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There's a fish in my stomach a thousand years old. Can't swim a full circle, the water's too cold. Burnt out cars in my fingers, conveyor belts flow, right angles and steam whistles, nothing can grow. A big-antlered deer stepping into the road, a beautiful woman with her head in the stove. The skyscrapers crumble heavy with rats. The wind's full of beer cans and whiffle ball bats.
This fish in my stomach wears a full length mink, but his teeth float in sherry in a jar by the sink. He's the withered remains of Rin Tin Tin taking his new Cadillac out for a spin.
The endless sea of traffic lights never make a sound like Ben Franklin's electric kite crashing to the ground and the Winnebago skeletons beneath this bankrupt town.

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