untitled

Time is wet and slippery to my mind tonight.
My fishing skills are poor and
Trying to catch it
Eludes my hungry bait of
Existence--
Like a trout on his way out of
The hook.

Oh, I do not want for memory's sake, I
Remember too well for my own
Good; I suppose,
I have so much of me that cries
Resurgence
I must have enough of "It" to
Do it in.

Time daunts me and straddles me down;
I cannot feather myself away.
But, I savor my groundedness,
That heavy taste to life's
Emulsion
And the thickness it pours into
My flowing brook.

Sometimes I do wrestle it to the floor with
Determination of extinguishing
It's regal authority,
Ranting and raving, hand tied
In revulsion,
But I fathom it reasons this
Humanistic.

How countless are my minutes in the scheme
Of eternity, future, tomorrow,
All is in today's ambiguity
That rises up by the Here termed
Probation--
Maybe I should conform to the
Plaintiff's truce.

Time, you are destination to my flesh
All that Is inevitable tottering
In the multiplicity
And serendipity of knowing the dust
Of duration,
The inferiority of my mere and
Numbered statistic.