They want to mess with time.
They want to take it and wrap it
around some idea or other.

They want us to be more productive
or less—no one knows.

They want the mornings brighter—
or is it darker? It depends on who you ask.

They want the nights to hang in the wings
letting the day make a later exit from the stage.

They want to move things over there,
over here or under that or over this.

They want it earlier and later
and better and better.

They will never be happy because, like a pubescent
neurotic, nothing is ever pretty enough.

They fidget, they hem and haw and grit their teeth
in the effort to move the rock up that hill where the
view is so much better.

They exhaust themselves because they don’t know better—
the poor things.

They will prostrate themselves before the god of
never being happy with what is.

They will extinguish themselves, sadly, predictably—
before their time is up.

Because the night belongs to lovers
Because the night belongs to lust
Because the night belongs to lovers
Because the night belongs to us
~Patti Smith
_______

We know, of course, it belongs to them.
But remember how it used to be ours
until it slipped unseen through our hands?

We had our fun you and I.
We drank and danced till the busses stopped running.
And now apparently it's all theirs.

How strange, when you think of it, that such a thing
could be possessed, given that it’s right there in front of us.
How could it ever really slip away?

Now the question is: How do we get it back?
What do we need to do to claim it even though
we know that it supposedly belongs to them?

Let’s meet again. What do you say?
You there, me there too. Let’s take hold of
all that slipped through.

Let’s possess it again, feel the heat
and the rhythmic pulse the way it felt so long ago
before it belonged to them.

There it is— Do you see it? Right there—
Touch it. Taste it. Like the sweet tang of fresh mango.
This time—let’s agree—that we’ll not let go.

—How are you?
—Gettin' by
—Good
—Yep
She was on her third bourbon as they exchanged texts. The smell of it wafted in her face as she held the snifter up to her nose. The sweet syrupy smell of cheap bourbon. She dangled a cat toy in her free hand while the black and white and tabby thing watched the feather sway back and forth in the air. Head turning with each pass like the cat wall clock they used to have when she was little. The clock's eyes glowed in the dark. And it was really dark at night back then when they lived out in the middle of a farming settlement in western Pennsylvania. The interior of the single-story ranch house was decorated in classic fifties kitsch: braided rag rugs clashing with the Oriental lamps, green leaf wallpapering, and glow-in-the-dark cat wall clocks. She took a sip of the room temp bourbon then set the glass down. The cat had lost interest in the dangling feather cat toy so she set that down as well. She got up and walked down the hall to the bathroom. She peed, washed her hands in the sink, then steeled herself for the obligatory glance in the mirror. What she saw: an image of a woman that didn't immediately plummet her into an abyss of self-loathing. She would settle for that. She reflexively opened the cabinet door: hair clips, tweezers, baby oil, alcohol, cotton swabs, dental floss, Zoloft, Estradiol, acetaminophen, double-edge razor blades, no razor. She closed the door then said to her reflection: "We should get out of here. Dontcha think?" She looked away, then back again, flounced her hair, and said: "Or dontcha?"

Aware of the games the mind plays
coming out of quarantine.
The “Yes, I feel a lot better. The sun is out.
I should go for a walk.”

And then “Yes, but it’s not absolutely necessary
that I do that. Staying inside, given that I am still
testing positive, would be a service to others.”

And reflecting that this last is also in support
of a life-long agoraphobic tendency.
And the acknowledgment that one has been honest
in admitting that to oneself.

And the rehearsal of sharing—if ever speaking
to another—that insight as well.

And the release, like an unclenched fist, of the whole
**** affair. Stepping back, like a spectator at a chess match
or a game of blackjack, letting the sides focus on each other
while knowing the decision will be made either way
by the end of the day.

And allowing all of it. Resting with presence rather than
being reborn in each decision to do or not do,
to move or not move, this thing chosen or not… or that thing.

All of it establishing a land claim on shifting sand
or a particularly pleasing cloud formation.

So poised she is sitting there in the arbor of the Palestinian Café in this oh so cosmopolitan New England city. Small by city standards, but close enough to a city that it labels itself so. As she sits there preparing to write in her journal she is reminded of an earlier work of hers that was published in an online zine in Santa Cruz. She makes a mental note to return to that piece and post it on her own website. She has so much to do... but time runs… no… time doesn’t run… it doesn’t even exist. Life runs out the clock and thus by the end of evening there is only the lying of the head on the pillow and then the rollover and then the slow sink into semi-unconsciousness—then oblivion. "Oh, unblemished oblivion! How seldom we visit. I love your featurelessness, your lack of glitter and lights, your abundance of nothing. It’s what I love about you—the emptiness."

Back and forth, gone then here—never lasting.
There is progress then none. There is going
And then coming. There are words then none.
There are thoughts, then none. Onward.

Keep going, keep on, keep on. Why? Why not?
Why not why? Not why. Try/try not.
Yes, not trying, but trying nonetheless.

Do it, just do. Forget all, forget none.
Be by not being. Try by not trying.
Think of nothing. You go, so, because
You can’t stop. Can’t go unless you stop.

Live by dying, die but live. Be there for
Others. Be there for yourself. Open, close.
Be closed by opening. The heart contracts
Then opens, opens then contracts.

Wake up, then sleep. Sleep, then wake.
On and on. On and off.
Whether moved or not, keep moving towards
Or away, but move at all costs.

Born every time I form an opinion. Born every time I open my mouth. Born when I stand. Born when I move. Born when I eat, drink, shower.

And so born as I write this. Born in the choice of pen. Born in the choice of paper. Born in the decision to do write at all, trying like hell not to be born with each word. Trying like hell to get out of the way, to become empty, to disappear. Trying to be porous as the air itself.

And so it goes transition after transition, frame to frame, step by step. This is only now, after all. It’s not later. It’s what is occurring now, and one must be OK with that—the facile assumption that what is said is worth saying, worth sharing with everyone.

Born again. Her look at me—brand new born. Squiggling, squirming self arising from all that ink and muscle memory. Each word dripping with amniotic fluid. How uncomfortable it is—to be.