Prehistoria and Little Tragedies

(10:31 PM)
Every second makes the last feel prehistoric,
Moments fade like marmalade bullets
Into the skin of some ugly ass rhinocerous.
It takes a bigger man to admit that life's little tragedies,
They're the ones that kill us in the end.
Your cousin broke his pinky.
You're crying over spilt blasting gelatin.
When the dust settles, it wont be deaths in the family,
Or school shootings,
It'll be the key scratch your side panel,
Obtained in the post office parking lot
(12/9/08@6:31PM)
The tragedies that matter:
You'll remember the stubbed toe you got, drunk,
On your birthday night.
(11:11PM)
Make a wish.
(12:34AM)
Petrified cat in the attic,
Smells like sawdust and amonia,
Looking for grandma's gun.
Baby books piled to the ceiling,
Spiders spinning endless prison communes
Full of tiny-black-juicy flies.
I struggle along with them in their comic fevered boogie,
Wishing I was a million different places.
With my mind I reduce these things to particles,
Converting images to zip format
Just so I can forget them later,
And lose them in the bitmap of my brain.
(2:00AM)
Go to sleep
(4:59AM)
Come within seconds of the REM state I crave,
(5:00AM)
And I Wake Up.
I listen to the clockwork in my bedside alarm,
Trying to find a euphemism.
Trying to find a simile.
An analogy,
A metaphor,
Something to hide everything.
(9:00AM)
The alarm is going off in some parallel reality,
But not here.
Here I took apart the tiny ticking menace three hours ago
(6:00AM)
And fed it to the virtual goldfish in the pond I don't own.
I rise from bed, I fall from grace,
And the whole time I think of YOUR ugly face.
You, Father Time,
Grandfather Clock,
Uncle wristwatch.
The face you hide from the world with your frail hands.
Go away already,
Leave me be.