If Time Could Travel Backwards Part 7

All the money in your pocket
for a brand new ’79 Ford truck
with custom ordered everything
with a radio that wails
nearly as loud as the gasoline motor
burning rubber beneath a Carolina moon
You’ve been drinking a little
and so has the man to your left
but you get home safe regardless
and didn’t hurt that truck of yours
as it sits rusting in the driveway
just like it has
For decades
It’s 2017
and you haven’t seen your oldest son in 4 years

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Trash Day

Sunday evenings before football I contemplate life most.
Trash day is tomorrow, and the red draw strings constrict through my fingers like excavated veins that seal in the stench of my so-called day-to-day living.
The autumn air, the herald of Winter, reawakens my lungs from their Sabbath slumber and there’s something magnetic in the atmosphere.
A static that heightens my senses, spurns hibernation, tastes the tension of a minute hand trembling across the numerals of an hour, makes it matter.
Where has it gone?
Heaving the bundle of paper and plastic product necessities from three yards out – the point after – delegating possession to tomorrow’s trash men.
Will they ask the same questions when their shift ends or only wake up to punch the clock again?
On most nights, I still meander back inside, flat tire my shoes and peel them off, wondering whether the Eagles will cover the spread.
Besides creating more garbage have I done, and am I doing anything with what I’ve been given, or am I just throwing it all away?

It takes twelve minutes to boil an egg

It took Plath less than twelve to boil her head.
The skinny clock hand that creeps around so fox-like
Doesn’t care if you made it all the way to the
Platform, just one hair after the last train home
Slips away, slug in a rug, down the chimney tunnel.

And like the cheeky alarm clock that taps its little
Toes all night long, like the fractures that creep
Their way into bingo-playing bones, it’s coming for you.
While your tea turns to a swamp and your cornflakes
Turn to baby vomit in their bowl, it’s coming for you.

So kiss me harder next time, because it’s coming for you
And don’t let your beer go warm like you have done.
Because it’s coming for you, and there’s no way of stopping it.

50% opacity

losing myself
daily
now
brains eyes ears
dulling
every day now
all these things looking
sounding
differently
either that or i’m remembering it
wrong
again. is it the light…
or the sleep
wearing
me
down?
these thieves in every air
particle
even now stealing my
breath.
too tired to get me
back.

deep in my ego

its like when they say it
they dont want me to even
try
my fight
i can only put up a fight
and fight for so long
before i have to quit trying
dedicating time and time and more
time
knowing what they say
dreams and fights
are bound inseparably
wound up wrapped
deep in our egos

the tick of time

time keeps ticking
tick
tick
ticking away;
sucking away
everything that makes life great,
feeding off my life,
growing fat off the past
and always more greedily
consuming the future
until one day
all that i am
and all that i will be
will be consumed
and the glutted tick of time will burst,
spewing away my life.

meh

you pour your
time
energy
life

into something hoping to give it life
hoping it will give life

only to find
most of the time

it remains as dead
as
the words on this page.

breathing seconds

i have plunged
back into the stream
of time head first
plugging my nose
unused to the
measured ticks and
climbing numbers
counting up (actually
down) and i again
feel the inevitability
of tomorrow as
one does a collapsed
lung.

thank God that time always moves forward and i never have to go back. life was good then. eternally better now.

an ode for things i’ve lost and cannot find
for the times we had but left behind
my “car”
your shirt
“don’t hate me because i’m beautiful”
and then the “sidewalk talks”
airing our dirty laundry
opening ourselves up to hear rebuke
and how it all went awry
when she disagreed

or what about when you got speakers
great speakers
mounted in your car
but only a radio? terrible quality
remember how excited you were?

an ode for things i’ve lost and cannot find
for the times we had but left behind
and infernal discussions
he shopped at women’s clothing stores to buy
“pimp” hats
and corduroy pants with pockets big enough
for what? 16 coke cans?

an ode for things i’ve lost and cannot find
for times i had, so glad to have left
behind