Journal 70 - Drop of Time in the Ocean

Time is a drop of rain water in the middle of the
ocean, tiny ripples of self-same waves dying out and
retreating only to return and fold in upon themselves
in another slow assimilation of vapors. Condensation
is good for time to reveal itself as self and mattered.
Extension into our world, vibrating like a physicist's
wet dream string tossing about in the embers of
cold fusion. Nothing is cold at the moment of death.
Tomorrow closes in like the lungs of a violent asthmatic,
with next week a mere coughing attack brought on by
the light cigar smoke and smog of the present day's shrill
enervations leading t a drink and a thought that
the time to make it all make sense has passed like
the spectacular unknown beauty of the northern lights
or the humpback whale. TV is another leveller and
anti-climatic equalizer. Time is a wooden sailboat
rocking and creaking in the middle of the dock, tied
to the pier with loud croaking rope - a wooden boat with
three tall masts for show - unable to sail anymore these
days, unable to unwind and afford the guy a chance
with the girl. Time is a display of jewelry in the
5th Avenue window sparking in the view of layered
faces or dirty teeth. Dirty teeth are sad in this
veneer world of sycophants. Breath of duck mean pizza
and cheap wine with lemon ice-box squares is the breath
to capture the firefly in the summer evening. Sometimes
time lies in the hammock and stretches its old brittle
bones on those firefly catching evenings with the glowing
jars and flashing faces of unbreakable children. Time stretches
long enough for the kid in the towers to catch a bullet
watching the kewl gun fight down stairs in the piss-
bucket street. Time stretches and yawns like a slightly
inebriated uncle on loan from the probation officer. Eyes
the color of ether and the excitement of a fat tick.
The moon has caught up with the hammock and scoffs
at the laziness of time, scoffs at the unchanging care -
less nonchalance. The moon is young in this game.
The moon shines down its flashlight rays onto the
writhing streets of Earth's concrete back yard with
red eyes.


6.23.09