time with fuzzy edges.
time leaking linearity.
sitting on an airplane one afternoon.
on my way home from visiting my father,
who was finishing his life, and would be gone
in a few months.
I’d been looking through photos of my father
when he was a child.
I could see him as a child, and I could see him
as the man who was my father when I was a child,
and I could see him as he was then, a man
preparing to say good-bye.
I was sitting on the plane looking at all the other
passengers. We all woke up somewhere that morning.
Groggily. Knowing we would travel. And we would all
fall asleep somewhere that evening. Cozy. Having arrived.
Now we were in the air.
I could see them all as they were when they were babies,
and I could see them all as the people they were right then,
and I cold see them all in the future somewhere,
leaving their bodies behind.
What is time but a practical and ridiculous way of slicing
tiny slices from a lovely round cake that we could enjoy
just as well, if not better, by keeping it whole, and sharing
all the moments, each and every, now and always, as one.
and whether it is what you needed to grow,
or something that sort of destryoed you,
how would you ever know
nothing up my sleeve
these thoughts like rainbows or
other things . . .
loop-de-loop spirals pretending
to be real. as real as imagination.
on and on.
we’ve heard it all before.
they all keep saying the same thing.
but whoever this is here writing this is
still an animal that likes sugar and cuddles
and lives more of less for
comfort and not victory of any kind. . .
would just as soon be cozy
on a rainy day and play scrabble with
loved ones or any friend than
go fight or get noticed or hear someone
say look at that, you did it,
you left your mark,
what mark? I just want
was hounding me
on that cold
I was locked
and I was locked
I turned around
a fire started
I turned around
a gun went off
I turned around
my baby wanted to
give me a book.
balderdash horatio jitters out front dancing to the raindrops.
every second syllable is like some leggy filly full of spice and vinegar.
i step out into the moonlight and the howling begins before i’m even thinking.
neighbors close their windows and disconnect thier phones, oh wait, they can’t do that anymore.
the century is changing color like a clear glass of water with a new drop of red ink every 5 minutes.
the trees look sleepy and peaceful wearing the misty morning but they live so long what would i know.
finally something and then something else but once again it is only the beginning of the mystery.
Crow kept telling Mr. Bones
that he wanted to fly to the sun.
Mr. Bones tilted his hat back and looked at Crow and yawned.
“It’s been done,” said Mr. Bones, “Icarus, for one…and––you––too,
remember? You’ve done it before––look how that turned out.”
“Not all that bad,” said Crow, “I’m still here, aren’t I? Besides,
this look of burnt to a crisp charred black is rather fashionable in the long run, eh?
So, what’s the harm?”
“Do what you want,” said Mr. Bones. “No way I want to talk you out of it.
But, I’m curious. . . . what’s the big motivation to fly to the sun all of a sudden.”
“I don’t know,” said Crow, “I mean, you gotta do something, right?
You gotta do something. . . . I’m down here–– the sun is up there––
I think it’s time to tango.” And then Crow flew, straight up, to the top
of the sky.