Terminus
Tick, tock, tick, tock--
A second hand folded over a branch
And the tree wants to fall, is falling--
A single black root emerging from
The dead ground.
Events and years and moments
Swirl around me and fall like melting clocks
Draped over the side of a table.
I look at the mulberry bush in the corner
And I am a sack of nothing.
I swim and I swim and I
Keep swimming,
But the waves hate me and I’m back on the shore:
A tiny smashed sandcastle looking at myself in the glass of the
Bell jar above my head.
The air seeps in as a backwards kettle
And it, much like everything else--
Does not fill me.
The truth comes to me; the truth loves me.
The Aztecs were right--
Life is but a dream, a short, brutish,
Thomas Hobbes dream
And only in death can we really breathe.
My lungs ache.
The clock is mush and so is time and
It all lies in a puddle of ice around me.
God created the world but the world isn’t Jesus
And the stone remains in front of the cave.
The truth comes to me; the truth loves me.
The truth comes to me; the truth--
Loves me.
Only the truth is dead as a liquid minute hand
And I the blank white backdrop,
Not a circle but a twisted six--
Lying under the ruthless heat of a
Melted sun.
A second hand folded over a branch
And the tree wants to fall, is falling--
A single black root emerging from
The dead ground.
Events and years and moments
Swirl around me and fall like melting clocks
Draped over the side of a table.
I look at the mulberry bush in the corner
And I am a sack of nothing.
I swim and I swim and I
Keep swimming,
But the waves hate me and I’m back on the shore:
A tiny smashed sandcastle looking at myself in the glass of the
Bell jar above my head.
The air seeps in as a backwards kettle
And it, much like everything else--
Does not fill me.
The truth comes to me; the truth loves me.
The Aztecs were right--
Life is but a dream, a short, brutish,
Thomas Hobbes dream
And only in death can we really breathe.
My lungs ache.
The clock is mush and so is time and
It all lies in a puddle of ice around me.
God created the world but the world isn’t Jesus
And the stone remains in front of the cave.
The truth comes to me; the truth loves me.
The truth comes to me; the truth--
Loves me.
Only the truth is dead as a liquid minute hand
And I the blank white backdrop,
Not a circle but a twisted six--
Lying under the ruthless heat of a
Melted sun.