In the vast internship of the universe,
where celestial freelance workers type
upon keys made of cosmic stardust...
an echo speaks: "Your coffee is under
the chair, just like the meaning of
life is under the pile of existential rug."
It is said, in tiny pearls of irony
scattered like comets through
the void, that the great cosmic
accountant adds and subtracts
everything and finds tax evasion
is the truest form of enlightenment.
Each murmur from the well is
a tweet from a long-gone galaxy,
an ironic scream into the silence,
a reminder that all spaghetti
is cosmic dust, and all hands
that fork it are blind.
Inscribe Wisdom on Crumpled Stars
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