You know you’ve just been
dead poet sobriety
when that message finally got delivered to you in the past
which you sent to you from the future
day in the middle of next week
which urgently told you the
message was chiseled
right next to that heart you and
your first girlfriend carved
on that old oak tree
at the High School.
‘past uncertainty can
Haven’t you gotten that feelin’ you’ve
been here before?
What the hell have you been doing!
What do you have to show?
What have you done with your life?
And, guess what?
You are a repeater!
Oh, what the hell, it’s OK.
I mean, you do what you do.
We can waste time.
If it’s not our time to waste,
whose is it?
It’s our prerogative,
but you get none of it back.
They only dole out what you get
and it’s a raw deal.
But, you don’t get how fast time slips away
until you’re an old geezer.
No one told us why we’re here.
We were born.
We make a Junior or two
(one or two little men in the making like us: to feed our ego’s)
Then, we die.
I guess there’s no rule book or game plan
except the one we make for ourselves.
So, get busy writing your epitaph.
Time is of the essence, and time
becomes the essence.
So, I decided
to go to the store and get me
(because I wanted to get paid for writing poetry)
so I bought two smaller payday’s instead of one big one that I saw
when the cashier already rung both of them up
and it was too late to buy that big one I really wanted
to gorge myself on as I looked down on it
in the other rack on the other side
that I didn’t see until then.
I’ve really been gettin’ that cravin’ for that candy bar…
(It’s my favorite chewy nugget loaded with peanuts!)
One of the two small bars was an extra one for my imaginary unemployed
friend who was completely penniless
so he could have his own payday
he so sorely needed
(which was my good deed for the week)
Thanks for listening
while you didn’t know you were travelling in my written word time
machine with me…
(yes, time machines can be almost anything.)