The last half of one's life
becomes a lot of waiting.
The trees at least do not seem to mind.
They're used to it.
Endless lists are printed out onto their flesh
like concentric rings of mindless chatter
while they are waiting;
waiting to become pulp,
then dust,
then nothing at all
beneath an animal's hooves.
The universes are grainy
with particles of energy
in strange states of quantum flux.
The remainder of one's time
is a looped back wormhole
through an apple in a jackass's mouth
that ends
where it began
in an illusion of time
jotted down in an old man's
spiral bound
and faded note
book.
12/18/16
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 2:32 AM UTC
The last half of one's life
becomes a lot of waiting.
The trees at least do not seem to mind.
They're used to it.
Endless lists are printed out onto their flesh
like concentric rings of mindless chatter
while they are waiting;
waiting to become pulp,
then dust,
then nothing at all
beneath an animal's hooves.
The universes are grainy
with particles of energy
in strange states of quantum flux.
The remainder of one's time
is a looped back wormhole
through an apple in a jackass's mouth
that ends
where it began
in an illusion of time
jotted down in an old man's
spiral bound
and faded note
book.
12/18/16
I live alone in the mountains. All I seem to do is wait as time passes, and doesn't, all around me.
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