Imagine a grandfather clock. Picture it in your mind. The pendulum swings back and forth. The hands click, counting away the minutes. As you watch, you notice the pendulum slowing down. The hands stop moving. Time stops. Then the hands creep counter- clockwise. Time is in reverse. The minutes, hours, days roll back.

Human beings have the creative capability to form images in their minds. We can use our imaginations to “see” images or pictures in our minds. How can we see the pictures? How can you see the grandfather clock in your mind while reading these words?

People have the ability to create images in their mind’s eye, but what is the mind? The brain is a physical muscle found within a person’s cranium, but the mind is the abstract entity that allows for reason, language, and memory. Although we understand the meaning of these capabilities, defining the Mind is a challenge for the ages. How can we truly “know” or understand something that is intangible? These questions are formulating in my mind. The grandfather clock chimes; the midnight toll is ringing in my mind. I can think of the words, hear the chimes, see the clock in my mind. But I don’t see it. The brain is tangible, but the Mind exists outside of matter.

The grandfather clock is an object created to confine Time, but Time is a construct that exists outside of matter. We can create clocks to understand how much light is left in the day, we can watch the minutes tick away, but you cannot see Time. Humans created a mechanism to count the hours of light during a day and the number of days it takes for the Earth to circle the sun, but time exists only through the logic manifested in our minds. Time (or the lack thereof) existed before we gave it a name and will continue to exist long after we are gone. Time is infinite, omnipresent; it cannot be created or killed. Time is eternal - meaning at any moment, at any time, on different planes of existence, each moment or memory you have lived is happening on a different plane, a different universe, a different time.

Energy is also eternal. Energy is what moves the sun’s rays, helps the trees grow, and allows us the ability to reason, to discuss, and to remember. Energy is a part of everything - is everything. If Energy begat the concept of Time, then Energy would have created the Big Bang, which marks the moment we began counting our own existence. Conversely, it is possible Time was waiting for Energy to burst, therefore Energy and Time are eternal, and equal. And our Mind understands these concepts because it also exists outside of matter, therefore it is bound by the same laws of Time and Energy; meaning, our Mind is also eternal.

Our mind has the ability to imagine a grandfather clock or any other image we wish to conjure, including memories. Memories are moments in the past, existing outside of matter and time. Because our Mind is made of Energy, and Time exists on infinite planes, we can focus all of our energy to a particular moment in time and recall it in our mind’s eye. Our Mind, Time, and Energy all exist outside of matter, therefore, if we envision a moment in Time, picture it clearly, focus all of our Energy on it, our Mind and Energy will travel to that moment. If a moment can exist in our Mind, and Time is infinite, and Energy is what allows for everything to move forward or back, then time travel is possible.

Its neck stretches like that of a young lady

revealing exposed porcelain skin pulled taut,

the blossom face upturned finding the sun's rays.

Delicate petals translucent in the light

wanting the warmth, acquiring attention -

I reach out to caress the paper thin skin

knowing my touch will taint its virgin beauty.

“I would imagine developing new relationships might be difficult for you.”

He sat across from me shrouded in gloom, with a hint of self-pity.

“Yes,” he responded. The single syllable began as a growl and ended in a hiss. “The people down here avoid me.”

“How does that make you feel?”

“Angry. Sad...alone. They blame me for everything. It’s not my fault I’m down here.” He looked down at his cloven feet.

“Lucifer,”

“I told you, call me Beezle.”

“Right. Beezle, we discussed this. You need to accept responsibility for your actions. Remember why you are down here.”

“Yea, yea. That could have happened to anyone. But it’s been a millenia and I’ve been down here sitting on my throne alone. I think I’ve suffered enough.”

“People who are put in positions of power are often alone.”

“Maybe, I don’t want the power.” He looked away, avoiding my eyes.

“It’s one thing if you want to lie to me, but stop lying to yourself.”

“Fine. I love my throne. I love the power, but I want someone to love. I want someone by my side. I want to share my kingdom. Don’t I deserve love?”

“Sure. Everyone does. But you need to love yourself first. Accept yourself for who you are and then you will be ready to share yourself with another. You never explained what happened with Persephone.”

