Friday, June 14, 2013

KILLING TIME

I became expert at:
mangling minutes,
and strangling hours;
whole days
pissed away: beaten,
plundered, ripped apart
and torn, sheared,
stitched
together
and pulled
loose again;
drowned and spit upon
and pummeled until
they lied
bruised, broken,
and used
up.
It was thought
to be
a filling-up
of space, getting
from here
to there.
No big thing,
I thought.
I thought:
Forcing things
was useless;
mastering
was even less;
wanting
was ridiculous;
and showing yourself
worse.


Had I known
how the game worked
I would have worked
it the same. Now,
there is less
time and less
of me to kill.
And though
there are some
who might think me
the fool,
I think
how lucky I was
to have had
all those stupid days
to fuck with
and play with
and carve
with such style
and elan
that make this keyboard
sing and dance
by fingers
educated
by the blood stains
of those murdered minutes.
Nothing
is lost
to memory
and a mind
fine-tuned
by the inverted
gun.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2011-2013

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