She looks deep inside for the source of her sadness,

As she wears it so clearly upon her face.

She’ll never say those words out loud,

She’s said in her mind a thousand times before.

She won’t look into your eyes,

As she holds your hand like she can’t let go.

She holds on so tight, but her mind still wanders,

Thinking about all the things she’s left behind.

Focused on the past so long she’s losing time,

Thinking about all the times she’s changed her mind.

Those pieces of her that she left behind,

Were not crumbs for you to feed upon.


My eyes look down past my denim covered legs, catching my shoes stopping at the pedestrian crossing. A digital red hand appears from inside a yellow metal box telling me it is not my turn. As cars speed past I am standing just at the edge of chaos, this could be life or death, but I know better. Perhaps it’s somewhere in between; it’s really a matter of choice or circumstance. Suddenly spray from a puddle pushed by a passing, rolling tire washes over me. I do not move. Instead I stare at the ripples in the puddle to see my image transform from the grotesque to the familiar. Is it me, a reflection of my tormentor as I think upon my past to know today I still have a future ahead of me. A traffic light turns red and the little white glow of a man walking across the street in a yellow box tells me it’s my time and I begin to move on my own.

Möbius Loop

Sleep searched for me all night but could never find me. Sitting up just wracking my brain in an attempt to find answers that only raised more questions that I summoned on my own. They came quickly, too quickly to organize. Trying to rationalize my thoughts is like being stuck in the middle of a möbius loop never able to move around, stuck in the middle where the bows unite, the single boundary component that held me in place reminded me that I am part of something that’s bigger than myself that I cannot control and that will never end.

Ignoring your problems may not make them go away but it does allow you time to sit there and think about them for a while before making any actionable moves against them. I hear the voices come from the TV that was forgotten about as the love of my life lies beside me dreaming. She long ago fell silent to it’s flickers of light and fluctuations in volume. It’s a welcome distraction from myself, but it’s only that. I can never distance myself far enough from my thoughts to slow them down, let alone stop them. Sleep deprivation only makes my thoughts more dense; a heavier weight to carry around inside my head that only stiffens my neck and weakens my ability to focus on any one thing for too long.

My day was lost before it ever began, though it is hard to define without having divided my night into day with a measure of sleep. My mind is too scattered to find where it went. Only dreams I’ve never seen know where it is and I cannot enter them as I force these words onto the page; the only words I can find as I try to rationalize those questions that continue to loop over and over like a film strip in my mind that I cannot bring into focus.



Time does not stop. Time has no beginning and no end. Even without defined edges time is not beautiful. You can round its edges and put a face on time just to hear its ticks and tocks and it still remains ugly no matter how you frame it or dress it up; a constant reminder of what you’ve left behind and the tease of what is left to go, unbearably obsessed with never knowing how much.

Time is a fickle thing. You can lose it but you cannot pick it up off of the floor and dust it off like scraps of yourself. You cannot beat the five second rule, you cannot negate lost time. Poof! It’s gone, but it was never really there. Only you were there.

Time controls you, it influences your behavior yet it has no behavior of its own; its elusive, its intangible. Time would not fare well in the physical world, it would be further abused and live under constant assault. Oh, the anger it would cause by its very existence while doing nothing at all; still remain all controlling, manipulative, yet relative to each of its assailants. Conjured up like magic, omnipresent; a dictatorial regime of conformity and domination.

At this moment in time…




Though we will forever try to measure time, adjust it and endure immeasurable failures trying to adapt to it, we’re just tinkering with time as if our constant need to try and control it will somehow change it. We have time yet we don’t own it because without us time still exists. It is everyone’s yet it is no ones and yours is not mine, you cannot have mine but you can be with me as I consume it. Together it will be our time, we can share but we cannot borrow.

Time is its own subculture and I want to rebel against it with a counterculture of time. This uprising will have no meeting request. There will be nowhere to be at some defined time. There will be no reminders. It will not be a factor to an equation; time will not be a number. Time will forever be measured in moments, moments that exist within our mind. There will be no chronological sequence to events, there will only be a void filled sporadically with moments that happened, but when will serve no purpose, have no meaning. These are not our times…these are our moments.  Time is not precious, you are.

You are fragile and fractured by time.

Time is not ours to solve so we must solve our relationship with time. My perception of time influences how I feel about time and what place it has in my life. Time is there for me and I don’t need to try to make it something it is not. It is just there. Too many savages endeavor to devour my time, suck it from me like they are feeding upon me. It is their lifeblood and my time is their prey. My essence becomes their immortality. They scoff at my time because theirs has no meaning, but mine keeps them satiated and alive. So now we must live for our time so that it feeds us, and morphs into so many moments. Become the time predators. Don’t allow it to eat you alive, devour it and digest every last piece.

Time is not of the essence. Aristotle taught us that essence makes a substance what it is; it gives it its identity. Essence is but an attribute and time is not of me. I am the substance and I am not made up of time. It may play me like a puppet but while it is touching me, flopping around my mangled form, twisting me and bending me to its will, I cannot touch it back. I want to reach out and grab time and in a stern, lovingly embrace assuring it that I will turn it favorably into moments that I will cherish forever. The immeasurable forever, just moments lasting as long as long can be. They are my moments trapped in space; time is but a figment of my imagination. I believe in time but it does not believe in me and therefore out of respect for us both I can no longer allow time to take away from every precious moment I have forever changed by being unwise with the time that existed in that moment. We can juggle time like a drunken circus clown or we can just exist within it without it determining when we are supposed to be ourselves in a moment that has no beginning and no end. We just are, as is time and we must act accordingly.

Old Road

Less familiar place I still remember,

would have changed even if I stayed

and the radio is playing different songs

since I made this road my highway.

It used to show me the way to town

and usher me back home.

Until the day I took another way,

a road wide enough to roam.

(In wonder, I wandered on alone)

Drove for miles before I stopped,

found a place I could not leave.

I sometimes wonder about that old road,

memories of what used to be.

It no longer shows me the way home,

I’ve changed directions along the way.

Putting lots of distance between

the roads of yesterday and today.

(To ponder, I never was alone)

Rodeo Daddy

Rodeo Daddy, your day is free.

Thank you for letting me enter your eyes.

Today the plain just ain’t the same,

sorry you had to die –

your disguise,

the same as tomorrow,

the same as yesterday.

Cannot complain,

but too crippled to shift your own weight.

You never looked my way,

always away,

too far away.

Wouldn’t understand if I spoke,

so I got up, but not to go,

I guess you did.

Goodbye worn path, goodbye,

may your shadow never be your grave.