My commitments keep me entertained
only in cheap tinsel.
Dreaming a sweaty, carboard faith about
all my hopes in a basket out of reach
down the eroding riverbed.
There is no solution or any semblance of sane.
Fuck me, everything, is just, is so
extraordinarily bland. Steampress in the 
engine room like a signal to myself to say,
hey sweetheart, wake up out of your paper mâché
misery, out of your income addiction, there is
hope to find in the vital you.
The two-state electron ecstaticisms that
call for you when you mostly grasp,
and then but the straws come back.
Back to square zero's son.
Back to bear one.