He began fidgeting with his large taloned hands. “Ahhhh, I don’t know. She told me it was really fun punishing all of those criminals - you should have seen her face light up when she cracked the whip - but she doesn’t think she would enjoy spending an eternity down here. I thought maybe she could be the one, but she left. They always leave.”

“Beezle, you have to understand the situation you are in here.”

“What? I could give her anything she wants. A palace. Riches. Servants. Beautiful gowns. Sparkling jewels. Anything.”

“Can you give her the light?”

He stood up letting out a large growl and threw his coffee mug across the room. It shattered on the brimstone wall behind me.

“Well, I think that’s all the time we have for today.”

“Sorry, I can’t help it, “ he muttered, while unclenching his fists.

“It’s okay. It happens all the time.”

“Same time next week,” he questioned sighing, his yellow eyes looked expectantly at me.

“Of course. Next week I think we need to discuss your issues with your father.”

The Cheerios are spread across my tray. I am locked into my highchair trying to feed myself. The kitchen is small, the vintage wood cooking stove takes up most of the space and attracts most of my attention. I am alone.

My mother left. She was screaming at my father, and then dragging my sister by the arm, she slammed the door - leaving me behind.

I want another bottle. I begin to cry.

I want my father to know I need more milk.

In the next room I hear the television turn on. I see my father walk by the entranceway carrying a bottle. He sits in a lounge chair out of my sight, but I see his smoky exhale.

I continue to cry.

I “Don’t Break the Ice”

usually, but you can “Say Anything”

to me.

I know it’s “Taboo”

approaching you, but

I have to take the “Risk”

because you look like my numero “Uno”

and this “Trival Pursuit” of you

can turn to pure bliss.

Give me a chance

and you won’t be “Sorry”.

I won’t give you the run – around

climbing “Chutes and Ladders”.

I don’t want no “Trouble”

just a little “Diplomacy.”

You see, love is not a “Battleship”

more like a “Monopoly”.

So, let’s “Connect Four” or

maybe five times,

I’ll have you yelling “Yahtzee!”

by midnight.

I’m going to give you

“A Ticket to Ride”

and take you to

“Candyland” because

we go together

Like “Apples to Apples”;

I understand your brain,

it isn’t like “Scrabble”.

You know, I’ve never been one

to jump around – “Checkers”

is for children, but I’m a “Mastermind”

at the game of “Chess”, but

I’m tired of playing games, so

it’s your move now,

say yes.

And we broke camp

and packed up the Jeep

with a sadness that is felt

only with a sunrise 

and a sip of medium ground coffee.

      The River beckoned us back

to Her shores, but the Sunset 

called for us in the West;

the Idahoan landscape was silent

and sleeping when the dirt road

turned to black ink -

We drove for days.

       Kerouac called to me.

He said this is the way,

but the fields of corn he had warned

would burn and buildings grew

from the ashes. 

The horizon filled 

with temples of Commerce.

       In Seattle we poured a bottle of bourbon 

for those who came before me -

Keats, Ginsberg, Whitman, Pound -

Your words are swallowed 

by concrete.

We searched for a respite.

A dark basement bar

with Monks moniker - I questioned 

the cool cat in slurred speech,

"You play some sweet sax,

why are You in this dank dive."

      "Everyone must pay the toll."

"But what is the price for art."

       "I play what they pay me for;

           The gods are dead.

             The masses wish for three-chord, Campbell's can pop."

I succumbed to the pulse of the piano.

In the in in between of cheap whiskey

and wine

Kerouac appeared once again.

Urgency resonates off his tongue,

     "You must follow the tracks -

         Through the fields, mountains, and cities -

            They call to you.

               They will hear your words

                  And sing your songs."

"Consider a rolling of the dice," Carl Sagan murmured while rolling another blunt.

Neil deGrasse Tyson pulled deep on the smoldering remnants of his roach speculating the forthcoming conversation.

“Consider a rolling of the dice,” Sagan began again, “on this plane, in this universe, this version of yourself you roll a three - but there are six sides to a die and the other five sides are rolled by you in five completely different parallel universes other than our own.” He took a long hit and exhaled six different smoke rings illustrating his point.

