Time on My Hands

Forget about the past live in the now the now in which the wise men say we are supposed to live suddenly rises up all around me saying I’m taking a walk in the rain there’s no rain now there’s no rain I call out to the invisible now walking away the now is gone gone naked whatever naked is when we speak of the now leaving me behind checking my pockets wondering if the now has taken anything wait I cry out have you taken my keys wallet money important elements all is here except no now I should at least sit up straight to show my respect for now is limping away in the distance have my words caused some pain now is invisible so what I still see what I see while a burning discomfort occupies my hands like I’m supposed to burn down an invisible building just for the task of placing a for sale sign in memory of now signaling now on the smoke rising all around the church bells announcing time on my hands my hands of time just time on my hands burning time on my hands church bells clanging all around me what a relief not to sit wondering when does now begin that’s why we have church bells saying sit back and let the sound pervade your burning being the gonging bells resonating with a rising flood of gonging even as your hands burn and your brain catches fire wondering just when does now begin let the bells gong ring chime or toll all is forever always ready to subject ourselves to story telling though of course there’s no past even though you might deliberately ask how did you pass the time or could you please pass the salt thereby adding a bit of flavor to the moment only forever now and now forever for everyone though a sudden silence might happen next like a stand-up comedian holding center stage mimicking silence in an endless charade all of us gasping at the silent variety of what happens next though there is no next in what happens forget about the movies we are simply trained for even when I am right next to you there is no next we are two of a kind gonging chiming tolling ringing no next time to write home about though we might remember when we had to call the doctor being subject to storytelling you still don’t have to count your footsteps when you walk to the door your footsteps don’t chime and the door simply opens or maybe it doesn’t open on the chiming of forever all around you can only conclude there is never a now to occupy the empty chair next to the comedian on stage of charading silence