(G D C D G)
Time
Time is a playboy
He won’t scratch your car, but he’ll break your heart
And you’ll fall apart before the second date
(G D C D G)
Time
Time is a bouncer
Wears diamond chains, got ice in his veins
He goes to operas but he stays awake
(C Em D G)
Time
Waiting for the madness
Honey it’s a tragedy
That I spent it on you
(Am G D Em)
Oh, Time
Waiting by the altar
Roses from your mother
Cheating and spending on you
I’ve often dreamt of utopia
A pretty little pond and perfect petunias
A rose frozen over, trapped in a glass box
An aquarium of cells
Within cells, within cells Interlinked
Amoeba, the Zeitgeist
Phosphorous and fluorescents
A subtle scent that tastes like skin
We cry, “Death to the corporation!”
I’m dreaming of better days
In perfunctory nods, closed quarters
A locker that only takes coins
I don’t remember when it started
The voices
The empty gestures of hope
We weave in and out
Between traffic cones, metro rails
Like ants scattered for molehills
We make mountains from
Land mass and synthesis
Lakefill, landfill, the head of King Philips the Fourth
On a silver platter
Clementines, goat cheese
A basket of bread baked by Jackie Webber
At the local book club
She recommends “For Our Sons & Daughters”
But she hasn’t read a single page
For Athena,
Daughter of the Pearl,
Nectarines with a tinge of nepotism
Death by stasis
A lychee martini,
A wheel of Brie,
Cross stitched denim with a need to please
I remember being fourteen,
Middle parted hair,
Inexplicable growths
Up and down my arms
I remember Chester, and Molly
And these schoolyard games,
Where we measured
Who could stick their tongues the farthest
I remember Molly
And her clementine charm
Bracelets stamped with
Repercussions
Her father called her names,
On Saturdays and weekdays
Sunday’s remained
Reserved to the Lord
I remember Chester,
Splintered wrist, cabbage patch kids
Leather studded jacket
A smoldering look he reserved
Only for the girls
I remember his possessions
Me, included
For everything in the world, he owned
But in the end, he valued nothing
I think I’m a bit of a
Hopeless Romantic
With this predisposition
And misconception
Of the
Causality of circumstances
All these faces
That have strolled through
My memory’s museum
And have stolen
Artifacts
But left footprints of
Their own
They are no different from
Reflections of skies upon puddles
Love is only a feeling
It is not intrinsically related to
Souls or spirits
Quite honestly
All these characters
Lack what I need
From a person
But god
To just reminisce
Is quite the melancholic exercise
For there lingers hope
In future reconnection
A fire lit once but abandoned
Can perhaps catch flame again
Parables from Youth Pastor Manson:
Of Concordian Grapes,
“Concordia”, he said
"I do concur"
"Who has done this to you?
The child who was once there?"
We’re left with only the potions
“Our pasture, our problem”
He said, holding my hand
In rosary beads
Rosy cheeks, I spring up
Under weeping willows
And acquiescent glades
“A spiritual bath is an awakening”
I mix my vodka with pomegranate
Drink to our Father,
It’s what we do weekends
In search for something else
To Mother Mary,
A dozen cranberries scrawled
In flesh and tombstone
May we rest forever