You loved countdowns, because they always led to something great.

I thought nothing of them, but humoured you nonetheless.

On New Year's celebrations, we'd marvel at fireworks.

The explosions started to lose their spark.

Your words decreased, my pain ascended.

Each year, we grew apart.

The day finally came.

"This is it.

The end.

Goodbye."

It was in total a fast track ticket to the moon
and I can't return to transaction dock 8 too soon
the star checkout lane at my local supermarket
tops balloons with rocket science aeronautics
that pilot's service areas binary counter perfect
exceeding expectations bent into global orbit

My items sped along to muzak her slim milky way belt
a smile beaming discount countdowns heaven sent
taking off in bit lips when her priceless item buttons
almost burst free to air with a strain of special promotions
helpfully assisting my every excess flight of fancy
made impulse buys a baggage allowance necessity

She stroked parts of her radical laser station
to fully engage hygienic wiped spills of imagination
and I felt the warp of hyperdrive tangelo engines
urging me into a dive to scan juice ripe tangerines
a last minute save fuelled by stalling flashback cavities
gyrating in tight nets as we escaped earth's gravity

With a twist of her wrist I was into fits-the-bill ecstasy
as the whirr of electronics cut loose such quality
with a lick of an index finger our mission was bagged
handled too efficiently for any danger of jet lag
no flyby chance to not exchange standby coupons
my trolley emptied of offers too galactic to pass on

Our brains run on the
Same frequency, a precise
Pitch. Subconsciously stumbling
Into a cranium-themed cohabitation.

With Bics in hand
We catch inconsistent and
Rapid glimpses of a
Contemporary "real" world.

Shape-shifting from one
Ideology to the next.
Using time as a distraction; it's
Human nature to pause for countdowns.

They're all painted over. Oceans and
Gulfs covering lava and intrapersonal
Insides. Scrape it all off and you'll find that
Without all of the adhesives they bruise

Easier.

I think I’m losing my poetry.
Not in some bleak, calamitous way,
Just – I don’t know how to start anymore.

Is that the problem?
That I’m caught up in my once-upon-a-times
And my dark-and-stormy-nights?
Maybe.

Or. I’m trapped in my metaphors.
Even – I’m tangled in my analogies.
Trying to tap the trees of every experience I’ve ever had and
Bleed them for all their meaning.
Picking up each imperfect seed of memory and desperately
Injecting their cores with GMO/Pesticide/Make this Matter/Juice.

This cyclical little life of mine is whirling too quickly,
My tail is tying knots in my intestines.
I can see the nape of my neck approaching in the distance,
Time taps her toes on my scaled sloping back and tsk-tsks not long now.

I keep on asking her what the countdown is for.
She checks her watch and smiles.

i am from innocence.
i am from rainy days and lonely nights,
words smeared across pages because
i can’t get them out fast enough.
i am from stanzas upon stanzas and ink-stained fingers
as i dream of new ways to say what’s already been said.
i am from words of love, words of anger,
struggling to find the words
to describe his eyes, i can’t.
but that’s okay, because to me, he is poetry
and
poetry has been the one consistency in my life.

i am from travelling the world.
i am from plane rides-
from the mountains of Italy
to the city of Lisbon
it’s safe to say
i have lived.

i am from 4am small talk with my best friend,
questioning our life decisions
between cheesy rom-coms,
thanking Fate and the Universe
for introducing the two of us.,
i love her
for accepting me
when i couldn’t accept myself.

i am from my dad’s famous waffles,
from Tollhouse chocolate chip cookies fresh out of the oven
and cold glasses of milk coming home from school.
i am from my grandmom tucking me in,
my mom hugging me goodnight,
my sister and i staying up way past when the lights were supposed to be turned out.

i am from New Year’s Eve countdowns,
pots and pans banging on my front porch
as a new set of resolutions
hangs in my room,
waiting to be broken.

i am from a school full of jerks… that i fell for anyway,
empty words and velvet lies, luring me in
just so i can break my own heart
at the end of it.
but i am from believing in soulmates,
because two live in my very house with me,
23 years later and the flame hasn’t diminished-
i know
i will find my Prince Charming,
somehow, one day.

