is it the musical nature of Man?

to try to keep

within

syncopated beat

and against

it

measure

success,

or defeat...

how we go

up or down,

or hover, around

aimlessly

jammed,

in the streets

tunnning

to a rhythm

in the buried sea

chest,

where the meter

is

not yet in sync

...the rest

of the band

distant,

as in a dream

heard,

before it's seen

and

slapped !

upon the cheek

when alarm

beeps---

It's Time

whatever that means

03.21.2024

"Clocks slay time" challenge @dctezcan

Time is a magazine

an empty clip

the invisible hand

at the end of it

having released

the lock

and now

we hear

the

drip

drip,

drip...

mistaken

for tick, tick,

mortality in the gears

stuck, twists:

"I'd rather,

a revolver,

than a semi

automatic..."

but beggars,

are stalled,

as they say...

on the outside

of it...

2024 MAR 22

The grandfather clock stood silently in the corner of the dark room. It had sat in that old house for decades, dutifully counting the hours, the minutes, the seconds that passed since the moment its maker put its pendulum in motion.

But one day, after so many years of faithful service, the pendulum finally stopped.

And the instant it did, on the point where its hands met in the very center of its face, there appeared a minuscule speck. The speck grew as it pushed itself out of the clock, escaping the prison that had held it all its life.

With one final shove, the little being broke free from the clock. It dropped and, just before hitting the floor, discovered its brand-new wings. The being flapped hard and managed to slow down its fall so that it landed gently on the floor.

The little thing peered up at its former prison, tilting its head slightly, wondering how such an evil thing could look so beautiful. As it reflected, the being shook itself awake, stretching its arms, legs, and wings, feeling itself come alive.

And it was alive. It leaped into the air and tried out its wings, shrieking with joy as it learned how to fly.

Yes, the clock had stopped, and Time had come to life.

whirling hands ticking numbers

have no power push potential potency

no more than shifting sands shadows cast

time not measured just lived or died

cosmic sprays of light turned starry black

seasons of snakes dried up skins shed

man has no handle on time past

the spinning planet cares not the tally

mountains turn to pebbles worn away

flowing waters carrying stale sediment

down to the seas with every wasted jiff

death nondigital

I used to think it was time I disliked. It's weird ways of never quite feeling the same. Is a minute a blink or 60 Mississippis? It never made sense that the same measurement could feel different. An inch is an inch, a centimeter a centimeter, a gram a gram. All rulers and scales should measure these equally.

The truth is time is not the villian in this story. Clocks are the antagonist. Time feels weird because of the human error in clock use. "Time moves faster" simply because we don't watch the clock when we're enjoying ourselves. Time isn't to blame for sleep schedules being "bad". Time had nothing to do with when the meeting was or that you were late. The man-made instrument that measures a malleable thing like it's standard is to blame.

My qualms with time were unfounded. It's human error I should have grievances with.

Swords of time

One moves every hour

Another, every minute

The smallest, by the second

A sharp trio

Declaring the segments of a day

Morning, noon, and night

With what is the fight?

Time itself

Or its enforcer?

It's a fight one can't seem to beat

With speed or preparation

The race against it is never won

You're better off living by the sun