Time and Matter Take a Fishing Trip
1.
The world calls to us
carefully,
yet carefree,
But we arrive too late
and leave too soon.
We see
no morning sun,
no evening moon.
wounded,
We, the botchers, butchers, boxers,
the master blasters, masturbators,
un self-masters
of the planet,
Apply patches.
patches fall off.
Like soiled sequins,
we are each sequestered
in our skins,
Suggested glues are tested,
but cannot restore us to the world.
Torn in our seams,
broken in our dreams,
we are still
born.
But as we paste,
so are we waylaid
and wasted by
the world.
Like Lot, of old,
we are cast out of sin
Into time,
hard as rock salt,
Babbling, we fall
from the tower,
That teems with intransigence,
and inconsequence,
Bedlam
is our bedrock.
2.
Our tellers, our tillers
fall into their tales
with a final
trill.
Each teller signs their hand,
The hands are different,
but the tales,
are always the
same.
Space requires time to be bountiful.
Every generation tries to retire time,
But time knows
no time-outs,
no false starts,
no
photo finishes.
But we photo finish
to our finishing school,
Where we are fleshed out by matter,
Then fished out,
and washed out,
by time,
who comes with the tide
and says,
"Care for me now, it's
my turn to be your child."
But time c r s s
u e
us
in strange and strangled ways,
Misery wastes us daily.
Do I speak in paradox,
black box
speech pox?
Time is octogenarian,
contrarian,
Nay-sayer,
incontinent robber baron of dreams.
Time is creator and cremator.
Time is golden, and a gold digger,
Giver of delights and frights,
unbreakable fights,
implacable foes,
Endless woes.
Time fills the earth
with stowaways,
Scurvy starlings,
rendered badly by the earth,
mended even
worse,
filled with fears
and frailty.
Do we ask to be born?
Whether
expected
or accepted
We appear.
We are here.
