Allegedly the whole reason

we see time like we do nowadays.

Two dozen polar centric divisions

with enough exceptions

to make you realize

it’s not natural.

Look at the Aleutians

and other isles in warmer climates.

What if we divided the day someplace

crowded

instead of absent

our enthusiasm for tallying change.

(See: New Year days.)

Draw that line straight and deal

with the wildness it makes.

No? Well, then let’s throw it all out

in favor of a single way to call the time on any day. 

No more conversions or antiquated attempts

to save daylight hours. Save them from what?

Our calendars? Save em for the time being

and lose em come spring?

Today’s date is:

blossoming cherry trees for the dozenth time I’ve seen.

At the tone the time will be:

waiting for the bus at a new stop. Ding. 

The planet has been zoned so steam trains

could move patrons through space on time

and today experts have devised precise

stratum timing. 

(Or is it accurate? I’m never quite sure.

Something about arrows and a target.)

Those scientists are following

protocols and standards,

counting what basically no one can perceive repeating:

vibrating entropy

on a scale so massive and so minute

I won’t bother to explain.

Think: circus elephant meets country mouse.

Nothing you’ll ever see or need,

but something

over which

I can’t stop obsessing

while waiting for the train.

Yes, it’s raining--

from now until July.

Did you ever learn shorthand,

morse code, or semaphore?

Some other forms:

suggestions of words,

dahs and dits,

or broken light

finding an audience--

the symbols shrugging off

unnecessary pieces

for one-way travel.

Propagation suffers in the rain,

the droplets diffusing

the message

and obscuring intention.

I guess I’ll hold on ‘till Spring

to find myself dreaming

of the rain soon clearing

and I’ll get my message through.

“Back to life, back to the present time.

Back from a fantasy, yes.”

Soul II Soul

Week-old flowers on the sill.

Weak ol’ flowers right there, still.

Otherwise tidy,

each thing has a place:

toothbrush, flip-flops, mission suitcase.

Unpack, repack, repeat, and replace

these things you’ve used up:

floss, deodorant, Arm & Hammer toothpaste.

A statement on the human existence

if I ever heard one;

yelled at me out a car window.

Are we meant to know so many people?

One hundred blow jobs, max!

Lest you’re imposed a kind of income tax.

Decades don’t duplicate in the way you think.

It’s all a hypothesis.

AKA: acid washed jeans, repeated.

Tell me, friend, what’s your worst nightmare?

One imagination is timid;

Too much imagination and things go crooked.

Battles made realistic.

Punch. Block. Duck the contact.

Fulfill the line items in my contract

and blast outta this broadcast.

Wait! I’m not like that.

And I do wish I’d made it for the opener,

but sharing anecdotes takes time on this planet.

You will never go back.

I can’t state it any more clearly than that.

The love within us and the love without

Are mixed, confounded; if we are loved or love,

We scarce distinguish.

from Aurora Leigh, First Book

BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

Romance is inside of me.

It is in the intimate moments

of self-discovery.

Romance is outside of me.

It’s in longing and wonder;

in wild curiosity.

Romance is not any one thing.

It’s mixed up with time;

with unstoppable entropy.