It's late now and I arrived home with one of those heavy burdens on my back. It's one of those signed crucifixion deals where you decide to be along side with someone, try it out, and if the costumer doesn't really like it, they smile with sympathy and say, "Let's just be civil" and a big block right in front of me like I'm a pedestrian. I'm getting dreary. Underneath the bridge The tarp has sprung a leak I told myself, "It's been a couple of years now, what could go wrong?" The answer is myself wondering why I even bothered with someone with closure could want to actually be interested in me. I got this unique flick spinning in a projection behind this silver, grated station where people send me their filthy smears, and crumbs, and liquids other people have covered with their artificial fluids of sticky, gum-covered flesh, as they make towers to make a once in a lifetime chance to hide me on purpose. But on these white and chrome plates, with filthy smears, and crumbs, and liquids, I can make art. And the animals I've trapped Have become my new pets I run through the messages I've rehearsed multiple times and predictions of what this someone would say in return. I'm not worried about the others though. It's okay, because none of them have entered my view of what this mental crisis is I keep seeing, and wanting to change all of that by going up to this person, and say, "I can do better. Just don't leave me hanging." I'm already drenched as I enter my humid station and the work flow of standing for eight or so hours when these civilized workers with all fast talk, and witty words, and smooth walks of fortune give me their shit, I begin to think that these outgoing folks, whom I hardly know and almost all of them have the same fucking name, which confuses me and makes me wonder what geniuses their mothers were at the time of their conceived upbringings and forgot that the millions of people in this country already named their children the same name, well one day come up to me and make a commitment to me. Then they do, and... And I'm living off of grass And the drippings from the ceiling "No, no, it's okay" I tell them, "I'm used to it." No, no you're not used to it, you dumb bastard. You want to be free of this and from this someone. The both of you done each other's part, you've tried, and now just tell this someone what you're feeling right now. For crissake, you know deep down this person is just like you and is in pain, and you're not allowing your charisma to settle in. The smuck of a cool, rude, dude at the line who has the same job position is doing that for you and has been for some time now. In fact, this someone has known it all for the benefit. Now this someone is used to it and is only here to see if you're still breathing. "It's okay, I'm used to it" I say. But it's okay to eat the fish 'Cause they don't have any feelings All these dishes are loaded and making me sore, and so are the others around me, because they don't see themselves when they look at me. They don't know what they look like when facing me. Yet I can see them so clearly, and I know what they see in me: A burden. I'm in the way of them. And with that I feel used up, just like those years of peeling, and rubbing, and fixing my structure and intelligence, and has made me more vicious, and battered, and raped then I was before. I don't know what else comes to mind of formality, and intuition. Just points for trying, and trying, and trying. A block figurine on the shelve. No use of picking up. But I'll just sit here and watch everything move after me.