Basement Maniac,.

 I keep thinking and forgetting.  Forgetting, then thinking, it is a journey, they told me, and I don't know to where.  Nothing wraps up neatly.  Everything is in shambles.  Everything is perfectly uniform and coherent.  My efforts are sponge cake on a layer of lemon frosting, and the sweet taste in my mouth has more to do with the milk you produced on an organic feed fed cow that would softly nudge me with her head as I scampered around to become your protege.  Your liege.  Your lord.  My own insufferable basement maniac.  Nothing but a basement maniac, like a song.  Like a master tyrant, friendly, benign, under-exposed, compulsive and secret.  The most inclusive by being the most exclusive, and boy did I get excited then, when you told me that you were new too, and that you were faking it all, and what a rush when we filled the elevator with leaves.  I can still remember the super, the, I don't know, what do they call them?  The RA, the hall attendant.  He told us to open up.  I told him to go slow.  He told us he was serious.  I laughed and marked the time by silhouettes bouncing, frothing, flailing, to and fro, and back again, into memories, into the future, and back out again on the flat shallow plateau of the past.  I'm hammering on the clay rock, and my hand hurts.  And I'm breaking my back and my head hurts.  And I can't seem yet to find the line, no matter how many times I've convinced myself that it is there.  Again, downtown, we'll go, until the tourists have all swallowed their words, and we're young minds in old sagging bodies, and everyone is talking to us over their coffee as if there is some idyllic land just beyond our peripheral vision.  The age old insecurity, the comfort zone.  The dog food.  The wet treat.  The flapping fish.  Here we are, my friend, bouncing around in the predator den.  At least they found us where we wanted them to; at least we have that.