I am from creased brows and mild confusion
when the teacher asks for strong boys
to carry the desks;
i am from being resigned to the edge of the classroom,
implications that
i am weak.
i am from “sit like a lady”
and
“young women don’t speak like that.”
but actually,
i am a young woman
and i’m
“speaking like that.”
i am from being the only one in my karate class
with my toenails painted pink;
they have accepted me now,
i am just another black belt,
my long hair swishing behind me in a ponytail
as i kick harder than half the boys next to me.

i am from beautiful chaos,
like entropy
in a sundress. i think
my madness is magnificent--
like the prettiest mess you’ve ever seen., it’s true-
i am from a lifetime of figuring things out
and though i’m not there yet,
i’m a hell of a lot closer
than i’ve ever been.
-a.c.b

Countdowns are two-dimensional
Don’t mean much
at all
to me

To see pixels in formation
Spelling out through transformation
the days and seconds till I
leave

It doesn’t hit
In the right way.

It doesn’t create the right pain—
Nothing beats when hunger pangs

Draw me to the pantry
Filing down the tins and cans
and my eyes land
on

the food that my mom bought for me
My favorites all stocked constantly
Knowing that I cannot possibly

Finish

A single jar of peanut butter
Let alone its twin

Before the numbers turn to hollow eyes
Before I close my door— say my goodbyes
A half-empty jar the only prize

To show that I have been.

Mother tried to be a decent mother
in the weeks ahead of Christmas.
she’d fill the month with Advent calendars,
finger countdowns and splotchy
un-successful attempts to create a
joyful face with lipstick.

In hindsight maybe the weight
of her guilt was especially heavy during
the one month of the year that God
could not be ignored.

Its different now.
God is no longer privy to X-mas,
and guilt is not an appropriate emotion
to be taught to children.  

I was more afraid
of mother during Christmas
than at any other time of the year,
all that fake smiling and brittle kindness,
her strings could snap at any moment,
and you knew they would
you just didn’t know when,
or how, or on who.

“It always snows at Christmas!”
mother said as she reached
out my bedroom window to
gather a handful of fresh powder.
She’d bring it in to show me
and I’d wince and cringe because
her movements were  erratic
and unpredictable
like a puppet on strings, her
arms swinging wildly
from side to side,
knees jerking up and down
across the floor
she’d always end up
spilling snow on my bed.

I think the snow helped numb
what it was that she hid,
helped her hide behind
that painted wooden smile,
if only for a little while.

My memories of snow
are quite vivid.
  
I’d shovel snow into
tall piles, taller than I stood
then build tunnels
to the other side.
I jumped off of rooftops
into huge snowdrifts
and come up with
sleeves full of snow.
My friends and I would
latch onto bumpers of
slow moving cars
and “skeech” through
the neighborhood,
or careen down toboggan
runs on our feet,
face planting
at the bottom where
the ice gave way
to fresh snow.

When I turned 16
we’d hide Old Style Beer
in snow drifts,
build ice forts in the forest
and spin donuts in
St. Mary’s parking lot with
open beers in our laps
and never get caught.

As I see it now
all of these things
helped ease the
burden of confusion
with my mother’s
dis- interested
wooden puppet
smiling,

but her guilt ridden
attempts at
Christmas niceties
were never going
to be enough
to keep me from
becoming
dysfunctional.

You see its all about the snow.  
A life embraced by snow.

snow cut into lines,
Encapsulated snow,
spoon melted snow,

any kind of snow
to numb the extremities
and freeze the nerve endings,

a temporary escape from
the Christmas gift
of mother’s guilt.

That smile he hides behind
the one everyone believes means he is fine
His broken heart fighting to be heard
but he is left searching for words he can't find.

