Time doesn’t need to be understood, so why do I keep looking at my watch?

Point A to Point B. Point B to Point C. So on. And on.

Alone, two whiskeys, one more, Village Voice, the clock, the lights, the Scratcher, me.

It’s not that deep.

One day, here; the next, dead. It’s not that deep. It’s black and white.

Drink, here, then it’s gone.

Smile, hello, not for me.

Is the other side so good that the ghosts don’t even bother to let us know what’s going on? Are the ones that haunt us the ones that can’t enjoy that side as much as they couldn’t enjoy this one?

Order a drink, bump my arm, pay, leave, back to your table.

Sometimes I wonder what’s going on. There’s no order to the way things unfold, and there is rarely a reward. Only rumination, pessimism, let-downs, resuscitated optimism, swift kick to the back of the knees, another broken something.

Point C to Point D.

How many times have I looked at my watch, and how many times have I registered the time, each time I’ve looked at the time? I have no consideration for the hour or the minute and I have nowhere to be. So…

What if you dropped me into a black hole? What then? What would my watch read? Would it keep counting? Why would it keep counting? One…two…three…blue…elephant…seventy…boots…paradox…five…four…negative eleven….another elephant…he’s talking to me…why is there a talking elephant in this black hole?

Point Z to Point F.

1866. Somewhere in Texas. Someone is unhappy. Someone lied! Someone is sharpening a knife, or loading a gun, but they aren’t going to do anything with it. They’ll just keep sharpening it or loading it and reloading it until the clock strikes bedtime and they lie down for another night to dream about things that won’t ever happen and never have existed.

Where was I.

Period.

Stop.

Point Elephant to Gross Pointe Blank.

Oh no! This wasn’t a poem. What are you still doing here?

One more, then I’ll go.

Point J.

That’s all.

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