A Day in the Life

old wind bursting out through my eyes
as Chronos nags at me:
Wake up!
rub lost dreams out of 
angry eyelids, webbed and watery,
stretch zombie muscles,
but Inside my head
sheep bleat:
don't sleep! People are waiting.

with dawn comes duty.
i rush about the long hallways,
but no one greets me 
and i, a gray blur,
cloud them with movement.
the Windows are closed....
it's raining, and I can 
hear it dripping, the rain
dripping in the gutter,
dripping in the gutter,
dripping in the gutter. 
i shudder when i
see me 
living in the rain.
no time to think! People are waiting.

scurrying about, tending affairs:
phone calls, work, chores.
the lights aren't on
when i coast the lonely
morning hallways,
shoving complacently 
through open doors 
with broken locks
and rusty hinges that
squeak with age
unbecoming of a child.
swallow soggy grain 
with Leaden apathy
as the grandfather Clock
that in my youth 
i used to chase
with eager eyes,
once a friend but
not a foe,
marches on
indifferently, no different
than before.
different just to me,
a sentimental teenager 
drowning in pity,
self-pity and masochistic
diligence.
Tick! Tick! Tick! Tick!
no time to eat! People are waiting.

in treaden hallways
of football fame
hormones heckle,
crowding on to potent muscle,
crowding on to potent bust,
crowding out the silent smile,
crowding out the tempered face,
we flow to class, 
pebbles in a river,
blinds around our head,
we turn to second guess,
pass or be passed.
not all's in vain:
I naysay and I yeasay
when I see a spectacled surprise,
a friend, a pleasant glance
of understanding:
mind, heart, pituitary.
but a round crimson mouth
metallic gleams, yet
another face of Chronos.
Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!
no time to talk! Our teachers are waiting.

They say you're here to learn
to be successful.
They say you've got it in you
if you only have the drive.
They say that if you work hard
you've really got it made.
I don't claim to know much better.
I donate claim to have a better way,
but I wonder when I
see a brother singing on the street
or a painted lady strutting on the corner,
physicists at petrol shops,
vets with cups of change, 
but still I give them
the benefit of our doubt,
engage I do and listen,
jotting down each textbook whim
just as I jot down this verse.
Friction, Fiction, Fact, and Feel:
all seduce me,
tickle me with earthly knowledge,
what of heavenly wisdom?
and just like all of you I 
sometimes set my eyes free
to wander about the room.
glance by glance
we sometimes meet halfway
and stop to talk in
silent splendor briefly till
our vocal minds distract
our searching eyes.
too rarely do these glances 
grow to gazes,
yet no one wants to take a chance,
to settle for less.
Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!
no time to gamble! Our futures are waiting.

yet after a few sprints 
about this periodic circle
comes respite from
commonality. 
out we burst like mice
upon a verdant lawn
that waits for us,
and a small circle
gathers around
a queer and single tree
to joke and laugh and argue,
to share intrigues, compliments, 
and insults.
unRestrained, WE ! make it all
worthwhile, as it should be 
left to us and not decrepit elders in a 
room where proud cigar
smoke drifts and stifles.
sharing is sweet, short,
and life is long.
who knows how
long we'll tend this
path, this afternoon
repose.
we sing accompanied by jays
and squirrels, wind blowing through
fleeting leaves of grass.
others, much like us, sitting
far across upon the lawn.
a symphony, awkward and lonely,
of human thought and feeling. 
rhythm holds the upper hand
and meter changes:
Ring! Ring! Ring! Ring!
No time to talk. we'll meet 
again! and again and again and againandagainand.....

Home is where my straying
mind and heart return
after a translucent
day of work and thought.
I sit awhile and watch
a hissing helix wind its
way inside a rounded path
of standing glass, which 
by itself does move, move, 
move, too slow for my eyes,
but move it does
as I hear a stream of sand sliding
through the sun with
thoughtless erudition
and smell my hand reverse
this tool upon each end
of motion
drives the hourglass forward.
you might say I sit and
feel the time pass by,
but recently I've come to 
think I know that on its
onward march it takes
and gives and blunders 
and wins, and I have 
yet to know just how
I must embrace it.

as maroon vectors touch
the edges of the giant sky,
I drift away from
watching, waiting, wearing,
and as I move into 
a comfortable abyss
i hear the rain dripping in the gutter...
dripping in the RING! TICK!
dripping in the RING! TICK!
clocks with pitchforks, good old Nick!
clocks with pitchforks, good old Nick?
Eating, slipping, speaking, hearing!
Euphony, cacophony?
clocks with wily faces rising
in the morn to summon forth
our daily march.
live of quiet desperation,
or is it quiet INSPIRATION?
I prop my elbow up up up,
upon the windowsill
to stare, and I'm blinded, painlessly,
gazing at the rising sun.