Time in the mind
is applied myopia.
An elastissue
of self-consciousness
blooming permeabaubbles
of temporality
as thingyness
with up close self-encounters.
The mouth of now
is wide-open, large and looming.
Reframed monoliths
of name-ables
are imposing and impressive
as if an invisible conveyor belt
towards maximum zoom is on
and repeatedly crowding
all things recognizable into frame.
This is as if a theory
for presenting scary movies
overcame all odds
when mundaneity became
the chief enemy.
And now our philosophy for living
is a nonchalant
adrenal patch wardrobe
worn in a timely,
for all occasions, manner.
All these bludgeonings
are signatured as recognitions
as if somehow sacred
for calming the soul.
Time is myopia
as I latch on to
an hourglass's sequential grains
as a saving my ass lifeboat.
I am down
through the bottleneck
of my attention span.
I am worthy
of only a single linear grain
at a time,
attuned to the down swirl
as if this, in time,
is an elixir's fix.
Time, the myopia,
is as the body heat
of experiential metabolism churning.
Timyopia is somewhere
and I am noting it so.
This is the death of my being
from the stage fright of particulars.
Twenty lash questions
are smiting me.
Piranhas of accountability,
smelling my blood,
are a canned fury
while I am a human twitch
of a can opener.
Tie-me-up opia are all
of these teatherings
that each have
their own small deaths
within me.
I am a self-pinata
looking for a whack-then-spillage
of personal freedom
out of all of this.
It could be
a cause worthy occurrence
yet my balloony
boa constriction containment
is sensing, more or less,
a little death-opia
still timely coming my way.
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