Sometimes when you fuck, have you ever wondered,
why do men, women, and other animals labour so?
Grinding loins, palpitating hearts, and aching backs,
to say nothing of the long wait for the wage that sometimes never arrives.
When I fuck you and when you fuck me,
who is the manager, foreman, worker, and where is the promised paid holiday?
The Zen monk Hyakujô declared, "no labor for a day, no food for a day,"
sitting out from the daily repast when his disciples hid his tools
so the old master would not have to work.
And just as the old master works assiduously and equally
with the disciples on the monastic fields in common,
impregnating and harvesting crops to consume, shit, and recycle,
these redundant acts of labor, slightly varying in postures and anatomical uses,
force ungraceful repetition of necessary beauty for us to consume, shit, and recycle.
As we couple, decouple, sink, flow, agitate, and release,
this rhythmic work of no work teaches us the lesson of repetition:
to live this exhaustion of tongue, limbs, and genitalia
as our annihilation in a singular moment.
Obtaining this, the profit margin and collective bargaining of our fucking
disintegrate under the rubble of one sigh, one deeper shift into the hips, one eternal gesture.