To be worthy without output, I text back the dyke that wants to tie me up. I browse an online catalog of tongues. The only thing I think about with a tongue in my mouth is another tongue in my mouth & that might be a win for capitalism. I will leave what makes me cry before carpal tunnel takes my wrists. The job I mean. There are better uses for my hands. Some things can be done by hand but are easier by machine. The best machines are not the smartest. I mean I’m grateful for USB charging, but I don’t think my vibrator knows when I’ll cum. I once thought I could be in love with everyone until I learned how often I’d have to share my bed. I worry my hesitancy to share my bed says something about my praxis but my bed stays loyal & doesn’t talk. Really, I wanted to text you to see if you would remind me I have a body, but someone told me your hands are busy. Are they trying to meet output. What is a good day’s work. Can it be a good day if there’s work. What is work. The flowers lining my sidewalk open & close every day & I derive joy from it. When you speak. When you lick crumbs off the edge of the smallest spoon. Your mouth opens & closes & I derive joy from it. Is this labor. Can I unbutton the economy from that thing you do with your