How I Measure Time

i measure time with distant, winter memories
of freezing places and icy roads
and quiet nights alone in the snow.  

i measure time with the houses i’ve lived in
and the color of the carpets
in all the rooms i have slept.

i measure time by the friendships
that have passed
and the jackets that i’ve worn
and the songs i’ve stopped listening to 
and the drawers in the desk
that fill up so slowly
with unimportant things
that i can’t quite throw away.

i measure time through the faces i know
but haven’t seen in years  
or the calcium deposits on the drain
or the things that use to make me cry
but now barely draw a tear.

i measure time with no consistency at all
without uniformity or precision
or any form of structure
or a strict, reliable system.

i measure time by the days without rain
and the rust on my guitar strings
and the missing hairs on my head.

i measure time with seasons and holidays and
violent storms and national disasters.
and with every day that passes, 
and every year that sinks or floats,

i increasingly place value on the smallest
units of measurement,
the dog in my lap,
the salt on the table,   
the drink in my glass,
and do my best to love the process of keeping
my eye on the world, 

while i still can.  

there it goes

the dishwasher needs to be loaded.
the oil needs to be changed.
the floor needs to be mopped.
the clothes need to be washed.
the dog needs to go out.
your teeth need to be cleaned.
the fridge needs to be fixed.
the mail needs to be sorted.
the mail needs to be tossed.
the weeds need to be pulled.
the bills need to be lost.
the eyes need to be dried.
the legs need to be moved.
the arms need to be raised.
the muscles need to be worked.
the people need to be contacted.
the job needs to be done.
the clock needs to be smashed.
the screen needs to be smashed.
the phone needs to be smashed.
the rules need to be broken.
the laws need to be bent.
the bottle needs to be opened.
the day needs to be
spent.

A Posted Sign on Every Inch

How terrible the price has been for
relentless expansion.
Fields don't have rules until someone builds
a fence around them.
It used to be that the best roads didn't have gates
and the horizon could stretch uninterrupted
for a lifetime.
Now fences serve one of three purposes:
Keep some of us out,
keep the rest of us in,
or prevent the chosen few
from taking
every
last
bit
for themselves.

I am both thankful and saddened to be among
the last generation of human beings on Earth
that still have a little Earth
left to discover.
 

how to be an artist

first, get a #2 pencil and a piece of paper.
draw a vertical line, straight down the
middle of the paper.
now fold the paper on the line.
now draw a large circle
in the middle of the paper.
fill in the circle with the pencil.
now wad up the paper and break the pencil
and curse your loss of creativity.
now dramatically stare out the window
and think about past lovers.
now avoid going to the dentist.
now spend all of your money on
stuffed animals, substance abuse and tools.
now scoff at a guy in a Ferrari.
now save all your bottle caps for a year and
then forget why you were doing that.
now clean out the front part of the fridge,
but leave the things in the back,
now shove a bunch of shit under the bed.

now buy another “journal”,
fill up the first two pages
and then put it on a shelf for 20 years
so you will never be able to throw it away
because you filled out those two precious pages.

wear clothes that are simultaneously
too young for your age and too old for your age.
and keep a dusty guitar somewhere.
now shout really loud in your car or in
the shower, just to make the voices stop.
then learn to weld, get your certification,
and then never weld anything, ever.
now find that wadded up piece of paper in the trash,
pull it out and hold it up to the light
and reminisce about
how creative and productive

you used to be.