Maybe I'm losing it, maybe it's lost, maybe it never existed in a way that I can talk about it like it was mine to have.
Who knows? Who knew?

I know we're all projections, flat like a slideshow on a classroom wall,
where the students doze and the teacher doesn't blame them. 

My dimentions (dementias) are cylindrical, rotund, like sausage from 
head to toe; kilbassa baby, pink thick stubby fingers 
with pink thick stubby body, 
go figure, body by McDonalds, brain by Matell, Lego my eggo but don't 
ever lego of me, hold me up here, 
so I don't fall and can't get up. 

Find the differances in these two panels; show the man, show the animal, find your goofus to this gallant. 
Dream a river, and wade in it, until you dream of crocodiles and ivory tiles. 

Buzzword pop culture, buzzsaw delivery, buzz off mentality. 

Are you troubled by this George Forman grill? 
Your nine dollars a month helps shape and trim your thighs and buttocks in 
the 
privacy 
of 
your own home, while the fat of the world drips off these specially designed solarpanals that heat your tap water to 
undrinkable with bacteria, 
filter filter filter the equivilent of fourty bottles from any corner store. 

Drive the infomercials out of your mind, drive the newest car, smell the newest interior.

God awful waste of space, pick your punctuation, colen, colon, hyphen, hymen, outer or inner, 
find that waist and make it smaller, maladjusted or malnutioned, 
do you eat that garbage while they eat that garbage?

Eat at the Gap, pull at the fabric, say the name, SAY THE NAME!

Are you spelled wrong? Are you ghoti or aren't you, are you for sail or are you for sale?

The fish suffocate under our ice, as quicky as we would under theirs, 
and they don't put us on display for five year olds to play with, 
over the sneeze guard, touching the death and the food for your brain. 

Knock on my door has me hurting the world, but wanting you off my couch, 
don't tell me God loves me while I'm watching T.V.

Eyes glaze like dunken donuts filled with cream, luxurious spa bath and 
private limo-scene. You've got eighty dollars, 

who was it used to say; some famous man dead, or some dead man not famous. Could be Spade, but could be endless digging.

Close your eyes, they decieve you; open your eyes, we believe you.

We're dropped on your head once as a child, and you've never forgotten 
how much you despised it.

Oh! On bravado and bravo sing, to God and good country, buy their grace alone!

If you have no idea then breathe in the relief, this way of thinking brings 
no end to grief, 
now wasn't that subtle and sweetly sublime? 
Can you go your way and expect me to go mine? 
Dream of this darkness while you bathe in the light, 
and scream in the drying while you're delightfully shaped with the lathe.

Or is that scream for the dying? or for the trying? Isn't either one as loud as
the anguish, extinguish, relinquish and move on with your life?

Is that what she asked me to do? Or is this what I dreamed, the same dream as
the river with ivory white end, with ivory white bottom?

Say it a million times, until it looses it's meaning, President Kennedy, up on
the podium, a mantra for man, used and amused, 

so far beyond my time that it might as well be fiction. 

Win by dumb luck, win; buy your own luck. 

It's all how I say it, and how I betray it... and it's been said and betrayed
more than once today.

Iggy Pop knows, heroin arms, no hero with the needle in his ear, eye for the times, he cried and died and tried, 
in his songs at least, 
what all may slip away implies a tight grip, in reality, 
lost through inability 
to understand how to close my hand, or strain my finger. 

Dances on my palm, thick and stubby, if only I could move, if only I could catch it, before it dances away.