I pluck a memory like I would the petal of a daisy, “He loves me… He loves me not…”
I won’t let a flower determine anything.
I choose “he loves me…”
Against all common sense, in revolt against reason, against memory, my desire a fist – white hot – smashing time’s clock face, hating the way it ignores my will and just keeps ticking and ticking, its clock hands nervously twitching, its clock voice muted but insistent, always chiming, “Now. Now. Now.” in that low drone, dulling my synapses, lulling me into the walking sleep that just treadmills along. Hung-under. Stuck on the Nietzsche Channel. Fucking robots. All of us. Trapped in the sands of its glass sphere… letting it snow its minutiae on us… every hour dissolving like snowflakes on our hot little snowglobe-bound tongues. Can’t you feel the enclosure? It circles me, it circles you, wrapping us all in our own chain of seconds, seconds… can’t you see? seconds… why isn’t it called firsts? it’s seconds… second choice… second best… irregulars… cheap bargain basement shit nobody wants… but buys because that’s all they can afford… goddamnit! don’t you understand? Each link on time’s chain is an iron-clad bond that we had nothing to do with forging. Slave to the clock, once divine spirits take a tumble, fall down, devolving into idiot mobs. But I see the flowers, the wild flowers growing in the cracks of the dome, letting the chaos in, the sweet sweet ungodly, the holy holy soil, the riot in the color where disorder sows it seeds, and even chained as I am here, I can just reach…. just… only just… my fingers stretched into spans of horizon, jazz hands doing their best Bob Fosse gyrating to a rhythm and music that time with its tone deaf ears will never hear. Fuck time, I’m searching the graves while the stars spin.