Nov 07, 2017, 05:58AM

Clean Your Clocks

More tales from Tinytown.

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Sentimental journeys to recollections of a wink, blink, and a nod, linger on forever in the crevasses of our leisure minds. The repository of our life sentence here on the rock. Shining notes record phantom voices captured in a sideways glance. Stored in some chaotic fashion of disorder. A known revelation of seeing someone or something revealed in a different glimmering glint, and gleam. Split seconds radiate bright as fond mementos in a curio cabinet of evermore. Old fragile souls in this restless age of hurry up and wait till hell freezes over. They embrace something deathlessly intangible. An indescribable feeling of the unseen, unheard of un ness. We've travelled this path before instinctively knowing our way in the wrong direction of our wildest schemes. Perchance we'll get it right this time on the stumblebum odyssey around the cosmic block. Spinning our wheels in step with the now parade. Relative to all in the same linear way. And further down or up that byway we make a beeline to the quickest exit. Beginning the shaky voyage at birth, traveling infancy’s road trip stopping at intervals along the way to savor new experiences or tarry a bit longer to take in the landscaped scenery of all we blindly survey, avoiding potholes and speed- bumps while heading to our inevitable stardust destiny. All the billboards advertise the sole unfathomable useless product to make life less convenient. All signs point straightaway to yesteryears yesterdays.

To feel the passage of time expand slowly like putting air in a tire, or melt fast as a snowflake. Raindrops sizzling on a hot metal rooftop. Steam rising like a smoky barroom of cloudy mist. Some diligently mark their calendars, move ahead, and yet never change. Time thieves frozen in moments of fear, stacking up failure, repeating regrets, checking in on doubts.  Unable to travel forward beyond tomorrow we backtrack following a trail of invisible crumbs. Stuck in the moment like broken statues waiting for something that never arrives on schedule. The fabric may unravel at the seams, and a stitch here or there is all that holds these fragile thoughts like trousers split at the crotch. We fly by the seats of our pants and play highly impractical tunes by ear. The ageless remain forever young as others fade in the light of diminishing returns. Saving time like coins in the piggy bank currency of space. No refund, your ticket has expired. Floating like feathers, hurtling at the speed of light without a sound.  Uttering words of loves sonic boom. A flash in the pan of profound grace. A spark of remembrances long forgotten reams of verse. This is all we have to keep things going. Moving forward with or without a care. Breaking the sound barrier mirror of ourselves. Busting at the seams with perfectly rotten luck.

Like a mouse running up and down the grandfather clock. Hickory Dickory Dock. Mother Goose has nothing on us counting out time. Like foregone nursery rhymes and forlorn old wives tales collecting dust upon the hours. Stacked like plates on a shelf we wait to be used. Hold fast as the solar system clockwork orbits in syncopated bebop. Our eyes wide open windows. The doors of perception push and pull, locking out the past. Tugging at a dog eared book of fate and misfortune. The scars of time, a roadmap of the years running like water through fingers. We clutch the light up close and quick in darkness. Dwell in that split second of times nothing convention in the new obscure society of waking dreams. Random thoughts in a lost and found box of love. We go in circles repeating a straight line to the conductors baton of jackhammer hearts, pounding as one maestro. A pleasant monotony of wonderment. The universe is bored with our clocks. So we invent the sublime events of a profound scrapbook snapshot ragbag history.

You watch your watch, take your pulse, and count the throb, thump and rushing rivers run, constant ebb of life’s blood flow.  Time begins anew when the clocks stop. You can never be late in space where the exquisite void cancels you out introducing lone strangers in dark futures. You can survive long and hard by playing along with the furies and tempting fate. Opinions are like buttocks. Everybody has one and some of them reek. What’s in store for us, as we buy minutes waiting in line for something weird and wonderful. Tiny plastic objects of desire at our fingertips. Another day on god’s green earth should suffice. Just breathing should be enough for us. Collected tchotchkes and little dolls representing some  semblance of life lived. The knickknacks and paddy whacks of dogs with bones. We can’t bury our dead without a body. So we invent easier ways to avoid accomplishments. The very success of our failure. Better living through nonexistence. We never close. We never lose and we never die on cue. We stand perfectly still and wait, playing dead. Careful not to upset the delicate balance of being so alive. Happy to be anywhere in step with the music. Playing along with the game of least resistance. Gravity keeps us down here. Fall back or spring forward. Feet firmly planted. Eyes to the sky. Watching and waiting on the installment plan of tick tock for now and set the alarm later.


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