Tyson’s bushy mustache and mouth turned up into grin while his eyelids drooped, deeply pondering. “'Philosophically, the universe has really never made things in ones. The Earth is special and everything else is different? No, we've got seven other planets. The sun? No, the sun is one of those dots in the night sky. The Milky Way? No, it's one of a hundred billion galaxies. And the universe - maybe it's countless other universes.'”

Sagan’s head nodded in slow agreement, “That’s what I’m saying.”

“For every left turn, there is a variation of me who takes a right. That means there are infinite number of universes, and infinite versions of me. Does that make the Earth, the Universe - me, insignificant?”

“You know Neil, ‘For me, it is far better to grasp the Universe as it really is than to persist in delusion, however satisfying and reassuring.’”

“True. True…” Tyson leaned back in his chair and stared into space. He took another drag and with a long exhale he exclaimed, “If at any moment there are innumerable versions of me existing on different parallel planes - then I am immortal. For every time I die another me lives.”

“Yes. Yes,” Sagan agreed, “Don't you see? We are all immortal. The cosmos are in us. The Buddhists got it right 3 thousand years ago - you can't kill energy. ‘We’re made of star stuff.’ Even if your human body dies, you will never be dead.”

For several moments the two friends sat in silence while thoughts of the infinite swirled around their heads mixing with the smoky haze of incense and marijuana .

“Stop bogarting the blunt, Carl.”

“Sorry. Sorry. Take it.”

“Thank you.” Tyson inhaled and coughed out his next question, “Where are the aliens? With multiple and infinite universes you think the aliens would have dropped in by now. ‘Perhaps we’ve never been visited by aliens because they have looked upon Earth and decided there’s no sign of intelligent life.’”

“What? Are you serious, Neil? Of course the aliens have been here, man. They visited thousands of years ago.”

Coughing, “They did?”

“Yea. Yea. The aliens were here. The pyramids, man. You think the Egyptians and the Mayans did that alone? No, it was the aliens. They got a bad rap, but they're chill. They came to help - they’ll be back. You’ll see.”

“Carl, saying shit like that created some criticism for you by our peers.”

“Whatever, man. Those guys are close-minded. They think they know everything. ‘Who is more humble? The scientist who looks at the universe with an open mind and accepts whatever the universe has to teach us, or somebody who says everything in this book must be considered the literal truth and never mind the fallibility of all the human beings involved?’”

“Preach, Carl. Preach.” Tyson nodded his head in agreement and passed the blunt again. He saw a speck of dust floating in a ray of light. He fixed his gaze on this microcosm - a universe within a universe, a piece of himself - dance before his eyes. “‘Do you realize that if you fall into a black hole, you will see the entire future of the Universe unfold in front of you in a matter of moments and you will emerge into another space-time created by the singularity of the black hole you just fell into?’”

Carl Sagan stared at Neil deGrasse Tyson with his mouth open before breaking into cackling laughter. “You are toasted, man. Toasted.”

Tyson coughed, “This is really good shit, though. Who you getting it from?”

Sagan laughed, “Bill Nye.”

“Nice.”

The cliché, “If you can’t beat them, join them,” keeps running through my head.

I should just go outside and let one of the fuckers bite me; it’s bound to happen anyway.

I don’t have any skills. I’m not ruthless. How long will a skilless wimp last? I should just get it over with and let them make a dinner out of me. What’s a worse way of dying? Being eaten alive or starving to death? I can’t believe I’m even contemplating these questions.

How did this happen? This is the stuff of science fiction fantasy nerd novels. How can this be real? One little glimpse out of my living room window reminds me that the dead are walking all over my daffodils. They just bloomed two days ago…stupid mindless fuckers.

When the Emergency Broadcast System interrupted my regularly scheduled program announcing the “zombie apocalypse” had begun, I assumed it was an April Fools prank – in May. I didn’t bother listening to the explanation as to how this started, I just turned the cable off and turned on Netflix. Then I heard the screaming. I opened up my front door to witness Mrs. Connelly become an afternoon snack for a placid motherfucker whose large intestine was hanging down to his feet. If I hadn’t just gone to the bathroom I would have shit myself.

