fitted ts, Iversons and all that used to be (Dedicated to da man Chusk)

something is lurking in the dark, someone is creeping on my street. I walk as if I'm fine but have no feeling in my feet. My arms too short to box with God, and my legs are too stressed to stand the devil. Standing against the game with "intimidating" bricks and bats, the status-quo is now the same cause it is all tit for tat. Dwelling in the squalor of a dizzying diocese, i dip real deep while i dramatize the facts.

I pose by a pile of decomposing pictures to have memories of lost memories. But my memory is pricked by the taste of rotten pickles and the positives of a prozac nation. I propose a toast: To the people of God and to country, or better yet to the people of Gods own country, but if we toasted with the people of God in a country the hypocrisy alone will make it a pretty God damned country. So we pick the pain from exactly where we left off cause the pills provide pits in our placement of perspective. Give me a second to puke and piss on the polity, pick up my damn phone and ring up the life police. Pocket a pinch of the impossible because I am both pissed and pist, pronounce my unwavering commitment to the non commitment movement. I step away from the blur and shock of the immediate past, and you were just a kid that was content with his Iversons ... but in the end it all comes to nothing ... How then can we free? In a sick and twisted way there is something truly peaceful about nothing, and in a typical philosophical cliche i declare that NOTHING IS THE NEW SOMETHING

I raise my glass to the ghost of a dropouts graduation, to the victory dance of a crippled athlete, to the pregnant wife of a virgin priest, to the vibrant life of a comatose beast, to the progressive commitment of a Nigerian politician, to equal opportunity under a capitalist system, to a united, peaceful, happy prozac nation .... To all things non-existent .... Nastarovia