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Haiku's are failed art
While trying to match a scheme
You forget your heart

Time doesn't steal anything from you,
it changes you.
It lets you watch your grandmother,
a strong woman, sturdy,
a force to be reckoned with:
shrivel,
become small.
Her size reminding you
of when you'd lay beside her
as a child.
Her back to you, watching her massive shoulders move
like calm waves on a shore with each
breath.
The presence of that giant
chased the nightmares away.
And you realize that it was the only time that feeling small
felt so good,
and being big now
felt so terrible.

Time doesn't steal anything from you.
It conspires with your brain
to help you perfectly
remember
the time the boy you loved gazed down from above you,
the moment
before a kiss.
The moment that will always feel longer
than any other in your life.
But time obliterates any words that were said
from memory.
Obliterates any useful information,
any conversations.
Does not allow you to remember
each
and every day.

The momentum of time allows you infinite moments
to live in your past
today.
Like living in the moment
that you woke up on your 5th birthday
to your mom who spent
all morning
blowing up hundreds
of balloons.
Time let's you remember that feeling
of opening your eyes
to magic.
Remember feeling more loved
than you will ever feel.
Time gives you this moment,
but takes away
the day.

Time is indifferent as you plummet into the future.
Dragging behind you the images and words of
an optimistic kid
that you hope to keep alive.
Time is indifferent
as it demands you wake up,
and start over
again
and
again.

no bison on the menu
at the Buffalo; this diner
never served it  

Big Mike, long gone
named it for the high shelf  
on the prairie behind it  

where Lakota learned
to stampede beasts over the edge, massacring
hordes without bow or sweat

the gully below,
their forgotten bone yard,
left little trace of them

save half a skull
Mike exhumed and hung on the wall
in the time of polio

before the wide whizzing interstates
when truckers still landed on his dusty lot  
their rolling behemoths content in pasture

in a new millennium, the cafe highway is but
an accidental detour; the shack guarded by thistles,
long departed the Detroit steel

the truckers now in the ground, their bones
free from pillage, but the Cyclops on the wall remains,
eyeing the vacant prairie they all once roamed

I agree, writing my eating soul is not enough
Metaphors I spill, only my head interprets
I should give up, but my soul won't say yes
Instead, I yell obscenities and keep writing
I won't cry if you choose to tell me the truth
Go ahead and scream ******* Kara Jean

I’m running from Old Man Time

Struggling hard to stay ahead

Cause if he catches up with me

I know, that I’ll be dead

BOEMS BY JA 450

all the things that a mother does
a loving touch, a hand that heals
I wouldn't know what that is like
I wouldn't know how that feels

she is just another stranger
though, the vessel of my birth
she never did what a mother does
though, she put me on this earth

I felt a bond when I was young
but that bond faded away
these words only burn my tongue
"happy mother's day"