Tag Archives: time

Chop Chop!

The date at 6.  The clock at 5.  Everyone waiting for me to arrive like festivities barred behind brittle little braces and I’m the Straw that breaks its back.  I want to be there.  I want more time with you all.  But painful is the prodding that produces this person to patiently mosey around from my private cove.  The lines on the clock face tick lines on my face, and all I hear is –


Chop Chop!


My private cove where my actions are my own and not the production of string pulls on my marionette.  My door like scissors that cut me loose into my own sanctuary.  I drop my masquerade in a jar by the door and may work on my dreams in peace.  And pieces they become for two eyes of my own for I share them with no one; not for my sake, I just wear a particular prescription.  My farsighted lenses I paint over with roses save me from the Grims that speak with no filter.  So I stay here with myself.  I lie in bed and let my aspirations float up into the ceiling fan – and pieces they become.


Chop Chop!



I could see it in my eyes.  I’d been here before.  Many times, but that one time…  You asked me to take a picture and send it to you.  I was always wearing that stupid hat….

Déjà vu

As the mental imagery developed in my neurotic dark room, the picture of me projected through my eyes onto the mirror, and now I was looking at me, but a 14-year-old me.  My internal projector froze the image on my mirrored screen.  As I started to breathe in, I could smell it.  That same smell that was always there back then:  lingering, old dust and oak.  It hit my taste buds.  That feeling of youth, time, and nostalgia; it hit me all at once.  And after only a split second enjoying that inconsequential, teenage moment, the fear of time’s speed torpedoed my heart.  It sank.  Through the hole in my heart’s hole, a punch of adrenaline pumped in: that punch of adrenaline that makes you afraid.  That battery acid driving through my veins reached my fist, and without thinking, I punched that old picture of me.  The glass shattered and cracked up a quarter of the mirror.  Blood dripped down the cracks and down the wall.

I ran warm water over my hands to wash the blood off.  There was no cut.  The blood came from the mirror… the image of me.

My nostalgia bled onto the sink top.  I guess my heart was still back there.  I need to calm down.  It will be OK.  I stared back into the mirror until the present presented itself again.  I’m fine.  I’m here.  In another 10 years, I’ll be remembering this moment.  I’ll do it again.

                Déjà vu

                I looked back at me.  Current me: wrinkles three-pronged away from my eyes.  I’ll get them deeper.  The past is best left in the past.

I looked down at the cut on my hand as it bled.

The Hands of Time, Pt. 2

He went back outside

Into the harsh light of day.

He constructed a new way to look at the world,

Which is why he wore wired rims

That that held corrective lenses,

But not ones that helped him see closer

Or farther away,

Rather, lenses that flipped the world upside-down,

And reflected the sun’s rays.

In his own desired ways.

The others with their sunglasses mocked his hindered vision

As he stumbled around at first,

But when his eyes adjusted

To the way he wanted to see,

His view of the world changed greatly-

The freedom of living

Is not the cost of toys.

And real sweet dreams

Outshine the black of closed lids.

The clock was not stealing me away,

But taking me to where I did not know

The destination was skewed

By the blinding truth

That the clock took me

To where I truly needed to go.

And with the help of my lenses

I can withstand the outdoors.

The others only try to dim it.

I can now clearly see

The clock counting up.

I do not fear the clocks hands pulling me in

Because I can now hold its hands

In happy anticipation.

I know now that lovers

Remain not for need, but for jubilation.

All of my questions

Have already been answered,

But all the answers are the same.

So next time I am confused

About who, what, when,

Where, why, and how,

I will always have one answer:


He was now an adult.


The Hands of Time, Pt. 1

In a quaint little house
On top of a hill,
A young boy was nestled
In the comfort of his home.
The glow from the screen
Of Saturday morning cartoons
Were only outshined
By the glare of his loving parents,
Whose faces sometimes changed
But remained just as bright.
The gloss of their eyes mirrored in his
When his were not fixated on toys and friends,
But when he was busy with his boy things,
The shine of his parents’ eyes reflected
In the face of the clock.
The clock face had no sparkle of its own,

But basked in the light it absorbed
From the boy’s parents.

One day, while becoming bored with his toys,
The face of the clock grew restless.
Its hands reached out, grabbed the boy,
And drug him outside, into the harsh light of day.
The sun’s harsh rays irradiated his skin
And temporarily blinded his eyes:
The radiance severe and unforgiving.
The boy felt the hands of the clock let go
And he was left alone under the sunlight.
When his eyes finally adjusted
He realized he was not alone.
There were many other people around,
Aged from him to elderly.
Almost all of them were wearing sunglasses,
Which undoubtedly would help in the given condition.
The boy slinked back inside the comfort of his home.
He went to tell his parents of the horrible incident,
But when he saw them, they looked different.
Their faces were not as bright as they used to be-
Did the sun make them pale in comparison?
He looked over to the face of the clock,
Whose illuminance had stayed the same.
It did, however, seem different-
More threatening.
The clock had started ticking down
Instead of ticking around.

Time finally dragged me into the light;
I am now a man.
The colors I used to see are all turned to grays.
I couldn’t ask enough questions,
But now have too many answers.
The scariest of nightmares
Are when I’m awake.
Companionship used to be wanted,
But now it is needed.
Freedom of toys
Is now the cost of living.
We used to hold hands because we had to;
Now we hold them in hopes for comfort
When those clock’s hands drag us away again.


We don’t have time for bedtime stories tonight, so I’m just going to hold you for a while.

I love you so much.  You were everything I ever wanted.  I remember looking into your eyes and knowing my life would change forever, and I was happy with that.  But I look into your eyes now, and it’s changed again.

Has it changed?  How long does a man have to stand on the fence?  You dedicated your first word to me, Dada….  You were always hiding when I would come home from work so you could surprise me.  I loved coming home to a game with you.  Finding you, catching you into a tickle fight, and running with you through the house….  I can’t afford to play hide and seek with you anymore.  Things are too… different.  I just want to go back to when you were so young.  I want to go back to when you were only ever in my arms.  Your mother left my with such a beautiful parting gift, and I already feel overwhelming regret for even thinking of returning you to her.

Paying for your mother left me with only you, and that was more than enough.  Why do things change so quickly?  I just want my head to leave me alone.  At least give me more time to deal with it.  Tragedy happens when time is faster than your emotions.  But no matter how much everything else hardened my heart, you broke it every time.

I remember when you thought a scraped knee was the end of the world, and Dada was still able to fix it.  I can’t fix it now, but I tried so hard….  You’ve gotten so much bigger and stronger now.  Dada can’t fix you anymore.  I can’t.

Life has just gotten so hard, and I’ve been doing my best.  I’m so sorry… but I’m trying to do what’s best for both of us.  I’m not just thinking about me.  I promise you, you’ve always come first.  But now everything is telling me things are different, and I have to move on.  They tell me not to think about it, or instead to think how horrible you are, how mean you are, how ugly you are… but you still look so beautiful to me.

The world won’t play pretend with us anymore, we can only do that together one more time.  We’re both going to pretend now, OK?  I want us to pretend tonight is exactly the same as everyone other night for the past four years.  Can you do that, sweetie?  I’m pretending right now you’re in your pink jammies.  Shhh… it’s time to go to sleep, OK?  I don’t want to do this, baby.

                Shhh… go to sleep one more time….

      Father of a zombie