Tempest Fugit

Because time is a storm. That flies. AKA: "Hey, time, stop fucking with me."

This is a shorter post because y'know, the fucking holidays. That annoying span of time that really throws my whole routine off.

I’m starting to suspect that they happen every year around this time. It’s just a theory. I’ll keep you posted.

So in the spirit of said holidays (not because of any extra sense of goodwill or cheer, but because of how much they fuck everything up) I present to you an old poem.

I feel this one is apropos because “How in the actual fuck is it Friday again and how in the fuck is 2024 almost over??”

The little frosting of irony on top of it all is that I somehow wrote this poem about time passing too fast…20 fucking years ago.

I’m not sure how this is possible but even my questionable math skills can confirm that it’s true.

I haven’t read it in a long time, and it’s interesting to read it now and see how much my writing voice has changed. I appreciate it (and, um, humble brag, it got an honorable mention in the writer’s digest annual poetry contest) but it doesn’t sound like me anymore.

But how could it? It was written by a child.

Specifically this child:

It’s in black and white because this was before they invented color. (That’s a joke, zoomers.)

A very jaded and world weary 24 year old child, but a child nonetheless. I’m feeling very protective of her in this moment. Fair thee well, angry little baby-dyke. Sweet dreams.

2025. I never thought I’d live to see it.

Tempest Fugit 


Fall fell too fast 
	for August to catch
	and it shattered into golden shards of sun
							on the blue horizon.
		
	When those shards froze over
	into deep October
	 your pulse froze a river
	trickling with slow hibernation.
	
	when you awaken from your cold contemplation 
	Roused by the sounds of spring’s jubilation
	you’ll try to sing antiphony
							to that melody 
	
	as Chronos begins his acceleration 
	into summers blistering oxidation.
	the temptation
	brought by this temporal tempest
					will be to rush:
	as if you could outrun your own eventual dust
	as if you could turn your head fast enough to see your face
	But, whether in mellifluous melody
					or in cold cacophony
	another year will play itself out 
						no matter if you linger or race.