorrily toward the highest pleasure and relive the science given in praise of total sincerity.

BI! -GregBerg

This Morning, Time is Careful

Listening to episode 19 of The Pod F. Tompkast. I feel the need to listen to his voice. I woke up for the last time about 15 minutes ago. I skipped the word "die" in my last post. I have been feeling suicidal lately, but more so I've been thinking about suicide. It made me laugh last night. We had a lot to do at work and it was getting late, so I thought, I don't want to do this, I'm going to kill myself, then I felt better and took work less seriously. Tim is playing WoW loudly. He was at Casey's for a while and came back with games. I was pretty hungry and I decided to eat Totino's pizza rolls last night. I did and they tasted pretty good, but I'm ashamed. I also ate ice cream. Hmm.

Some disgusting folded toilet paper stacks with brownish stains on them. Terrence from work figured out that someone's girlfriend, like Tim's, not Chelsea, had wiped her vagina on them and given them to Tim I guess it was as an erotic keepsake. (I think Pat and Bridgett showered together last night after I got here, and Tim and Chelsea did last weekend as I watched a kid's show with Asher. Last night when they went into the bathroom I thought how disgusting it is to me.)
I am at a woodland mansion. It's almost like a secret military complex. There are lots of official men there. There is a canyon and hills. Everything is brown or mossy. There are pipe and tunnels and grate and gutters. There is some complex game happening. There are lots of green M and M's stuck in the pipes. Or something small and round. Guys use long bendy sticks to unstick them. I leave and walk over to the front of the mansion. There are nice compact courtyards with viewing benches. It's a little too enclosed for me. I think there is a front wall. I go inside and I am in the kitchen. It's pretty big. I start to open cupboards to find food. A butler opens a rotating cupboard and spins it to show me what's inside. On the bottom there is a wide roll of butcher paper, and when it spins it looks circular because it's spinning so fast it blurs together. I don't see anything else. I don't remember more.

Bye!! I am going to be my best! See ya Tomorrow!

Not Everything, Not Obvious

I will not say everything. I cannot say everything. I do not want to use the word "everything". I am listening to Michael Showalter's stand up. What's a thirsty animal? That's what he asked. He's so good at relating to people. He is profound talking about the human condition. Ice Cream! I will SOON!!! I am Greg Wredberg. I am 6'1" or something, I weigh about 140 pounds, and I have dark blonde hair and a short scruffy beard. I have blue eyes or green eyes. I am floating on the surface of existence... I'm like a water bug. On this youtube video, there is a picture of Showalter in high school. He or someone has labeled it with all his flaws, making fun of his haircut, clothes, face, acne. At the bottom it says Too many layers and has three arrows pointing at his clothes. Too many layers also describes his way of thinking. He thinks about how others might think of him, he analyzes his own thoughts and behavior. I think I relate to him this way. He is gentle in a bitter way. I am also trying to describe myself. He is describing his three cats and the audience is enjoying it. I work at five and it's 2:43. I should take a shower. I am waiting. Place. Places you'll go. Better place. Life enjoying. Transcending nature. He ended with a story about masturbating and peeing on himself.

I have to go on. I have to overcome. Tree ripe healthy snacks. Transcend myself. Control. Attention. Excellence. Perfection. Completion. Mumbling. Uniqueness. Solitude. Oneness. Standing. Crying. Detail. Connection. Elation. Peace. Good bye.

Yolen Enterprise

William Shatner's daughter's name might be Janet Yolen. He has kept her out of the public eye. We have seen an old photo: she stands on the sidewalk outside her house behind her father. Maybe he or she holds a balloon. The image is yellow and washed out, probably from the 70s. She announces a spaceship she designed, similar to the Enterprise. I somehow get on. I walk around and look. It looks like a regular office. I see Sitara. I follow her. I call her name, but it seems that she does not hear. I worry that she ignored me, because I am not supposed to be here. I think she goes to the bathroom, so I wait. I meet her on the way back to her desk. She seems glad to see me. She seems worn out. She is wearing sweats I think. We chat, and I give her two pennies. Then I see Praveena at desk a few feet away. I say, "Hello, Praveena." I give her a penny, my last one, and say, "Merry Christmas," but it's not Christmas. As I walk away (or roll away on a chair, it feels), she notices Sitara got two pennies and objects. I say that it's a valuable antique penny and two thousand years old, which it cannot be. I do not even think it's a real penny; part of it is blank. She seems satisfied. Whatever happens next.

I was up till 4, reading myself

Me and Nikki we in a large studio place, I was cohosting Alex's radio show, but he wasn't there. I convinced Nikki to be a part of the show. I started the show and I sounded very high pitched. I was mostly confident about what to say. I enjoyed hearing myself.
I walked along a highway in a place like LA. I walked up a hill next to a large plastic white pipe. There was an old white lady and two youngish black guys. They all talked about how they talked differently and about society in general.

Examinations During Daytime Living Moments

This is Time. Time looks to the left but doesn't see Big Ass Asteroid shooting fast and getting big and bigger. Weiners are for copulation. In a small private dim bathroom, Time shoots electric piss into a crappy toilet bowl. Bits of bright red meat squeak between 17 pearly gross teeth. Time sits like a lady on an insane white bed beside the Huge Love-filled Window. Time goes for a damn walk like a busty Jew, when Hollandaise rubberneckers gawk from the stony water fountain. Cellulose phosphorous teams against the nitrogen and oxygen soup that spills through us and Time, making little girl neurons jump like boys on bobcats in the swampy neighborhood of potential ideal recognition. Time slips up at roofing a mad house living in TV superstar body images. The sky lemur shoots his gigantic black furry tail down to the earth and decrees, "You are fired, young Time!" Time sits still on a woody beam twelve feet above the floor. Orbs of H(subscript2)O tap on each square inch of existing matter in a 2,140 feet radius of Time. Time sees less and less, as photons recede into deep space and into Time's viscous vision spheres.

Here we are, alone. The time raptors tear our global feet into internet-based, pan-seared tropical vegetables. Time spares and separates a grumpy munky from living too long on a desk made for Latina businesswomen in the 2040s. Safe sex is not for Big Ass Asteroid. Destroying life models is fun for a while but not for Time. Likable grass surfaces eat plain pita. Time plans on having every fourth grader out for learning practices. The schedule in corrected. Super burgers are good life achievements. You, know? Some times look forward, but behind the seeing cubes a trite fortune corpses toward slight speculation and infinite dissonance.

Kinda The End.

Love, greg

Creamy Life

Dianne the Man. I want to work on a farm. Nothing is better thasn life. Living hard with a big bundle of sacks in my arms. Living into the night, living into tomorrow. Having enormous bowel surges. Leaking pouring rumbling, extracting bountiful gut reaping wrenches. Singing lofts of hay burping cursing shitting bawling wailing eating. I am harmonious. The level divider, the wind, hooping screening, liquid factions days living hording. I bounce off grass into little eaters' eyes legs winding up cracking down, simple arms careening caressing lifting pushing through the sphincter elevating bursting barfing relaxing enjoying. I impale Science Graves. Laughing doctoring careering. I implore beginners, exacters, deciders. I excel through waters, fibers, nitrogen, respiratory bacteria, detritus fungus, juicy plantae. I demand roads, agriculture, beans, artifacts, reactions, revolutions, betrayers, solo artists. Omniscient clock bugs worms stars sun warm dry, omnipresent human tool carry hold follow derail unbroke help impart defect infect perfect delicious.

Canada Yankee