Miles and miles
Of rusty rolling pins
Rattle their complaints to me.
Hey, I have complaints of my own;
I don’t like this anymore than you do.

Monotonous mountains of boxes
Act as bookends,
Feed and relieve the river of rollers,
(Always a pile of empty,
Always a pile of full).

Even the shadows here are static,
They don’t move with sun
‘Cause fluorescent light can’t shine.

But as always –

The boxes are bumping
And the rollers are rolling
And my hands are hurting
And my heart is desirous.

My heart is desirous
And it desires a fire.
Maybe, just maybe,
If I can fill faster and push harder –

If I can talk these rambling rollers
Into spinning till they spark,
If I can drive these
Boxes on down the river of heat,
They will feel my desire.
They will carry it like a fuse
Down to the mountains
That’ll burst their tops like M-80’s
And I’ll set this
Ole’ day-in day-out assembly line
On FIRE.

Me, I’m not a flamer.

I just can’t stand to see
The same g-----n box
Keep rollin’ on by.