There is the latent hum of some probably-industrial sumthin-or-another in the distance. Sounds like a ferry at dock, or the Townsite mills characteristic hum of eternity as it once acted as the forever-whitenoise of my past life in Powell River.

Sasha has gone to see her friend a floor down. I sit candidly at her desk typing these words on her MacBook Pro.. her dorm is an ambient water of a place, but with every passing night I spend in it, it becomes harder and harder to fall asleep. The bed feels like wood board or padded cement now. Sasha rolls around in her sleep, occasionally choking on her tonsils and gagging a prolonged operatic note of snores. It's not like she can help it.. often, she talks about removing her tonsils as if it's something she can do with a spare moment between classes.

The dorm was easier for me to inhabit when I imagined her living quaintly and quietly without my constant everywhereness.. on her first night alone in bed, she slept like a baby and the overheating, I'm sure, was less to bear in my absence as there wasn't a ******* furnace spurning mammalian blood to every antipode of my body for the sake of staying alive.. just her capillaries attending to the night-shift and leaving no feedback loop between our ***-drenched thermostats. There was a feeling of otherness to it that I could warm my soul with as if I were people-watching at a mall filled with everyone I've ever encountered in the matrix.

She's beautiful. Sasha, I mean. Superstitious despite her attempts to claim otherwise, but of a massive intelligence often unspoken and endowed with a linguistic nature that can speak regardless of words. Highly suspicious of some perceived bond between Anya and I that can't seem to be severed, and playfully dousing suspicions of general infidelity into many of our brink-night conversations.. I can't say I do much to remedy her paranoia as I always kick it back with consistent jokes of having '30 girlfriends' or 'that was what the girl I ****** the other night said as well! Trippy.'

These are obvious jokes. I would never cheat on her and it's a pain to have her imagine I would.

Christ be honest, I can never find the time to write anymore because I keep pretending I'm busy. I keep glassing my eyes apart with coffee and **** and feeling the inner sting to write and write and write until my fingers are bruised and my entire demeanour is nothing more than an existence in pure, floating consciousness of sleet-covered panic attack self-immoliating itself in a Wal-Mart parking lot just to say hiya, Good God, how's the cloud of idolatry today? Fleeting? Empty? Shat? I'm starting to think you have the shorter end of the stick cuz I'm pretty sure I've found the Kingdom of Heaven and it's all a bunch of beautiful panic remedy exacterbated by SSRI psychedelic depersonalization with a life-wish disguised as a death-wish to push the envelope for mails sake, cuz I've got a message for the human race and all it says is 'humanity is not a RACE chill the **** OUT and become the human pace for the sake of nil planet without a plan you aren't a ******* poster-boy you're a poser' all very stone-cold thoughts in a volcano.. all very valid but pointless semantic gestures towards Finnegans Wake and the sequel I'd like to write called Finnegans Nap.

The other day, I stole a book from the university library.

I had a freelance article I had to start and preferably finish that same day, and Sasha had decided to skip psychology for Charles Bukowski so we scouted a quiet space on the windowsill overlooking the perpetual busk of student body.. I plugged my laptop in and sourly gazed at the flakey subjects I had to choose from until I noticed we were right next to a giant section entirely dedicated to the study of the Beat Generation. I picked out the closest book, and dove up on some academic diatribe about the implementation of Timex making watches an affordable commodity during the post-war boom, causing economy to become totalitarian in its accuracy and thus mental hegemony. It worked its way into stating that Jack Kerouac's On the Road was a blatant and concise rebellion against this form of timekeeping in its hedonic, careless flow that was not marked by 6 o'clock or on-the-dot redundancy.. the subject matter being so dense and alluring, I turned to Sasha and said, 'I have to steal this book.'

She chuckled a little, being a chronic kleptomaniac herself, and retorted, 'are you sure you can do that? They have these sensor things that go off when you leave.. they'd catch you probably.' In my mind, I was needing to exorcise myself of Judaeo-Christian morality so as to guarantee a survival and thriving intellectual feed regardless of red-tape or monetary symbolism.. I saw myself adapting to a hedonic habit of robbery for the sake of food and freedom or some such half-witted excuse like that, and took Sasha's warning as a challenge to transcend my typical moral comfort zone.

