What is Work?


Is the Nerudesque love of a body of work?
Is it poetic, in cascade, a license
To be so myself, in an alien planetary system
Where restitution is a paycheck
That makes rings of flavored sweetness
Inside your mental orbitals. Then is it a Newtonian
Measurement of gravity, of the love of earth,
Of how we do everything for the betterment
Of Gaia and the 7 billion of her inhabitants,
Under the logo “do for the world”.
And still work is as peculiar as a tyrannical power
On the other side of the 38th parallel
When you never really know your true ambitions
Only success being the ruler of professional happiness
But to me, work is, perhaps was, and even will be,
How you take little explanations
Of human origin and make them to biological
Measurements, of how we are combined
And recombined by little units – chiasma, proteins and cells;
Which when bonded to synergy
Makes kinesis a joy. Of how a harlequin jellyfish
Swims or how a little hummingbird sweetens her tummy
Or for that matter how we use finger-muscles
To make little calligraphies of inevitabilities.
Why science will never be work. – It is the choreography
Of evolution in nucleotide-brick design,
Deconstructed by human will, to feed a monster
With merciless jaws. We are forever freaks in curiosity,
Freakensteins of our own need; TO QUESTION.

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