In her dreams
She is wanting
To be moved
By more than
Slumber too slumber
Mirrorly to a wake
Daze unending
With that annoying buzz
Thirst thing in the mourning
The pique of the day
The latest snooze
A stay of execution
From a commute
Never quiet arriving
In during
The same owe same owe
A mounting to nothing
Carrion on
From dead line to dead line
Only hopping
To meet your destiny
Long the weigh
Too the beat
Down
Of a humdrum
In exhaustible work lode
Sow being a ware
Only dealing
With sum strain
Of staff infection
A little off
And on and on and on
Without a brake
Wading
For some kind
Of savor
In any respect
Of a Jōb
Well
Done
Succeeded by rehash for dinner
A little bit like
Looser
For awe that has been urned
From dusk to dusk
And willing succor
For a weak end
And easing into won bunk
Affording seconds of fuel’s goaled
Mine razing
At the prospect
Too due it
Agin
This is a good Monday mourning poem for all of you enduring slave wagers. To me, work is simply doing that which you do not want to do, that which we do when we would rather be doing something else. The conventional wisdom is that there are inescapable compromises that must be made, such as selling large chunks of our life to finance the remains. Wee are part and parcel of this so-called American dream, which George Carlin so aptly observed, 
“It’s called the American dream because you have to be asleep to believe it” — that is, if you can fit sleep into your schedule! Frankly, I can no longer afford to go to such conventions, though I’ll meet them half way with the whole whizzed ’em thing.
Having to wake up to an alarm strikes me as one of the great bastardizations of true awakening. If you get up and it is dark out, you might want to make a note of that, hopefully, plenty of notes, see notes!
If you are going to sell yourself, I would definitely hope that you get a good price. Still, there is a whirled of difference between getting a good price and a good prize. Selling your own passions, your own heart’s desires for someone else’s notion of productivity is perhaps the real idolness. Far too often, no one can even really identify the specific person whose notion of productivity is being served. Wherever it is, it’s the birthplace of “It’s not my job” and “I’m only doing my job” as workers serve nameless and unaccountable masters, and can’t help, but serve in their master’s apathetic and/or irrelevant image. The bulk of so-called work in capitalist cultures represents an immeasurable opportunity accost of passions passed and hearty lusts lost. Even awe that has been urned echoes in time off, weather having perpetual rehash as eve approaches or dread as eve withers a way in the dread of coming daze.
May you find work indistinguishable from play, an awakening without alarm, and find no idolness in site.
