I don’t

Count minutes; I count moments

I count sunrises, sunsets and


laughter, the knowing and the glowing shared connections

of mealtimes squished around the table- extra chairs please!

-the timelessly terrific, the

absolutely divine

-the laughing until crying

and offcourse -the fullyfed satisfied sighing

I don’t see the connective tissue of your eyes but the connection it inspires

the windows to your heart and mind; how they say everything in an instant and sometimes fly a million miles away distant

I don’t count time; it would compartmentalize that instant in a way that makes it ever distant.

Like a picture of a painting isn’t a painting at all, or how

a message to a loved one isn’t the same as a phonecall

When we could all choose to be here

-nearer to the Now that is so fleeting,

constantly appearing and disappearing

like a spark or a glimpse or an echo having just arrived

for an instance and then it’s gone into the always-seeable distance

like an evermoving wave always rolling with the times

we could just get on our boards, wait for it, paddle paddle jump and ride

I think

We’re all just surfing time


I can see that

it is broken and that kids know

better and

I wish that I could stop your

Pain but I know that from it

you are Growing

Life death life cycle

I stepped into the rabbit hole and

my soul lost its gravity and fell into

itself and updownflipside

-brace yourself for this scary ride

more scrambled than the eggs that you were cooking if you could even

imagine what it would be for your imagination to imagine imagination then you have a glimpse into what it feels like to live as me 3 layers of thought away I don’t think what I think or what you think I think what I think you think I think and in that distance that out of breath belly distance

I forgot how to feel my way in the world

compartmentalized thoughts cut off and fragmented in their dust specs glisten in the sun trying to find a sentence but then it all

scrambles into one like a race with no end a breathing in and hysteria as if the

world was in pieces I’ve already accessed dementia the memories defeated what’s left is what’s left is a scrambled egg muttontop achey legs and stickchops

so just brace yourselves as all the words rush in as separate pieces and the world dissentegrates and we watch from a distant distance ceaseless


You keep saying

That time will tell but


can’t I be the one to tell my own time? True that

if it’s right then the fiction of it will disintegrate but if it’s right

for me then surely I should be the one to

distinguish my own facts from the fiction in light of my subjectivity?

Sometimes I feel as if time will not tell until it says something you want to hear but what if time is telling all the time and it’s just not what you are ready to allow?

Put on your

Game face ready to start the race and

Speak the part that speaks rather than the brittle raw art of the heart time to speak the speaks that speak the words that communicate the things that make movement

Time to move with it and see the commercial from the conscious that which connects and carved the expression of our faces that which is brutal and snappy not broken and crappy but on it like the edge of a pin on the skin of a floating balloon the creased eyes before impact the invisible boom time to speak that which speaks instead of only the gloom enough of the victim time to answer to instinct and enough is enough time to get to the tough and make our own steps and get with it

Time to realize that time is gone already while you were writing this. Time to put down the phone let go of that wish and make it alone because you certainly got this

And there are words around everything

Words that sink and the ones that swim

But how do we know the way?

How do we put ourselves in a place where we

Are completely still?

So that we might see without blur and in the way of the will?

How do I know this forward is of my own steps and if the river moves me then do I move with it or stop?

And if I stop then will I sink?

How do I know where the seabed is when I’m paddling so fast that sand is everywhere and the ground can’t find its place?

How will I learn how to see if I cannot find my face?

When happy

Hits the heart that’s

been still as a full stop

for the long drop

now tiptoeing to the tip top just like

Gumdrop skittles sushi biscuit fizzles

It’s like

-floored, as in grounded resolution

and -scored, as in founded solution but

found, as in was-missing and now -sound

It is

in-breath: deeply, as in no inhibition

It is

out-breath: to begin releasing

It is

Flow: as in connect the dots

It is synchronicity where once there were just spots.

Throw words into the air

Like glitter-dust confetti, and watch

-watch, how they fall onto the ground in an explosion of ideas

a kerfuffle of meaning. Watch, watch

how its alphabetic matter disintegrates and separates like

form from dust or dust in wind. Or wind.

Like wind, it breaks, it cannot be caught, it cannot be still.

It fades beneath more words beneath time beneath travel and

experiences. It fades until there is nothing left but a memory, then

a memory of a memory and then -something- so distant and so brittle that

even the act of trying to grasp it will destroy it, will destroy it smithereens.

So be careless and careful all at once. Because words need to spill out of and over themselves to become something healthy. Something real.

Like the perseids shower shimmer above us now we are only fleeting,

so let words fly with motivation, until they find their meaning,

let them stretch unframed into this universe, adorned with a comet-chaos-consciousness

where they can breathe.


The mushrooms are off

a day early

Google told me tricks about the slime on their surface

that was a tale of that tell and now

the bin is more full than the fridge

I slept with a nostalgic sadness over me

a blanket of old memories like a fragmented movie screen

replaying the tracks that tug at my gutt and make my heart thud heavier as

if anchoring it into all of what was once happiness, and only bringing back the bitter of

the sweet

Of light and shadow and happiness, pain. Or love, and hate. These are but two sides of the same coin.

And these are all coin tricks, these distilled memories that collectively sieve through almost as the anti-remedy of healing

we are all coin magicians, sifting through our moments and organizing our memories in feelings

revealing only the good parts and the taken-for-granted moments. I wish. I wish. I wish.  I could pause and select and keep forever the best parts of it.

Now again the water is over my head and the thuddud of this heart is sinking, and so I must keep swimming

swim past the memories into the present now;

it is time to make new memories.