According to ancient wizards, time
is a private infinity of personal rhythms
expressed only in the present,
once nicknamed the now-ever.
Like the universe the center
is where you are, there is always time.
The Tao of design is up to you,
there is no master plan.
The outer forces of the world
corrupt the inner power of time
with ever accelerating ritual
until it doesn't matter how much time you have.
A junkie never has enough.
So, ancient patterns have ceased
and burgers on the run
have left no time for buttercups.
You spin like a Birkhoff bagel with a buzz inside
that leaves a tangled skein of chaos.
You listen to the techno-warble of cesium photons
peppering each jerky, animated tic-tock,
in hoc signo clepto... stealing every impulse.
Barnsley's dried old computer fern
has no stuffed fox to molder with.
Electron spores pixilate the floor of my head
while Hawking's monotone defines new turf.
To augur by crossing bird would expose
a high-tech Merlin with too much power
and a big blue eye in the planetary storm;
squat blue demons on the Hubble's lens.
That bronze liver will not aid your divination,
will not show the Celtic symbols, Roman dates
to worship planets, runes, and Ogham notches
of nerve ending on its ass-tree calendar heaven.
