Clockwisdom

The future is like furniture; these things get moved around. 

The present is a town, old Western architecture, shaped in a frown. 

Doctors from out East
moonlight as merchants,
auctioning
off the tourniquets that
might spare your life.

High noon is bright and shootouts suffice as teachings and hymns selling almost-legends.

The past’s a life
sentence if you can’t leave
it behind, because
repentance requires
time 

history cannot
lend.

All this bloodshed, all these deserts,
and yet I fear the future most, mostly ’cause it
can’t be measured or
offer something finite,

only
dynamite
unknowns.

I’ve learned to leave what’s in the 

past alone,
to treat the
present a challenge of
its own,
but the future is now.

Armchairs’ve grown legs and go wherever they will,
never staying still where they were safely stowed, 

unjailed from the prose of staying put. 

Look at the fireplace, dear, it’s hanging off the coat hook. 

The bookshelf
is empty but
its contents have wings,
felt covers in ruin but the
hardcovers are reverse alphabetizing in
mid-air.

The future is
simply one moment that,
when appropriate, will slip
beyond the past,
let new forms
of timelapse evolve.

Still clockwise after all,
because we’ll
still
be crawling
forward, 

drawn by our makings but 

ultimately quartered so tastefully when our bonds with age dissolve.

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