Tag Archives: Week 7

Variations on Time

1. Time Out

 

I sit on a bench as cars, buses whirr by, light from the sky

crowning them in sharp shine. Children on scooters, bikes,

skates, they go by too. I watch their shadows change as the

day shifts, watch them pass, headed east, headed west, headed

somewhere I am not, and gone just like that.

 

Morning opens its door just a crack at first, letting

light seep through only the bottom before allowing

it to spill over and finally sucking it all back. Each day

the same on that bench, but each missing something

from the one before. A subtle loss that leaves a ring in

the ears, the sound grows heavier, fills the cavity in the

chest where breath goes.

 

Cars whirr by in new models, children grow up and make

children, day always cracks dawn overhead then dissipates

into nostalgic breeze. But no day is like that first one when

light rolled in so bright it  blinded everything in sight and

promised brilliance.

 

 

2.

blades of nostalgia cut the air against my skin, this decade old vision of my hair long and me kneeling over against you in black and olive tones has worn thin at the edges. all this time and it is still there and i wonder why i painted it to begin with…
 
 
 
 
3.

I wake up to time having already slipped away
slid through crevices
that I am not quick enough to guard.
Synapses that creak
that I am too lazy to mend
and I wonder why I do this to myself,
why not just wake up and get on with it full force
hold on like I’m sifting for precious jewels
 
 
 
 
4.

How many lives are buried in our palms lifetimes
of lines lines of lifetimes, hidden narratives that
continue to play themselves spin themselves
like tops spun by the ghost fingers of past and
future selves simultaneously?
 
 
 
 
5.

Time takes everything with it, Time’s a greedy child that packs the world and its infinite everything into his Radio Flyer and pulls it fast behind him into adulthood until Time dies
 

 

 

 

   

 
   

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Time Stops for Noone

Time Stops for Noone

The Eternal Machine. Once conceived, it will never stop. The only true perpetual motion.

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by | February 16, 2013 · 5:58 pm

Beyond the Reach of Time

Beyond the Reach of Time

A thousand may reach, but none shall hold the hands of time.

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by | February 16, 2013 · 5:56 pm

End Of Time Observatory

End Of Time Observatory

Transfixed.
Frozen.
Trapped between nowhere, and everywhere, I watch as time breaks down around me.
Cracking.
Crumbling.
Everything that ever was, is, and ever will be becoming one singular notion.

This is the End of Time Observatory.

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by | February 16, 2013 · 6:45 am

Genevieve’s Week 7: Ash Wednesday

dust

 

I.

As soon as the waiting room is clear
me and Gaby abandon our computers
and turn to talk about Victoria’s Secret
swimsuits – how they complement our
A-cup breasts, how disgustingly
expensive they are for our shrewd
budgets. Under our breath we curse
our mothers for our ample asses. We
giggle, but I don’t tell her how a year ago
I bought a green bikini bottom in XL
and stomped proudly along the Miami
beach with it until some guy cut me a look
and called me ‘shapely’. I’ve flipped
through a dozen dictionaries but I still
don’t know what that word means.

II.

Last night I woke suddenly with the
frightening realization that maybe he never
even existed. I couldn’t remember the steady
shape in his face, couldn’t even remember
how to spell his name correctly –
where did the A go, or was it an O?
Hours tiptoed past my door.
It was only later as I was unpacking my
lunch, salami sandwich and bruised banana,
that I recalled: four years and some odd
months ago he led me to a room as blue
as the fluke spring rain shattering outside the
window. He laid me down on the futon
and covered my mouth with warm lips, with
the surety found in fresh-baked bread.

III.

It’s Ash Wednesday. The birds haven’t
flown back north yet, but the sky is spread
thick like honey on toast and the song
stained onto my skin hungers for the next
lyric. I dip my forehead in soot
and mutter foreign hymns. Soon, 
soon, the cherry tree branches shiver.
I’ll keep the folded palm crosses under my
mattress, I’d wait years for the vivid dreams
of slumbering brook trout to rise to the surface.
Soon, soon, everything seems to sing, and still
the promise of thaw does not unfold across earth.

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Atomic Clock

Atomic Clock

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by | February 12, 2013 · 10:25 pm

The Hourglass Eternal

The Hourglass Eternal

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by | February 12, 2013 · 10:11 pm