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The Trouble Is
The trouble is, you think you have time,
Said Buddha.
But he was wrong.
I know I don’t have time.
Time has me
Running marathons of mindless tasks,
Day after day.
Be here now!
My phone alarm says,
But not in a Buddha way.
I race through the day
Trying to be on time,
But time is always on me,
Until the last chore on my mental checklist
Is complete,
Then I waste time, fill time, kill time
Until sleep takes me out of time,
But only until morning.
I know what he meant, of course.
You think you have time
To do all the things you want to have time for,
But never do.
We all dream of having time.
Free time,
Or time free
Of deadlines and dreadlines,
Worry and hurry.
We don’t have time.
We can only hold it
Like a breath,
For one moment.
Then let it go.
deep cognitive
In the night when sleep abounds me not
eternal, ethereal, ethanol, ethical, and etymological questions
my skull aflutter
Opppa, hoppa, the stallion intellect proud of mine
stamps all over the plebeian plethora of pneumonia thought
a mind, oracle, over the above, the up and upper
am
I
hovering above dirty plebs
in such night
Until I step for a hoi polloi glass of water
and bump
with my sprained foot
into my bed
and only
one
only one
thought prevails then,
luminescent overall
Where the xxxk are my slippers?