Work
is time
that you trade
for money.

Leisure
is time
for the sake
of itself.

What if you love work?
Now we have a problem.

So I sold mountains,
waiving endless gold
throwing purple pollen,
forming bright stars
from midnight
beneath the ocean
that rise together
until they connect.

(Do you remember the time
you got a sleep-related injury?

I do.
Never forget it.)

The cavernous space
of a moment
when seasons change,
unrelated to the revolution
of the Earth
around the sun,
related to revolution itself.

Steel bars
and zebra stripes,
school bus colored sun
in motionless resignation,
pens and pencils
in wardrobes,

That is where I work.
I sell my best non-renewable resource
for as much money
as possible
as fast as I can.

Desks that teeter on mountaintops
while snow is falling,
melting upon the stacks
of papers and receipts
for things that do not exist anymore,
reminders from the last century
of things I have never done.

Black notebooks
with sinister dealings
and steel raindrops:
meteor streams
I pass through
on the way out

on the way in
to a small cafe
to drink
warm cashmere coffee
with an old friend,
And set fire to raindrops:

Starlight suspension bridges
and quasars
that keep you tripped out
in the fourth dimension,
xxxhere,
where time
is sold for money
that can’t
buy time.

(1.2.09)