It's All Write, Baby

Time weighs heavily, sometimes
pressing down, at once a comforter warming
sometimes cloying. Fevered. Difficult to breathe.

Night is eternal, still, I see the end of it.
Over there.

Don't press it.

Words are unbidden. Don’t think right. No. Wright.

Cute. Semantics.

Still they tumble, those … They tumble out, jumbling together, defying, daring me to make sense of them. Run the shredder backwards, please.

With wonder and loss I gather them. The image of a hen gathering hatchlings comes to mind.

That’s funny. That’s funny. That’s funny. That is so funny. I know nothing of animal husbandry.

I remember a cherished thought primal. Rather I have a memory of the memory, and it feels pause worthy. A star exploding in a distant galaxy. I empty, reaching down and back. What does it mean?

Pointless. Even if I captured it. Again. Intact. It wouldn’t be the same. It exists for the first reverie only. Examination is demeaning. Put it away – deep in the closet. Among the many others. At some point – years ago from now, take it out, fuzzy.

Why did I keep this?

Ah, there’s that time thing again. A gift. Numbs the pain.

Tomorrow I’ll be better. You betcha. Not fine, exactly. Too many of these, uh, too many of these. But tomorrow all – this – will be put away. One more meaningless verbal twitch of synapses. In company.

Let it pass. Breathe deep. Watch the jaded repetition that is CNN until sweet oblivion is everything. A drunk reaching that point.

Tomorrow … and tomorrow … and tomorrow. Yes. Yes.

And then? Excuse me if I can’t find the words.