Tugged ever closer to This clock’s final
Hour, the fleeting
flying minutes and seconds, seconds
and days, and following
nights
evaporate into certain
conscious memory or
nothing. Hiding
under the bed is not for me- I
need air to
breathe,
not fear.

Lost to us all
is the key to the past, to the Over
good times and Over
bad, so why
do we linger to search?
Why do we linger and waste precious burn-
Time to look for
the Hive from which our wax
sprung?

And why do we linger?

Restless hands pull me and push me ever
Forward, never back:
Don’t look back, lest
salty lips
you should taste
with a stiffened
tongue.

I am possessed by the urgency,
the urgency of Living, the instinct
that keeps the insects
buzzing
(although they don’t know why)
and makes the leaves
sprout forth in spring,
and whispering, tells the newborns that soon
they must totter and toddle (like
all bipedaled freaks)
because that,
That,
is the way of things, the way of
Life, the urgency
that makes things
Be and Grow and shriveL and dissolvE into
nothing.
Nothing at all.


And perhaps I will have a chance
One day,
A shiny chance (of my very own)
to be seen and marveled at before my
Installment
into nature’s junk drawer, where
discarded items in death
lay dreaming
of days when a benevolent Sun
flowed fierce through their veins.
And maybe when
That chance comes, I will
blind myself and
sell my arms and legs
and heart, so all I am
is a floating face a fleeting grin
that cheshirely chimes my moment of victory!-
ah, that moment alone,
my moment before
I dissipate
from polite society’s
recollection and
follow the path of my choosing.
I will not compromise, if only for the sake
of being stubborn.

They may chop off my
head and cut my hair
but still I will stand-
unbending/
unyielding in my quest
for the perfect
me the quaint-
essential me, the answer
to my questions and my answers and this, too,
shall pass.
This, too, will pass me and
envelop me in waving robes
of purest sound, the harmonance
and dissony
that is the Seraphim Song.

Perhaps, I will join them,
If I sing loudly enough. Perhaps,
(they will say)
“No, this is not the way
of things, these things cannot be
done this way,” and will fling me
from the peaks as though
I were
a (dancing)
fleck
(of snow.)