Tuesday, September 1, 2015
Track 3 // Voodoo Child
I am the infant wearing holes in knees & paths
in a cosmos of carpet,
an awkward adolescence learning to dance
the circumference of puberty's circumstance,
on the cusp of & falling
on two feet, on the way to six,
somewhere in the middle where you take dreams
off at the door, like shoes, so you don't track
the old man hugging a cane at the turn of the river,
where all the maidens leave the water,
about to pull out
I am the watch
man telling time with my hands,
like a blind man. I keep them in motion
collecting faces in circles
of our loco/motion
I must re-wind regularly
or lose minutes, never ours
to begin with
where the leather sweats and tightens,
that is the thing with time -- it never stretches
beyond its contractions & our actions
only quicken the knotches on the frame of the closet
until they are tracks - the train pulls out
& the conductor's checking tickets
to punch the clock
of our arrival
of our departure
of our occupation, by occupying
Time is money, money is time
& no one ever feels they are paid enough;
what we are worth.
What are we worth?
They put pyramids on our dollars to remind us
we are all a slave to something,
pick one. It's multiple
I bank mine in an account
for when I am asked to give an account
for it & don't count on interest.
At the bookstore, I watched a man,
lockpicked his life with my pen & stole three minutes
of his meaning. Time is of the essence.
He laughed & took ten back,
in a race between Walking Dead & Batman,
from who will win the Super Bowl to where I bought my shirt,
as an investment in human capital;futures
in a stock, not store bought
or auctioned off.
Watch long enough, the truth will walk
across the field of your vision - running fingers
through the wheat
both sold 4cheap 2often
to make bread,
to make cheddar.
What was it the joker said to the thief?
Watchman, what do you see?
What do you see?
Who do I have to pay
to get out?