Tales
of the past exhaust me with their deaths, stories of the future
spit
in the face of my imagination before stomping all over it
with
their robotic feet, and stories of the present
entertain
an audience that is already too busy
entertaining
itself. And I am in that audience,
writing
a poem even if too many poems have already been written,
too
many timeless, timely, and untimely poems,
even
if too many poems are supposed to be better than too few,
and
certainly better than none. Even if imagining their absence
amid
the poetic abundance of our time, along with its past and
future
extensions—assuming that time is a long train with three
sections,
assuming that it will never ever stop running along the
infinite
track of something more superior to time—is impossible.
Is
there a part of time that still lacks a story,
a
moving poem?
A
time that moves in a different direction, not
backwards
or forwards but in semi circles or upwards, or
downwards,
or in zigzags that break into waves—whole realms
of
existence and experience waiting to be seen, felt, predicted and
turned
into a narrative of victory or a prediction of impending doom.
Is
there a part of time that still lacks a story
and
politely refuses it?
A
time that is not part of the train.
A
time that has no interest in our past mistakes or the
continuous
repetition of those mistakes.
A
time that does not run along an infinite track.
A
time that does not stretch in the wake of war and one
that
does not shrink and shrivel into a ball in periods of jittery peace.
Oh,
is there a part of time that still lacks a story, a poem,
an
accurate caption, but politely refuses
our
aggressive need to speak on its behalf, to determine its course?
Is
there a part of time that waits for us yet rejects
us
yet still longs for our willingness to join the ride?
Oh
is there a part of time that we do not know how to
measure
or speak of? Is there time left to do it?
Surely
the answers to such questions do not magically appear
during
the time it takes to finish a poem.