He is meant to be strong
To cope with everything
To laugh at the jokes
Despite the fact that in his heart its all gone wrong.

Yet he smiles on for now
He battles the tears
countdowns to the next breakdown
he knows he must continue somehow

He remembers his brothers last words to him
he holds them close
in the hope they will make him truly smile once more
in hope of an outlook that isn't as grim

That smile of his is fake,
it will live with him forever more.
But he prays one day someone sees through it,
he hopes one day he can finally break.

here's the broken hourglass
sand slipping through fingers
into open air

here's the crooked clock
ticking counterpoint to heartbeats
thumping off-tempo

here's the stopwatch, button jammed
digits melting into each other
a count-up to the end

out of sync
out of time
out of control

*countdowns only last 'til you explode

I fear:

I. the end of days
like some irreverent foot that with one mismotion
destroys an anthill,
and so the beauty of this world and
the beauty of you will be
lost
confined to a memory rife with inconsistency

II. that the tiny spark of hope
of faith
of desire to grow will
sputter in my palms
despite my cupping hands against the wind
and I will sink below the depths I am

III. that when I bare my soul, I expose my mind
and the utter nakedness of my intentions come to light and
I will be
known

IV. death and its cousin omniscience:
do those who loved me see me now?
Will I watch you love another when I leave?

V. knowledge, for knowing the truth invalidates inaction

VI. ascension, for I am unworthy on my own to rise, and
who will catch me in my meteoric fall?

VII. that we are all but endless and
eternity whispers to us in our
mortal state
reminding us in echoes that our heartbeats are merely
countdowns.

Balloons and glitter in the air
sparkly dresses and countdowns
I don't know how I survived
I said after all these years
you would think the cold air would feel less harsh on my skin
but this time it lingers
letting itself in
and I'm so scared of what's to come
I guess all I can do is try and stay warm regardless of the red of my cheeks
and the trembling of my hands
and five years
goes by so fast
and so, so slowly
when you're waiting for your chest to unthaw
waiting for the summer to come
and the year to be new

I told myself not to feel
You came out of nowhere, i laughed at the irony of our collision into an awkward yet somehow
fitting setting
You drew me in on every word
every line oozing with sweet sticky promises
Promises that you almost give up on
No one knows
What I want
How I feel
How I view the world
What holds me back
But you…
You ******* got me
Unguarded
Unafraid
To say how I truly feel
Except; when it comes to us
I can still feel your hands on my face
Inky eyes locked with mine
Intertwined, bound, and tied to each other motionless
We could have stayed there
Forever
Yet, we didn’t
Weekends turned every other
Which then became maybes
My body no longer stamped by the passion you left behind
My heart no longer topped off by the hopes of seeing you
No more countdowns
Now I count how long it takes for the next one to break me down
Tearing through my heart like a giant Christmas present that no one ends up needing
Placed in the corner with the others to be regifted
Leaving behind filaments of gift wrap and fancy ribbon, used to hide the well intentioned gift
No one wants the gift of a heart these days
They want houses, cars, well oiled and machine-like bodies that crawl to them, and classy like a
sorority sister at a keg party (who went to Amherst)
The heart is overdone
The passion that at one time exhumed from our bodies was now beginning to fade into a pitch
black abyss
All that is left is a few memories of Saturdays well-spent
Conversations that went on for hours
And a heart that once again,
Has been drained and bled dry to stop the very beating that you caused
All that’s left is an empty shell
One that i’ll pick up, dust off, wash out and pour myself into again…
This one ******* hurts

random things start beeping in my home so every time i almost drift to sleep, i am reawakened by bomb countdowns and the thought that maybe I don't believe you and maybe that's okay
also my dog is laying next to me and staring up the stairs because he is too tired to walk up them
and tomorrow morning i will also be too tired to climb stairs but i will pretend i am strong
because i am expected to be

Posters
Of smiling kids
Fancy clocks
Cleaned floors
Visitors come and go
Thinking highly
Enjoying the atmosphere
It's all an
ILLUSION
Kids smile
But not with their eyes
Clocks are just countdowns
Until we leave this hell
Visitors are lied too
Atmosphere is dark
Air is heavy
Creativity is dying
The girl good at art
Was told to focus on math
The boy good at singing
Was told to do sports
The teacher with uniqueness
Was told to follow the books.
Because this is a
Grade A school
Come back again
We will **** your child
Mentally.