Glassy-eyed, I asked Google how I'd go about bypassing the security scanners and, lo and behold, within 5 minutes I had my answer and was already digging through the books binding with my house-key to remove the magnetic strip hidden in the spine. After 10 minutes of exhilaration and anxiety at potentially being caught, the strip was out and jammed between two loose wood-boards in the window sill. I told Sasha we should try to leave.

As I neared the scanner, I let go of consequence in remembrance of my mortality, the blank expressions on our faces probably hinting at some form of degenerate nervousness had someone decided to analyze us aaaaaand yet.. we made it through as safe as a bird through an open window then out the other side.

Like an old fashioned clock
That has been wound too tightly
And too many times
I don’t always get it right.
A few minutes fast
A few seconds slow
But the sun always sets
When it’s supposed to.
ljm

Try to imagine life without timekeeping.

You probably can't. You know the month, the year, the day of the week.

Yet all around you, timekeeping is ignored.

Birds are not late.
               A dog does not check his watch.
     Deer do not fret over passing birthdays.

Man alone measures time.
Man alone chimes the hour.
And because of this, man alone suffers a paralyzing fear that no other creature endures.

A fear of time running out.

other clocks, there are,
living through nature
depending on fixed rotations
working in time and sense
segmented, experienced
forming a continued understanding—
a different timekeeping


people do think
speculate, order the intuitive
hold to their understandings
successful and precise
keeping time enslaved in minutes
controlled and grown into hours
and days, navigated within


abundant rhythms
when overlapped in natural ways
house landscapes and observations
in well-kept gardens
a careful harvest
working together in fields
as servants watch


a sense, a time
befitting such gardens
a sense of clocks, inexact
a completely different literacy
the particular clock-time being provided
through a framework overseen
by these plants and water

|PART THREE|
THE EMPTY SECOND
BECOMES AN
EMPTY SPACE
When it’s all over
forget about courtesy,
grab hold off a shooting star
and ride it all the way
until the photons say the
last word with a pulse of light


The man is no longer doubled over and
Observable from the window
As a result of his fifty-eight years
the equation of his life
All comes to zero
Whilst the mocking ticking and tocking
Of an old clock knocking minutes like
Nails into the wall—

He disappeared in a puff of smoke,
The ice in his glass melted and the woman picked it up,
Drinking it in a single gulp, the glass comes down as if
Magnetically drawn to the floor, the floor,
Where she lies silently and stretches her body
To get some release, she rubs her face against
The carpet, nothing matters except the next second,
Eyes, behind a blink or two, dart to another part of the empty room
She couldn’t think any further ahead than a second at all

And the zodiac crashed open
the ram sent stars flying
the crab snipped the string that suspended the stars
mars took some flak
and finally the sun was burst
by the horned goat
and aquarius held it
like the final fluid sphere

Stars, burning across the sky like the striking of a match
Those wishing on shooting stars
couldn’t decide what they wanted
many of them flying as there were

As well-known monsters
Weighed down by human hope,
clear out our night sky,
Leaving not a freckle to observe
Telescopes now point into bedroom windows
Shadows portray a sort of life,
Shadow puppets depict death through
Tragedy and lapses in timekeeping and
Obsessions with vanity

Life spends some empty second
Inside your lungs,
Continues on it’s way
To resuscitate a slowly fading knife attack victim
Or shake the hand of a minute,
Time is ticking laboriously by

The light, motherless and lost,
Spat out at as the sun was burst,
It looks up to see
the unveiling of the universe,
Finally,

the oyster swallowed the sea.




*—I didn’t want to be a poet by any means. After what happened working on the lifeboats I couldn’t go near the sea, so in a way I chose which parts of it I wanted and wrote about them. It terrifies me and fascinates me at the same time. I fully believe I will return to it only as ash...

