The Wrong Side of Time

When you get on the wrong side of time
Clocks don’t matter.
Or is it that they matter too much?
It’s like a cutting loose, 
Dying before your time
But living longer than they thought.

Defining a liminal space, your hand in the air
Skin tightly drawn, 
Your smile a rictus grin.
Saying volumes 
When it was so hard to speak.

My Death: A Play

I provided the stage directions 
For my own execution

Picked out the props, the
Boot-blacked handgun, 

The rolling office chair, 
The cigar-scarred desk.

I can be clichéd if I want, 
This is my death.

I blocked out the movements, 
Never once confused

About what was stage left 
And what was stage right.

The lighting was all my idea, 
Low and to the side: 

German expressionism 
At its finest. 

Selected the perfect soundtrack;
I know the best music.

My arrogance dismays you
But don’t forget

Who will do the falling 
And who will be left

With the remains. 

Potentialities

If my grip
were to slip
the glass could
crash, smash 
and perhaps
cut my foot. 
But to tighten my grip
could crush the glass,
shredding my palm,
and cause blood to drip. 
Slip?
Grip?