What's eleven minutes to me?
Not a thing.
I have plenty of minutes.
Eleven minutes I shall spend.

What's eleven minutes to me?
It's worth something.
But I can't help myself.
Eleven minutes I shall spend again.

What's eleven minutes to me?
A waste.
At this stage, countless minutes I'll never get back.
Eleven minutes I wish I still had.

What's eleven minutes to me?
I'm afraid I can't answer that.
It's not that I don't want to.
I physically can't.

Because I am no longer physical.

I consider existence an opportunity:
Think of the trillions upon trillions of would be humans denied life.
How is that I, a person so nondescript, could be afforded this opportunity?
How am I able to exist when so many others can't?

How is that I exist in this millisecond within the hour?
A millisecond between the stars and the monarchs.
Who would I be if I didn't exist right here?

Fleeting. That's how I would describe this.
I may live to be ninety or I may live just one more day.
It all feels the same.
But will I?

I'm just clamoring for one more day.
But why do I clamor?
Why do I clamor for another day of complacency?

I enjoy this opportunity that I have yet to truly fulfill.
It's a matter of when, and not if.
Who will I be when the reaper comes knocking at my door?
Will I be who I am now?
If so, what a waste of a precious opportunity.
Will I be something better?
Could I be?

Isolated I stood at the shadowed corner
illuminated only by the street lamp
across the decrepit road.

Deafeningly silent I sat perched
at the bench awaiting my vessel
to deliver me.

Coyly he drifted into my universe
wearing a cloak and a smile
that would charm a Queen's guard.

Stiff like a board I stared at him
existing at a medium between
the end and the beginning.

Puzzled I was at a loss of how
to approach this drifter and his
exceedingly charming demeanor.

Thunderously my heart thumped
waiting anxiously for my vessel
that could not come soon enough.

Do I dare succumb?

To strum this guitar is for naught. Strumming the strum of the guitar of the guitar. The the guitar is for naught. For naught is the strum. Strumming strum strummy in the strum of the of the guitar.

Would she be enticed? She would be strumming. Would she be be strumming the strum of the guitar?          She would not be the the strum. I strum the D and the A strums the B and it all comes to the G string. Would I not if I did strum the G if I strummed it so?

Yes.
Yes.
No.
Maybe.
Maybe.
Maybe yes.
Maybe yes.
Maybe maybe maybe no.
No.
NO.

Shall I have a glass of jack and coke? If I should not should I strum the G of the jack of the jack and the coke? Should she be she be not? Do I dare to         entice? If I should dare to not should should I find the jack?

I should call should I call if I do if I don’t? What have I to do but strum and strum and drink and drink and think of the flat note? I will call. Will it pickup?

The taste of Jack is acquired it is. It is acquired and acquired      and not for her. She’s a rosé and what can it be that a cheap whisky can amount to a fine wine? It cannot and I cannot. I cannot and will I call will I again?

Will I strum strum the gun of the sun? Will I find the gun will it find the sun and will it it will not find her?

How about a game of poker? I play a mean game a game I play. Please please do play with me. If you would please then please oblige. If not then please do. If do it would make all of it worth it.

Flush.
2 of a kind.
Full House
Royal flush.

Fold.

It is midnight I should be off. Off I shall just strum and never bother. Never shall I bother and never shall I be bothered.
Again.

The smoke of my death certificate fades into the ether of the night
It is not my first.
It is not my last.
The beacon amplifies the smoke
It dances in the gleam of the incandescence
To track its path is to count the sands of the Sahara
It waltzes like a paranoid ghost showering upwards
Shimmying like an epileptic schizoid on a carousel
Jostling in an undefined constraint