even if we are expected to live for
89 or 100 years our time set on this earth is
undetermined. our expiration date is blank, our shelf life is unknown. fate
is a broken clock,
it's hour hand snapped in half
ten billion years ago.
the world runs on chance,
we are all pieces on a chess board, a shogi board, a blank page.
gently tapped the domino
but eve kicked it down and lilith
has been running the opposite direction
since she could run.
money and time is fleeting and love is too,
from time to time.
i try to take as many pictures as i can so that when i no longer hear my friends' voices
i can see them and remember
the wind coming from the back seat window,
so i can remember the coffee in the back of a cafe,
so i can remember the laughter and the smiling and the arguments,
shots in a hotel room when we were only nineteen,
the how are you's and the i care's and
the stupid shit in between.
we may not have gotten anywhere,
in all of those conversations,
but their words follow me everywhere i go.
my mother used to set a towel down and paint my nails.
the polish would be cold but i'd sit and watch; my childhood might be summarized in this grainy, polaroid image.
sometimes she'd set me up on the counter
and snip at my bangs,
cut the back of my hair; motherhood defined by the fallen locks of hair swept
into a dustpan.
home was the click click click
of the stove and
the cold wood floor and
the warmth of the carpet
after mom vacuumed.
home was yankee candles and
bible study on thursdays.
home was the comforter on my parents bed, home was the television on top of the dresser, home was the star stickers on the ceiling,
home was my mother's hair clip,
with it's deadly plastic teeth.
we are built on envy and desire,
on goals and the impossible,
but we preen for love and attention.
we sprout and reach and we grow and we
do not stop growing until we simply stop
or we are cut from our stems,
our petals withered or are torn off.
God watches us from above and urges us to
love but ultimately we choose
if we hug our mothers and kiss our children on the cheek
or if we slam our foot on that pedal with blurred vision, reaching, reaching for something that lies behind the moon,
but in front of mars,
and we miss it nonetheless
we dont see who he flatten behind us;
like grass on a sunday morning,
dew still sticking to them. the moon circles us
all the while. her clock,
has stopped ticking.