Time is trickling
and flowing through my fingers, the grains
of sand in the hourglasss
of my life are filling my veins, minutes
clotting the hours that construct
my ventricles pumping seconds making
my head swim. Time is holding me
up and time is somehow
my prisoner, as well, my element to play
in, as I wish. I conduct myself
upon my own time, though you
think your time is logical and ask
of me to yield to you. No, no, time
flows in streams through the air
around me, I breathe it freely
as I wish, blowing soap bubbles into crystalline
moments, that will catch the light
but pop, leaving your eyes stinging
when you try to reach for them, to catch
me. In another life
I was Dali, in my life now I
am Dali, painting and bending clocks
as to my will, making your logical early mornings
my glorious late nights, full of colors
those who do not truly know me
will never catch in the shadows of my laughter
and the turn of my eyes, I
will always be Dali, as years
are trivial and decades can pass
more quickly than the blink of an eyelid, I
will always be less than the great artist
and more, I am constructed, not only of time, but
of something just as fluid and so
my every cell will exult and change
as the symphony of the universe's timekeeping
glitters and twinkles  in its constant state
of effulgent musicality.

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Sensitivity to the poison
Most are not so adept at hiding
Throw them into a pile of roses
Without which we could not become perfumed
How to beckon others to come in
When you haven't got a clue
Toward the light you seal the door
You haven't suffered much anymore
Waiting to sit on an old chair
It's your slow growing hair that makes the time

Oh the joy of walking
With people keeping distance
And no joggers
Or cyclists
Brushing past
Our shoulders.

Which trend will continue some days before
winter solstice 2021 in Northern Hemisphere,
Tuesday, December 21 10:58 AM.
Yes, interestingly enough earliest sunset date(s)
along eastern United States
will occur December 7 and 8, 2021 at 4:28 pm EST.

Similar respective phenomena
takes place across globe.

Winter solstice constitutes
shortest day of the year in terms of daylight,
but does not have latest sunrise
nor earliest sunset of the year.

This prevails because discrepancy exists
between modern-day timekeeping methods
and how time is measured
using the Sun known as the equation of time.

The equation of time comprises
east or west component of the analemma,
a curve representing angular offset of the Sun
from its mean position on celestial sphere
as viewed from Earth.

I thoroughly enjoy onset of early darkness
unperturbed courtesy
seasonal affective disorder (SAD).

Alas and alack
matter of fact yours truly
optimally thrives when pitch black
skies immerse bookworm as impetus to crack
open a novel and/or read
one of my favorite (MAD) magazines
versus basking in sunshine which doth distract,
thus I while away hours appeasing
sixty plus shades of gray (cerebral) matter

processing criteria at greased lightning speed
considerably faster than once
venerably touted supreme ENIAC,
whereby mine figurative pistons
incalculably subvert additional
superfluous irrelevant flack
spurring me to burrow
deep inside invisible gunnysack
cause ordinary stress I could not hack

conveniently latched onto
ninety sixties counterculture mantra
"turn on, tune in, drop out"
popularized by Timothy Leary in 1966
essentially only in body not spirit
throughout academic foray,
I occupied space and time
paid dear price, cuz
submissive behavior heavily did impact

writer of these words a jejune Jack,
who during formative years
never dated, nor got jilted
cuz he possessed
unquestioned unhealthy uncanny
fealty and deadly eating disorder
body dysmorphia knack
positive image of self I lack,
an existence punctuated
by one after another panic attack.

There once was a beautiful princess
whose life was pretty boring.
At least her parents were alive.
Dark eyes and hair, hoodies, sweatpants, nondescript
she disliked crowds.

At first glance, she fell in love
with a girl in the mirror
with the moon in the water

though others said it seemed dangerous
bemoaned the lack of pictures
the weekly disappearances
of both the princess and of red-eyed victims.
But no matter – like in all stories,
it worked out.

The princess wanted
to spend hours admiring her lover through clear dark eyes,
and it was so.
She wanted change at a gradual clip
and it was not so.
She did not want to be evicted from the palace
yet it was so.

So she changed
her stomach became a cast iron furnace
her skin warm gossamer
her lashes copper curtains.
at 6.46pm, the clockwork train was an hour late.
There were whispers that she took its timekeeping to rebuild herself.
No one knew if she took a new name,
or wandered, subsisting on echoes.
Lungs don’t need motivation to breathe.

The moral of this story is love at first sight isn’t real.
But I wonder why so many people subsist on echoes?