my kitchen (a pome about time)

my kitchen has become some sort of time machine - layering thoughts upon me, around me. lost in thought streams - paris rue's this or that, a dreamery ruse, complicated muse, perturbed premise... i ponder cellphones as well as paris - how they might lead to that. or not. txt messages - 'pomes' sent out. my kitchen is really positioned on the dark side of the moon where most humans can't see it. a metal box i live in and some- how breathe in and try to exper- ence life in. you can't fence life in. you can't whimper in the corner. you and everyone else breathes recycled air. over and over again. cycles of cycles within cycles as cyclists cycle past future moments so fast as if on the tour de france or the tour de 'other thing' (redacted poetry from USia somewhere... sorry to all of you stuck on earth...) the garbage ship barges always come at 10:23 Central Standared Time on earth, a moment in be- twixt one two and yew in universal time, and it wakes me up. and i look at the main console - to see if any new messages have come in. being a time mechanic second class (a simple poet like Glass perhaps) is a lonely career path i think sometimes. i had a dream the other day about a novel named Hannah. did i tell you that yet? blog you that yet? blurrier still yet? and yet... i like my job. tremendously. fits my personality my demeanor, my thinking at one point that you could (rather that i could) live within a poem, bound by such bound- aries as word limits and space and time and ones and zeros and is there a 42 hour poem? how does it read? fast? slow? lo, and behold, does it show? do i know? and the view really is amazing from here. enough to keep you up some nights. i might as well tell you the name of this place. what they call it. 'pome station one.' others 'pome station alpha.' even others 'pome station prime.' i don't mind it has so many names. poetry is escape. poetry is storytelling. poetry is message. poetry is form. leave it to the scientists hard at work back on earth to come up with a perfect formula to tame with numbers (or try to) this thing called poetry. and if things get too tough, or even better, when things get a lot softer - i'll parachute back to earth to enjoy the last few moments stretched out into eternity.