Countdowns can be the end,
it's started,
nearing the beginning.

I heard you spanking someone
Deem them a part of my planned dream, uncouth
That has some semblance of girlish ways, painting mascara with names
Do real people even strike us of reality or having lack of it
I have some good stories, with a queen of hearts as the bookmark

The book never finishes and the story never stopped at the payment of Marxist pamphlet, culled and swiped our cars
For cold cold cash and charming cargos across Constantinopole
Filing countdowns and driving out immigrant countdowns working the clock like laissez faire capitalist
War is the coolest drug for the mad hatter
He would not seek hell after that

Comparisons can be deadlier than a knife,
Cutting down your successes because you are drowning in your failures
Pinching at flesh
Scrubbing at teeth,
Pulling at hair.
Disappear.
Whiten.
Grow.
I am happy but not happy enough
I have money but not enough money
I have friends but not enough friends
Enough?
No
Never enough
Countdowns to dates you know are a waste of time
...Of energy
He will run out of conversations
You will run out of smiles
Moans to fill the silence
touches to fill the voids
Making love is close enough to love, right?
Smudged lipstick, clothes discarded, dignity no where to be seen.
At least someone held me.
That’s enough for now
I’ll be fine once I’m out of my twenties. My eighties will be better.
My Deathbed ruined by the flashbacks of the life i did not live.
My husband, my kids, my grandkids..
Here but...
they are not nearly as good as Carol’s or Debbie’s or Caitlyn’s.
Enough
No
Never Enough

We become the stories we tell.
What the hell? That

Is a common question not answerable.
Lack of link, what what the hell?
AI ignore it, we call it another idle phrase,
used to express befuddlement.

A curious fuzziness. Impulse to pull
sense from a hat. Threaded thoughtwise.
Ha, I've a mind…

Fiddle with the tuner, the ****'s a little loose.

Hushshshsh, gentle gentleman, wisdom whispers
listen
easy is never the bad way, the hard way, offers glory,
dare the devil and win, the right way, -- walking away.

ignorant bliss, buzzing beings wished, was
available this morning,
sunshine, softly singing silly kids morning noises,
calling out countdowns to the chrome yellow bus…

Goodbye, Columbus. Literary allusion to unread books.
And shirtless Ali McGraw, in the movie. Artsy flick.
And then, Far from the Maddened Crowd, same chick…
with me, at the movies, not in the movie, me
and Blue, whose brothers I barely knew, we
saw three films together, we had raw unpleasing ***,
three curiously wondering why we only saw highbrow films.

Third one was Gordon Parks, The Learning Tree.

There was one movie house in the town.
It was a four-square spinoff revival church by 1985.

Really,  you know how lucky you are, boy, knowing
"to be"
as the answer we all answer Hamlet, in each role
his messed up character, appears in to offer
the one real question,
as if being were once a choice, each day…

ah, we. E-t, et et-ern
from Latin aeternus
"of an age, lasting, enduring, permanent, everlasting, endless,"
contraction of aeviternus
"of great age,"
from aevum "age"
(from PIE root *aiw-
"vital force, life; long life, eternity").
Good men, wombed or un, must
Endure unto the end…

from Latin indurare "make hard,"
in Late Latin
"harden (the heart) against,"
from in- (from PIE root *en "in") + durare
"to harden," f
rom durus "hard," f
rom PIE *dru-ro-, suffixed variant form
of root *deru- "be firm, solid, steadfast."

Tough nut. Hard row. Slippery slopes,
deep dark holes, boggy winter swamps…

As the world turns, the young and restless age.