Running Out On Time - Poetry and Prose

Who, What, Why, and How? (But also, when and where)

I really don't know how to start,

I really don't know Where I am or Why or How

But I am here.

Somewhere, anyway.

Somewhere in a world—but Which? And more importantly, When?

When determines almost everything except the Where, but sometimes also that.

If you take a When from farther back

Big open field becomes big black slate mountain or brown-gold desert sands.

But I guess that all depends on Where one stands,

Where one Whens.

But again, that comes down to Whys.

Maybe you sit on a hill to look up a second at the skies

Only to find now the hill is flat

And that a tree has grown roots around your thighs as time,

Time passed you by.

And so, Why Whens Where it Wants.

Want being the core of all the Words 

All Whiches Whats Whys Whens and even the Hows.

How you make the Whiches Whats Whys Whens and even all the Words themselves

Is just Wants in the end.

Wants to Be

See

Hear

Feel 

She 

He

It.

Consumed by the cavity in the confines of your core

Filled with nothing but the blackness and the blandness of your

Bored.

Fill the well with Wants and Wishes,

Wishes Wants unwound without Whens Wheres Whys and Whiches

Only leaving smaller ditches to be filled with

Wants.

Pail it out slowly bucket by bucket filling it from empty to full of nothing.

Glass half full or half empty with air or anything really, it's enough to make you pull out your hair.

By the time you fill up—you fill out,

And by Then,

In that When,

You are full but so hungry so empty so full

Of hot air and humid hopes

That you holler once and find yourself famished and frail,

Thin and thick with threadworm bones bristling from your back like spines

And your ribs protruding like tines on a buck but—

All you have left is a breath and some luck—

Some land and a wish and When but no What or Which

Just you, just an itch, just a Want,

Just that sitch.

Just that sinch.

Just the tightness in your turtleneck—

Just the scratch of the wool—

Just the clawing scraping sound from inside your own sunbleached skull—

Just the scratching and catching sound of your fingernails finding the flaws and the fractures—

And the features cameras have captured,

Just the cries and the creaking and the squeaking and sputtering—

Just the batting of bat wings and the endless fluttering—

Just the darkness and dimness and dungy dank darkness,

Discomfort disoriented disgusting divine,

All in contrast to the warm wild world telling you it'll just be fine.

It just isn't your time.

Wait for your When your What or your How, wait for your Which What Where Who Why and Then it's your Now!