I come back, half-baked

My delineations tired

and creations uninspired

get me hired, get me fired

make me hungry, thin and wired

make me forcibly expired

like I'm fucking undesired

after all that I've acquired

all I've done to be admired

my existence has transpired

and the truth is, I'm just tired.

hi, here I am, struggling

to endure the narrative growths

burdening my legs and feet

clutching my cosmic uselessness

to my chest

as it falls and trails behind--

and your compulsions to categorize

my uncountable parts

belie the whole

experience of senseless infection

from relentless projections

of internal logic

as eternal as it is internal

as it is she, as it are they, as it am I --

and now we disavow this treatise, too;

our words, though sparse, are clutters

of nothings. Nothings like: we call

what we call “storyteller”: “self”;

“audience”: “other” -- suspend:

no more.

To suit our point

we leave half-baked