The Slow Clock

click - tock

the slow clock

ticks

slower

bending time

backwards

to moments preserved

to be replayed and continued.

click - tock

-caught in a freeze frame-

the window narrows,

squeezing and heightening

the pinch in the chest and the tickle beneath. Agony

meets ecstasy. Horror meets temptation.

Anxiety of the most precious variety. Drunk

on fantasy and hateful of reality,

they sit.

I'm Fine, Just Throw Me a Fastball

Sometimes life throws you a curve ball. No, I take that back. They all seem to be curve balls. Everything has a catch or a snag. Just once, I wish life would throw me a fast ball, straight down the middle: something I can see coming and know exactly what to do with it.

Yesterday a dear friend wrote and asked me how I'm doing. "Fine," I said. "Fine?" he asked. Yes, fine. Work is fine. Family is fine. Friends are fine. When I responded "fine," I meant that in a positive way. But when he challenged me on it, I was forced to acknowledge a rather lackluster sensation.

The problem is that nothing is easy. Sometimes it’s a minor issue (as in, why must the Virginia Department of Transportation funnel five lanes of traffic into a single lane on I66 Saturday morning when I need to be in Charlottesville?). But sometimes life’s difficulties are not so minor. That’s when I have to wonder if it's me. Is there something deeply rooted in my psyche that complicates my world unnecessarily? The answer is “probably,” but that would take hundreds of dollars and hours of therapy to figure out. So, instead I write. That can help. So can photography. Some days are just like that.

Return to Sender

Returned mail lands in the wrong hands,

and with that the lights go out.

The owner sneaks tainted loot.

A message lost is won unwanted.

A moment of wonder,

with new words

all to sit and ponder.

Today tests tomorrow

tests yesteryear

while a ghost voice flounders

in our ear

crying an anti-cheer.

Blackbird be gone.

Knowing some

can be worse than

knowing all

or even,

knowing none.

Doc, are these dreams

made of fear

or are they some sort of

real world seer?

Pre-tested temptations

sound sweet

way down yonder in the holler

where you can still stall her

with silence

and fodder.

Impossible to delete,

letters unsifted, torn, and drifted,

read in a dark, dank room,

clutter the diary

with craze

unfounded.

But old blood turns blue.

It needs air and care and flair,

and a one-way valve

for two.

So maybe

rap, rap, rap back

you raven bird.

Maybe just "accept"

how the red paper drips

a grey story down,

as it drops and slips

easily into the shadowy spout

even if it sticks to the pipes

now drowned.

Stop Looking at Me

You -

Stop looking at me.

I won't look at you

because to do so would be to acknowledge

your judgment

of me,

and validate it.

I know what you're thinking

and you're wrong.

You don't know what I know.

You don't know all of the facts

and the gestures

that I know.

You don't know the lack of facts

and the lack of gestures

that I know.

You don't know my confusion.

You don't know my need.

I could never explain all that you don't know

to you.

So again,

please,

stop looking at me.

We need to pretend

that we're not face to face.

That there is no tear welling in my eye

for no reason.