or, the un-done tale

I’m surrounded by broken things–
red dust deposits in the windowsill,
chipped mugs, clamped keys, worn out rings,

a matted rug, drained vase and dying plant,
dead water and the rising smoke from the desert rocks
that once used to sing. The breath, missing.

And these things tied certainty to the room.
The spine of a world in the details-
...bent out of shape, perplexed, hope beaten out.

The ticking of Time's blood on clock hands,
and desire for promise of future still,
and hectic persuasions that continue their stand.

Hopes, dreams, desire, passion fires
dictating delirium to visions, skewered
with the culture vision, enlightenment criers,
more things to be done (yet?) and those fewer
still to erupt with the fire of love. Perhaps newer.

Emotions inevitably so. My
venture capital dream demise
in the holy machine to bring,
music on a cold night, brisk.
Music, dear music
that sounds near campfire
and touches the soul.
The intimacy of emotion
as played by time and
by Tim.
Uncle Tim. Tim with a strong
and the voice to pass wisdom.
And the decision came from
free conversation, undone by time.

My friends, let us beat time.
Spare me no opinion, talk freely.
Yet none done, the talk is steely.
Distractions are there. Mismatched
intentions and competitive care.
See? Yes, see.
I please thee in facetious certainty.
See? Yes, see.
My language is lurid, brisk,
and though the thought is fast,
my heart beats under my tongue
like a child wanting to be loved
without risk.

The desire to live life without risk. Hidden. An erect spine
that walks on the ground, expecting to learn
how to experience pain safely. With power.

Time is timid to time– to timid time to tim– time is timid tim, time in timid time to tempo– the timid time– time is timid time again time is tim timid tim to time– time to find time. Make time. Make time to be mine.

This poem broke its own spine, record time, and became whole.

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