The sleep work is going fine.
But it seems we’re all going to die.
Time in its fruitfulness is a fatal companion.
Exactly when is the time for love, anyway?
And will there be a sign? A bell? Our program
is to undo the particles of gravity that subsidize
time’s lifestyle. The suburb-like environment
inside our little closet is a harvest of comfort.
Though even if we had real selves we wouldn’t know what to do
with them. As proof consider the suffix -aka, which we use
to refer to all kinds of love relations, as in put-put-aka
or Wolfman-aka. Consider it vis-à-vis time’s fruit cup.
For example, my Godfish can’t fix his low ball life-path.
Great Light Arch-aka! Therefore, death crawls along
the electrical wiring but can be fooled by a really big nap