can these two poems be one?

I make it like a tank.  Timing signals plaster from the sky is falling on the stairs and why doesn’t someone get a towel.  On the genome map you hit it out of the park.  You hit it into the water where sky falls onto the city and we like to call that night.  There is even a song to go with.  To go with me while the sky is plowing through paper where I am water soluble and dissolve at the first drop.  By the clock it read early AM when I got the message in the butcher block, when I got up to make myself some paper. What can be timed with a timer: it is a mystery.  In the ways of love there is another box called breakfast.  In love you may live in the uninsulated house but the larger problem is flags on sticks, the real difficulty of bite size business.  Real breakfast is real trouble over a high flame no matter how many phones you have in your hands.  No matter how many smaller sandwiches you may have eaten there is oatmeal, and you grinning stupidly into it.