what good is a day
of a couple dozen hours,
when REM or J-O-B
steal sixteen sweetly
discrete time units
from me.
the remaining eight
I attempt to allot,
but ,O no, I forgot
to subtract time
in showers, shaving,
and caffeine consumption,
which provides the gumption
to pursue a new goal.
I’ll unteach myself
time, blowtorch the chains
off this throbbing soul
put there by clocks,
and calender pages,
by the lengths of shadows,
and our various ages.
exposure to now
is the desired end,
and If I can unteach myself
I wanna teach a friend.

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