When I think
I’m too close
to catastrophe
because I am stunned
numbed or knocked
into the ozone
and a swelling
pressure keeps rising
like flood waters
in my chest
when I don’t know
what to do
or which way to go
in my mind or
even in my house
Then I think
now is probably not
the best time
to write . . . despite
that warning
I can’t stop
myself . . . what else
is there to do?
Who concluded that
waiting . . . distance
made more sense?
Complete sense
it’s been argued
must be determined
by committee
the majority concurring
on reality
today . . . tomorrow
is another story to be
considered in the morning
Then death arrives
unexpectedly on time
cloaked alone
and out of sight
a shadow flashing
like an old Kodak
blinding blue
reminding us
to wake up
the fuse is lit
and the bomb’s ticking
The Clock
should’ve been
a Hitchcock movie
starring Cary Grant
and Grace Kelly
or Janet Leigh
and Jimmy Stewart
in a body cast
on the stairs
in the tower
blackbirds cawing
her body falling
the squeaky shower
faucet turned off
by a gloved hand
lights out
water trickles down a drain
someone whispers “why?”
We’re obsessed
with dying
whether we admit it
or not . . . carrying
bags of bone
dust we keep
burying till we drop
ceremonies . . . more
stories to concoct
Still we love
being here
and being with
other doe-eyed
deer in the headlights
enjoying the greenery
the sun and shade
crossing rivers
to rut maybe lick
the air butt and play
twigs snapping
we taste the metallic
gush of fear
Click . . . flash
and fade
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