Photo by Wei Ding
Tick Tock Tick Tock
I. M. Phil Szenher
Clifford Saunders
Time to live like a daffodil,
savage and angelic as a great poet.
Time to address the topsy-turvy way
seeds fall from the stars.
Once and for all, it is time
to demand that the city of silence
return to its river again.
It’s time, it’s time, it’s time!
Time to throw a crab on a roof,
time for some hero to cry about
thousands of beds whistling in the dark.
Time for new portraits of bitterness,
portraits of emptiness, time to make way
for a hay wagon full of rainbows.
Time to become a lightning rod
shaped like the antlers of a moose.
Don’t you see? We can no longer wait.
Time to decide how to say goodbye
to the moon, that little tin of mints.
Yes, it is time to step behind
the fur-lined teacup of one beholder,
to return pink water to some shadowy tunnel.
It’s time, it’s time, surely it is time!
Time to pray to the homosexual crow
whose limbs transcend language.
Time to convalesce in balls of twine.
It’s time, it’s definitely time to party
in a cave with nine skydivers,
to buy an empty house that’s black
and expresses forgiveness, to mourn
a city encircled by millions of cobwebs.
Time to make love as if on carbon paper,
to cheat the boys of fall
out of a bottle of silver tongues.
It’s time, I tell you, it’s definitely time!
Time to decipher the delicate touch
of wind against wall, to heal
the pain of a heart by falling
asleep on a flowered tablecloth,
to wave the oil-soaked rag of regret.
Time to honor the blue eye of chaos
vexing the blind. Time to dance
on stones that flash in full and halftones.
Time to split into two pieces of goodbye.
It’s time, it is well and truly time
to pick a cool cocoon out of the sand
and wear it like a fractured nose.
Time to relax with an undersea flag
on your lap, to tango around a worm,
to dip a toe into a puddle of balloons.
It’s time, it’s time, it’s time!
Time to move through the forest like
a lost man deceived by its tranquility.
It’s time, you hear me? Might even
be time to throw yellow flags
at the altar of technology.
Time to torch a few vacant lots,
to give each threshold its own wings.
No dalliance, no more pathetic excuses!
Time to lead a herd of elephants
through many layers of cuff links.
Time for some mammogram of the heart,
for a chance to rub the face
of an angel with pink thread.
No more delay tactics, no more stalling!
Time to collect the red gloves
turning up on sidewalks everywhere.
It’s time to make a dictionary shed veils
that settle like birds to sea grass.
It’s time to catch a hag caressing a giraffe
while hopping over a little white ball.
Time to bury harpsichords in a garlic patch,
time for the button mushroom to love
the full moon, to turn blue in Death Valley.
It’s time someone danced with the truth.
Please believe me, it’s time, it’s time!
Time to ensure that salamanders
cannot drop from the sky, that trombone
and conch need a good cry together.
It’s time to seed the coast of Australia
with old class rings, to grind
the bones of meaning into the ground,
to fill a hole with a soul.
Time to look like Sisyphus, like a rag doll,
time to recognize the grace of vultures.
Don’t you see? The clock is ticking.
Time for a new eulogy of passion,
a province of masks. Time to stop
hiding in a boat full of puzzles.
Time to throw logic out the door
like a playful tabby, to drop
a bag of worms on the Hubble telescope.
Time to romp on a glacier among geniuses.
It’s time, it’s time, it’s fucking time!
Time to find the place where clouds
are born, to catch more dark clouds,
to jump across the Mississippi River
while wearing long johns and a gas mask.
Time to check out a river at its source
for body bags full of interesting
cake mannequins and blue condoms.
Time to wake up, to measure
the silence surrounding every fisherman,
to abolish the tyranny of grass.
Time to smell the erased city,
time to embrace women in ice,
time to move from place to place
chipping away at the majestic rain.
I. M. Phil Szenher
Clifford Saunders
Time to live like a daffodil,
savage and angelic as a great poet.
Time to address the topsy-turvy way
seeds fall from the stars.
Once and for all, it is time
to demand that the city of silence
return to its river again.
It’s time, it’s time, it’s time!
Time to throw a crab on a roof,
time for some hero to cry about
thousands of beds whistling in the dark.
Time for new portraits of bitterness,
portraits of emptiness, time to make way
for a hay wagon full of rainbows.
Time to become a lightning rod
shaped like the antlers of a moose.
Don’t you see? We can no longer wait.
Time to decide how to say goodbye
to the moon, that little tin of mints.
Yes, it is time to step behind
the fur-lined teacup of one beholder,
to return pink water to some shadowy tunnel.
It’s time, it’s time, surely it is time!
Time to pray to the homosexual crow
whose limbs transcend language.
Time to convalesce in balls of twine.
It’s time, it’s definitely time to party
in a cave with nine skydivers,
to buy an empty house that’s black
and expresses forgiveness, to mourn
a city encircled by millions of cobwebs.
Time to make love as if on carbon paper,
to cheat the boys of fall
out of a bottle of silver tongues.
It’s time, I tell you, it’s definitely time!
Time to decipher the delicate touch
of wind against wall, to heal
the pain of a heart by falling
asleep on a flowered tablecloth,
to wave the oil-soaked rag of regret.
Time to honor the blue eye of chaos
vexing the blind. Time to dance
on stones that flash in full and halftones.
Time to split into two pieces of goodbye.
It’s time, it is well and truly time
to pick a cool cocoon out of the sand
and wear it like a fractured nose.
Time to relax with an undersea flag
on your lap, to tango around a worm,
to dip a toe into a puddle of balloons.
It’s time, it’s time, it’s time!
Time to move through the forest like
a lost man deceived by its tranquility.
It’s time, you hear me? Might even
be time to throw yellow flags
at the altar of technology.
Time to torch a few vacant lots,
to give each threshold its own wings.
No dalliance, no more pathetic excuses!
Time to lead a herd of elephants
through many layers of cuff links.
Time for some mammogram of the heart,
for a chance to rub the face
of an angel with pink thread.
No more delay tactics, no more stalling!
Time to collect the red gloves
turning up on sidewalks everywhere.
It’s time to make a dictionary shed veils
that settle like birds to sea grass.
It’s time to catch a hag caressing a giraffe
while hopping over a little white ball.
Time to bury harpsichords in a garlic patch,
time for the button mushroom to love
the full moon, to turn blue in Death Valley.
It’s time someone danced with the truth.
Please believe me, it’s time, it’s time!
Time to ensure that salamanders
cannot drop from the sky, that trombone
and conch need a good cry together.
It’s time to seed the coast of Australia
with old class rings, to grind
the bones of meaning into the ground,
to fill a hole with a soul.
Time to look like Sisyphus, like a rag doll,
time to recognize the grace of vultures.
Don’t you see? The clock is ticking.
Time for a new eulogy of passion,
a province of masks. Time to stop
hiding in a boat full of puzzles.
Time to throw logic out the door
like a playful tabby, to drop
a bag of worms on the Hubble telescope.
Time to romp on a glacier among geniuses.
It’s time, it’s time, it’s fucking time!
Time to find the place where clouds
are born, to catch more dark clouds,
to jump across the Mississippi River
while wearing long johns and a gas mask.
Time to check out a river at its source
for body bags full of interesting
cake mannequins and blue condoms.
Time to wake up, to measure
the silence surrounding every fisherman,
to abolish the tyranny of grass.
Time to smell the erased city,
time to embrace women in ice,
time to move from place to place
chipping away at the majestic rain.