[Newspoetry] newspoetry limps back to life

[DL Emerick]

I had my get well card ready to send,
for her funeral from critical care,
I had reserved a block of time;
amazing that time comes in blocks,
as when we block it out of mind,
as time could come in other forms,
and not necessarily in particles,
bullets of the quantum blow guns,
shooting through blow holes in me.

I mean, time could be amorphous,
wispy, like a vapor or a gas,
hot elastic plasma to be sure,
a hiding fog that envelops us,
a mist in which we wander,
every so often finding life,
bumping into it, stumbling on.

I simulate such time,
imbibe spirits of time,
ones merchants sell,
ones distillers make,
farmers grow as grains,
intoxicants alcoholic,
time in a glass bottle,
a bottle without a ship
to sail the seas in it.

My breath polluted,
my reason corrupted,
all in due time, dude,
ready to go down with her,
to newspoetry's watery-eyed death,
holding my teary wake while waiting,
waiting for the wake of her passing,
a ship titanic on time at sea.