Time looks at me
for a long, uncomfortable while
turns its head and spits
quasar star-birth, black hole words,
language as a road map through existence.
I say I ain’t got no place to go,
that it hasn’t happened yet,
which is the truth from where I’m looking.
He reads me back my lines,
nothing has ever happened
you aren’t even here, and I am not this.
But, that’s not what I say, I say,
and it’s never been heard.