Trapped Time, 2005
In the bathroom, it’s been 10 til 10 for days now,
A handy pocket of trapped time in a world of
Life’s too much: appointments to miss, others to dread,
Scattering like dice,
lopping hit points off your existence.
Go to the magic room of good smells and shiny things.
Go to the pocket world where it’s always
10 til 10 and you never missed
or were early for anything
and the floor is cool
and nothing matters.
said a million words to the sky
wrote a thousand on your skin
still the empty space
vacant midnight sanctuary
echoing with need
not sure you ever heard
Memphis Airport 11/15/04
attention all passengers
final boarding call
where’s your kids?
there you are
more security at gate
I hate you but I love you
go with him
Molly made some reservations
all that’s holding it together is me
all right take care
you have to check him
is he on Northwest?
there’s a lot of things people don’t know about it, frankly
when you put it in you hit play
I’ll see you get there
whine whine whine
click click click click click click click
you look bad
tired and old
I haven’t been bird hunting in years
he’s had that laser surgery too
I know where I’m going
did you go on horseback?
the old biological clock
uh-oh uh-oh aw-right
on your own time
they live at Sea Island
Y’all go enjoy dinner
not so different
I read your breath like shorthand
secret code from your hidden soul
At peace deep, soft, slow
Lost shallow, fitful, restless
Sometimes I wake in hell
to no message
A silence so profound it flays the soul
To reach out is terror-filled
Will I find you there, your breath light,
still writing shorthand in the night?
Or is this the time you’re gone?
time flashes red and wrong
red and wrong
against the darkness
6:17 it says, and then 6:18
and I know it’s nearer midnight
I’ve lost track of how wrong it is
of how wrong I am
I leave myself adrift in the night
with the time flashing red and wrong
and it seems somehow true and right
from the world where time is
straight and true
charcoal to secretive featureless black
the soft dark fall from nowhere to nothing.
this is the heart’s homeland, the geography of oblivion.
the place where the nothing
that wears a human form
into the nothing
that fits into all the nooks and crannies
of the collective hallucination