TIME, a stream of consciousness

—can both flash and stand still
Depends on where you are, in your life, your mind
In love?
And when in love,
The time spazzes most violently
You yearn for its spokes to slow, to savor each second
Or when you’re in the missing, you swat it to scurry
You light a match, beneath its heel, hoping it runs faster
And as age gets me, time finds a steady stride
And that light, that flicker, rides along
Knowingly

When I was seven,
Frozen in the fettered photograph
My father’s cap, my face in shadows

I thumb the frame, dust puffs rise
And I focus to see the reflection of the camera
In Grandfather’s eye
Hoping to learn the secret
To living.

Flash.
A photograph.
A second.

d
e
v
e
l
o
p

envelop

me, in this place where space
and time do not exist
and there’s me
and there’s you
and there’s we.

Expansion, compression,
Division, dimension.


Let’s seize this, and slip into
A mindset where we justify our demons
And leave out all the rest,
For time’s sake.

On the back of a box of tea I read the wisdom
To revel.
And I warmed the water
Dipped the satchel
And sat with myself in
My minute, in my mind,
And when I tipped the tip of the
Cup to my lips, it was
cold.

The slave owner, the evil stepsister,
The embezzler who sucks you for all you’ve made
And then blows you off a cliff

What about Prometheus?
Does he hold the concept of time
In his clenched fist, behind his back
While the vultures sift and pick his insides?
And in heaven, if time becomes suspended,
How do you make memories, and what
Do you make of moments?
And what then, of Satan’s understanding
Of the burden, the weight, the silent killer
Of slowly churning seconds
Charred
burning his ability
To recognize what is
Hallucination, and what
Is all from within
himself?

Living in my today, I see the choice I’ve made
To be content
But todays don’t have worths without
Making plans, being patient,
For the tomorrows.

Torture
Insight
Mind’s
Eye

Never enough t—

Dig me up from under what is covering the better part of me.

Suffering, is a choice.
And, so is happiness.
You have the option, and just how cool is that?

You can be healthy and young and in shape, but stress starts to pick away at your telomeres that protect your DNA from destruction, making you age at a much faster pace. That freaks me out, and now I'm causing it to happen even more swiftly by worrying over worrying.

I want to work on my "word" being "impeccable"--to not use them against myself or against others. I also want to learn not to take things too personally and to stop making assumptions. These are the tips I've been looking into from this Toltec wisdom book. The only thing is, besides the fact that it would be hard to do any of the aforementioned, is that doing these 'harmful' things have become this part of me- this punishable baby girl whose wrist I slap but whose sparkly eyes get me every time. If she's forced to go, what will become of this new, transformed me? It's in our nature to fear change, and embracing it seems best. But I don't know what it's like to literally look at the world in a completely new way. Like a child, vulnerable and terrified and in awe of what the trees look like when love sings from the tips of branches.

That's what this book seems to be promising me.

So I can choose to convince myself that I'm taking steps in the right direction. Becoming more WISE, yes.

In the meantime, I'm going to continue to drink love from the speakers of my laptop. Without my little soundtrack I'm blaring, these quizzes would never be scored. Motivation, you are my bitch lover.

Swim, swim on

Liquify, thoughts. Then drain yourselves. Collect into a perfect pot or cup or droplet of something I can taste. It's cold and I'm clogged and it doesn't make sense to me at the moment. I can't get out of my mind most of the time. And from its ceiling, by the folds and the ridges, dangles the light behind my eyes. The fog saunters, and the clouds lap over. Burn, burn, and delay the water from rising again.

BIRD SONG

The neighbor’s macaw pestered all visitors,
mocking the noises of signal or song.
No words could he mutter of human endeavor,
but of croaks and of squawks all evening long.
But my mother, he’d mimic
her abounding laugh,
no sound as replete as this.
Despite lacking candor,
forgiveness; regret-
It’s the richness of laughter I miss.

HATCHLING

Dearest speckled feathered thing,
Doe-eyed, tender, tethered string
To hollowed, ceaseless past.
Did she keep you just to hurt you?
Did he leave you just the same?
You barely had a name before you fell
Out of your nest and into the crack
Of the walkway.
Your shoulders weren’t creamy enough,
Though your nose far too slim
For any of the broods
To flock too close.

And how can one be territorial
When she’s never felt at home?