Sometimes, it's like I can
hear myself hearing
myself talking, and
all of a
sudden, I get this weird
hunch—prefab
and
storebought—words
are just shirts
and pants
for my thoughts—which, in
turn, must just
be so many
torsos fingers toes
arms legs crotches and butts—
all bumpy
and wrinkled and ashy
and ugly and what-
not—and not one of them
autonomous; each one
nothing but
a nervous
quivering slave, a soft
fleshy pink
robot—pressed tough
and eternally
into the electrically
controlled
neuro-muscular
service of—guess what?
