Under a Winding Blacktop

Slow or fast we think behind a slip stream, a contrail of the gone; of what went by a momentary window long ago. Asleep under a blacktop, street-cars roll over my me-mind, the crunch of old bones crackles like thin ice. I am recalling a time now set in resin. Desiccated bugs bite through, gnaw at half-painted pictures. Lost paths for the somnambulant dead. Elephants gather to revisit graveyards. Alive in a memory, but let’s not call this 'living,' double, treble dipping into the time-worn. Such old imagining's will eventually kill every analog clock with their own internal hammers. What am I writing now? Yesterday and tomorrow sway like old measuring scales. Should I think like a Greek, or a Jew, arise and dance shaking my head back and forth as if awakening to every fleeting pause? This is what I am writing upon the underside of a road... an odyssey of sorts one taken by a horde of lemmings. A talking point indicating how I got here recalling this and that, but then again nothing is now real forever.