Time is trickling
and flowing through my fingers, the grains
of sand in the hourglasss
of my life are filling my veins, minutes
clotting the hours that construct
my ventricles pumping seconds making
my head swim. Time is holding me
up and time is somehow
my prisoner, as well, my element to play
in, as I wish. I conduct myself
upon my own time, though you
think your time is logical and ask
of me to yield to you. No, no, time
flows in streams through the air
around me, I breathe it freely
as I wish, blowing soap bubbles into crystalline
moments, that will catch the light
but pop, leaving your eyes stinging
when you try to reach for them, to catch
me. In another life
I was Dali, in my life now I
am Dali, painting and bending clocks
as to my will, making your logical early mornings
my glorious late nights, full of colors
those who do not truly know me
will never catch in the shadows of my laughter
and the turn of my eyes, I
will always be Dali, as years
are trivial and decades can pass
more quickly than the blink of an eyelid, I
will always be less than the great artist
and more, I am constructed, not only of time, but
of something just as fluid and so
my every cell will exult and change
as the symphony of the universe's timekeeping
glitters and twinkles  in its constant state
of effulgent musicality.

Hey, remember
when you and I sat in a field
and I found an interesting rock
that may even have been pretty
and you smashed it
for fun?
Hey, remember
how you and I sat in a field
and I held that interesting rock that
was once pretty
and tried to put it together
until I gave up?
Hey, remember
that you and I sat in a field
and a rock was just a rock
and not foreshadowing
and not a metaphor
for us?

at some point tonight
I started hating myself.
I'm not surprised anymore
just kind of resigned.
I'm glad you're not here.
you would have hated this me, too.