It’s that time of day. (Poem)
It’s that time of day
When the summer solstice has extended its stay (it’s global warming, they say), and the carbon dioxide carbon monoxide oxygenous nitrogenous compounds permeate, carbon-based lifeforms proliferate, and there are too many photons bouncing and jiggling and shifting and superimposing on each other and all is well with the world, but no, the summer solstice has extended its stay, and it’s about time for the first day of rain, or hail, or winter.
When the LP’s (not the PC’s) plugged and the DVD-CD with the BR and the A-B-C-D are all over the place, and you just keep clicking and clicking and the mouse wheel’s running out of fuel to scroll up and down and left and right and up and down and up and down and the A-B-C-D is still all over the place and you’re getting some negative feedback.
When the poet’s met with some inspiration and he’s writing writing writing and he’s running after the words he forgot and the words he thought sounded cool but really didn’t know, he’s running after a dictionary to save for his sake his diction but his writing’s what matters so he writes and writes and writes, an epic he likes (to think), and then realizes that all he’s been missing, the line between an epic and an epic failure isn’t the narrative
,
but, a, single, comma.
It’s that time of day
When you’re running after time but time runs faster than you, and you look at the clock—but alas, it’s a quantum clock! (aren’t they all, anyway)—and you end up cursing the quantum Zeno effect but the abyss says nothing back to you, and Father Time runs so damn fast for such an old fart and so you wait.
And wait, and wait, and wait.
And you look at the clock, and it’s still three in the morning. All over again.
