February 26, 2016

Untitled Time

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.