Not sure of "date," so need to start dating these...

Words rarely adequate as translation of what isn't accessed, much less
instant after instant after instant of what is. Mushroom pleasure
as man implodes unnatural impulse to articulate unknown cause of spontaneity
unfolding rapture. The artificial worlds corporate America foists on man
what would otherwise be person and person naked in meadow miles from strip
mall signs surrounding them, objectifying them as reflections of consumer
compulsions no more innate then the need to shave pubic hair in preparation
for a double blind date, a double-bind fate. If you could write but one last
life sentence, when would it begin and how would it end. To whom already over-
determined and by whom, or for him for whom spells doom tomb. Arguing amount
of H2O in hummus turning into soupy lemon tart, Jeesus, NO, the man would NOT
write "fart," damn it, and Futility felt filtering world through sieve of syllables
and sense, just sludge if cannot judge between rare mettle and common cowardice.
The leaves assorted shades of beige temporarily still after man who rakes
them in the fall before they all scatter again as man fixating on not fixing them
to metaphors or metonyms of consciousness one thing or awareness another thing
really they're nothing other than just plain leaves, each individual and unique,
all, together, more of the same things he will rake next year in the fall
of his life then for his wife again or to get outside and see things
for what they really are or just simply to get outside. The gaze over
at Ontario Street which the man in the back of his house on Gibson remembers
as houses of his great-grampa, grandma, and mom becomes gays, and man writing
wishes that the habit of making puns would develop into something more useful.
Black spots on white hair of dalmation next door man spotted before it trots
around low green and orange pines to pee or piss or urinate or defecate
and do its business. Plush ivory-furred house cat bouncing, galloping forward
up shade of green leaf strewn lawn, man urgently needing to use the toilet
asking stepson in shower of lone bathroom if he can take a crap, younger man
refusing request demanding that older man wait, older man contemplating taking
paint pail down to basement to accommodate younger man's typically shameless
indifference. The man in the dark greasy brown subterranean light wearing always
those soiled black tee shirts and dark blue and black dungarees, always dingy,
darkened, taken for a lout, all his life big, hairy, brutish-looking, not
Popeye but Bluto, working day in and day out, grinding out his subsistence, hardly
ever more than just that, subsistence, barely ever sustenance, merely sustaining,
not a lout at all, rather sweet and understanding in fact. The man perceiving
the man previously perceived as a lout, realizing his sweetness now, seeing
the other man as his equal, another slave to preconceptions, victim of positions,
conditions in a rat race, maze owned by bigger rats, seeing him now for who he is
truly, just a man, and a good kind man at that. At that machine, that whole long row
of awful, inconceivably diabolical machines, they manufature garbage, death, steel
things for other machines that refrigerate foods, ventilate hospitals, drop napalm
on innocent civilians and enemies and friends and make others wealthy, if wealth
measured by money and inconceivable security, not the man who may have looked
like a lout thinking, the man who may have looked like a lout just as likely
proud of the things he makes with his machine and the uses his society has
for them and for him, himself. The floor on the second level cement and beveled
ceramic tile stacking men or women above and below it or holding them up or down
in factory in small western New York town glamourless and grey in winter
and some months all year long. The difference a day makes of mind in morning
essentially hopeless, seemingly condemned, then evening and returning home in cold
solid drizzle walk the dog in dark snow then light, the man listening to the truest
news wife's relating elation of first venture stepson accompanied to "therapy"
and hope. Ampad notebook eighth sheet all's well that ends well in bed,
man turns page, thinks of last blank slate never ending like this. The woman
and the young man her son in the left ear from the room in the front
and the roar of November wind in the right ear from outside back of the back
of the house making music with words indecipherable to man hearing various tones
the woman putting dent in warped relationship with son at counseling session
later apologizing to him for trying to fix slightly dislocated heating duct
grate he doesn't quite break retreiving some chapstick he'd dropped down there.
Roar of November wind steady but not threatening intermittenly.
Man thinking thoughts producing words he writes down in Texas notepad
not so convinced merely rhyming them makes them worth thinking about.