Burnpoetry: A Writer's Attempt to Write

It’s 9:20 A.M.
And time burns slow,
Like a long fuse in an old western movie
Snaking towards the bundled up TNT
Before being snuffed out with a trail-hardened finger or
The fifth lead bullet from a six-shooter
In an act of John Waynesian marksmanship.
 
It’s 11:21 A.M.
Caffeinated sizzle
Drank hastily
By the dawn’s too-early light
Has fried down to blackened grease.
The knot’s noose knows
Instinctively tightening
Boa constricting
Two loops with a cinching undertow.

It’s 11:57 A.M.
Outside the leaves shift
In June warmth
Each humid bluster
Diverts the branches like an indecisive flock
Of green seagulls,
Lost in the Midwest
The branches stiffly swim
Barked salmon heading up the Gulfstream.
The whispered hiss of conditioned air spits
Down my neck from an overhead vent.

It’s 1:43 P.M.

It’s 2:07 P.M.
Time lurches
Churning
Fitfully spiraling
Down a partially clogged drain

It’s 3:06 P.M.
My fingers flit from key to key
Letters spill from key to screen in a clattering
Splattering mess.
Cathartic
Cathodes
Forming thoughts
That spread like ink-filled brush to water
Droplets spreading
Like sci-fi amoebas under
Sci-fi microscopes.

It’s 3:42 P.M.
Ctrl P
CPRs my page to life
Electronic hum
Iron Lung-ing
The flat map of Times New Roman
Twelve point
Twelve step program
Out. 

The page is hot.

It’s 4:38 P.M.
The page cools.

It’s 5:15 P.M.
My tie loosens.
My pupils dilate.
Top button unhinges and silken snake
Drops like a too-soft drawbridge
Easing down from my throat
Like a stay of execution;
Governmental pardon as high noon approached.
Even as the Sun clings iron-fisted to the day.
Hot June air kisses me good night.
Home beckons.

Home.

FIN