time spent

is

final sale.

Is non-returnable.

Is unrefundable.

time spent

Is gone forever.

A permanent rabbit ear

in definite cap, and

yeah, you can kick reminisce–

wondering down memory lane,

but every minute spent

remembering

has a high

APR.

A

Price paid

Right

now

for an intangible

–impossible to title.

time spent

planning tomorrow,

Is gamble without capital

–banking on a paycheck

from a job

you don’t have.

 
I made

a goose face

(no duck-duck)

which was

entirely

foos-ball

(on account)

accounta the

FAQ

–asked sooOOOooo frequently

I needed

(needed!)

to honk

honk & Bigs

–since I loved–

(jay-sus)

 
metaphors

are so fake

they’re always

putting on the dog, &

oh my God, they do!

similes

are just copycats

(like, metaphorically speaking)

and analogies

allude–

too dodgy to say what

they’re really about

circling foliage instead

parallel fencing, they keep most meaning out

–trees garden-fresh, though!

(en garde)

and allegories

are just pets

something that

stroke-stroke-strokes

facts

into half a façade

which partial stories,

house

medallion-wearing tenets

–whose accent

obscure

things too difficult to say

He was my magic sun

–and I, his abracadabra

“lovely” assistant in too small gown

working on spec,

I made sure he shone and glittered…

–honing hocus-pocus

& bait & switch

with absolutely

no slap & tickle

–I attended in the void.

He was my magic sun

–the pulley man for his own curtain

shady fact to which I blinded myself

–I was the woman behind scenes

created in his image & for it,

a backdrop of heart and soul

I was a revolving wheel in line with pitched knives

–a target discarded under fire.

He was my magic sun

–and I, the woman he sawed in half

for gaping audiences filled w shills

& indentured admirers

–spirit destined for decimation & dissemination

I wasn’t even a sacrifice.

the fabulous and faithful thrown from stage

in bloodless bath,

I became the 3 breasted woman

–and bearded—

for that time

(of ridicule)

by flat-earthers

(unaware of subtext)

& tie-a-yellow string theory …

I was …

I was …

I was the magic sun

–and he forgotten charm

an encore shelved & sealed off

from white rabbits

& neat, hatted men…

he was the heckler

–fronting rose

(with chameleon’s adaptive coloration)

of disbelievers.

 
act 3

. . .

an act you might want to skip out on,

you know, to beat traffic

since it sounds more generic than it is.

 
 
 
 
Props are delivered

in mismatched Samsonite,

and unpacking them is tough

–a questionable effort as

it’s unclear whether drawer space

is warranted. . .

and guaranteed most will flub their lines.

Unpacking is surprising, too

–as in: did you pack that bag?

stage direction

would include rifling:

suspicions,

stereotypes,

doubt,

and pain

–that last locked an loaded–

and invisible pictures of posed couples

(with scratched out faces, or haloed heads)

near exits

–fire and brimstone, and stairs that only

lead one way–
 
the only stage left.

energy transmutes

at death

love transcends

>pOOf<

as soft as blown dandelion fuzz,

this love let go

disperses potent motes in final breath

ranging outward–

inches

miles

light years far,

a rippling continuum

in matter of light spectrum

we feel

but cannot see,

everything before red, and all that follows violet

this loop of rainbow beyond horizon

awakens senses

we cannot know.

traveling quantum-entanglement quick,

the specks infuse the atmosphere

with all that’s gentle and good

in that person

pervading

the hearts yet beating,

the hearts left behind

the hearts aching with loss–

and seeds them with nascent

blooms. . .

in time these weary sentinels

grow fuller

lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub

lush with

feeling

that must be tended,

spangled in

brilliance

that neither toils nor spins,

and the heart

departed

lives on

. . .

–enduring beyond all memory, too.

my Rorschach life

blotches

–causing hives I hide

in pareidolias

(pair of doilies)

but also a doggy and a kitty and a boat

Look! Look!

(before it shifts)

Is it just me, or do you see that too…?

several freeze frames

>synaptic snaps<

nailed to mind’s eye are fixed and

crucify hope

(forgive-me-Fathers with plenty of “as if’s”, “what if’s” and “if only’s”)

but create an interesting stigmata

–red sky blossoms in shapes of true love

some celluloid reels

play–

spliced by time

(or flapping in wind-machine breeze)

–updates,

number of reruns,

fluid POV and paradigms

remastering outcome

almost continually

. . .

ok. Continually.

words, though.

. . .

mostly words

make up these shapes resembling ships

–passing or missing,

incoming or asea–

poetry and questions,

soliloquy and rant

parody and oration

prayer and entreaty

–the treaty following M–

bendable and elastic,

these compounds

are phonetic

are beautiful!

(and hateful)

(too many)

write

and far too few

(wrong)

no take-backsies rule preceding, I

can’t un-communicate anything!

I

. . .

Not a thing. . .

and sorry

(beyond Indian dress)

is just one more

echo in an

unmovable

M T

(mountain)

room.