I shut the door. And closed the curtains. And picked up my memere’s dusty candelabra and wielded it like Excalibur, and thought, “ I’m going to die today.” I put the candelabra back down.

Since then, I’ve been sitting on the couch in my oversized sweatshirt with my slipper socks up on the coffee table. I realized I can make a nice hollow bowl out of my shirt and dump microwave popcorn into it (What’s the point of dirtying more dishes?). For almost two hours, I’ve been eating my Orville Redenbacher– one piece at a time - and staring at the ceiling.

I wonder if I should call someone. No one has called me. Wait, no one has called me. Not even my mother. Does that mean she’s dead? Or she just didn’t think to call me… Which is worse? I suppose, considering it took me two hours to think of calling her, I can’t be mad if she is alive and well. She’s probably popping corn too and downing every bottle in her liquor cabinet. If a zombie eats her liver it will be like eating one of those bourbon soaked oranges I love.

How can you tell the difference between a zombie and a drunk? You can’t! HA. Dammit! Everyone I would tell that joke to is probably dead.

It’s been a few hours, maybe I should check to see if the dead are done tromping through my garden.

Shit. Zombies multiply like rabbits in heat. The fuckers are everywhere. They are just standing in my begonias, mumbling and moaning. Oh, that one’s ear just fell off. I wonder how that would do in a compost pile. I wish they would go across the street and decompose in the Wilson’s yard. Artie flips his shit every time a dog poops on his property. This will make him go insane - if he’s not dead already.

Oh shit. What was that? Something is pounding on my back door. Should I check?

“Help. Let me in!”

Aw, crap. Who is that? If I stay quiet maybe whoever it is won’t know I’m in here.

“I know you’re in there. I saw you look out the window.” Dammit. “Let me in!”

“Wait. Who are you?”

“It’s me, Bob.” Oh, Jesus, Mary, Mother of Joseph - I can’t fucking stand Bob. “Let me in, please!”

“No, go find somewhere else to hide.”

“What!? Let me in. They’re going to kill me.”

“Survival of the fittest, Bob.”

“PLEASE! I’m begging.”

I’m going to regret this. “Ugh. Fine. Just stop pounding on my door, I already have a headache.”

“THANK YOU. Thank you.”

“Okay, listen. If you are going to hide in here we need some ground rules.”

“What? Why?”

“Hey, it’s my house, and you being here is forcing me to put pants on. Okay. First rule - No talking. Actually, that’s it. You are not allowed to speak.”

“Wait..”

“Eh. Nope. What did I just say?”

“But,”

“Shhh.” I just pulled out my teacher, Shhh. “No talking. Now, thanks to you, I have to put on some yoga pants. Don’t touch anything.”

Bob has not stopped speaking about how this catastrophe is really “going to shake up the tax code laws.” Over an hour of “survivors will fall into new tax brackets.” I am dying a slow painful death. Considering I have not uttered one single reply I think he finally ran out of things to say.

He’s picking his teeth.

He just wiped a piece of chud on my oak dining room table.

Bob and me. Me and Bob. Alone. Forever. I’m being punished. That’s it. I said one too many times that I don’t believe in God. And now God is laughing. Good one, God. Again, if you hadn’t unleashed the apocalypse I would tell some of my friends about your sense of humor, but they’re probably dead.

And I’m stuck with Bob.

He is now making the sticky slimy salivating noise when you slowly open and close your mouth. He is not eating or swallowing anything. Just opening and closing his gaping mouth. I can almost see spit bubbles forming. Opening and closing...opening and closing...opening and closing…

“That’s it. I’m done.”

“What?”

You want to destroy the daffodils? Where’s the candelabra? I might as well try to take some of you dead assholes down.

It’s clear there are worse things than death.

My bone is sticking

out through my skin;

protruding stark white and shiny

with crimson droplets dripping down

my arm.

I wish I paid attention in anatomy.

Does it make a difference

whether it is the ulna or radius?

Fragments of flesh litter the ground.

How did it happen?

It’s broken.

It doesn’t matter how it broke.

It just is.

I find myself thinking about America.