D. B. DEVILLIERS

Poetry

Tag: time

The Time Is Now One Quarter To Six In The Morning, Winding Down On The Old Decade Aren’t We

when you die how much of me will die
when I die how much of you will die
how did it get to this
how did we get here
the poet uses repetition to stress a point
breathe
just look at the trees
everything is going to be ok
won’t even hear it no one ever does
not in any meaningful way
breathe
look at the trees
it will take no time at all and right now will be a
terribly long time ago
everything is going to be ok
breathe
look at the trees
look at the sky
everything is going to be ok.

Transit/Stasis

Right time wrong place write it why not
it’s only ink paper and time you’re the
only one who has to know if that’s how you want it
but no that’s not in your nature you crave the
attention much as you hate that
you need it as much as you hate the
very notion of a need for attention in
anyone but write it write it out parse it learn something
about yourself this is how you do it you
introverted exhibitionist you’re a
curious piece of work aren’t you
curious enough you hope but enough for what
for money? recognition? to escape death?
to understand? to understand what
to finally understand what the fuck it is you want?
or rather to finally just hurry up and want anything more than
one more drink to want anything
more than mere escape
because you can’t do that no one can and your efforts
will kill you and that’s not escape
because time time time it passes it
runs out that’s what it does it’s
cirrhosis a bad wreck a short rope the end of time
but wasn’t faulkner a drunk too yeah but wasn’t he also a
miserable son of a bitch and if all you had to do to
create great work was suffer and be miserable
would you do it if you could make that choice
but it doesn’t work that way the work comes second and
you suffer anyway and most of us aren’t lucky enough
good enough whatever to create much of anything
so now you’ve got something written down to
remember it by but it’s transient transitory transit
transition into another sentence what’s the word thought phrase page
word thought thought word salad this long forgetting o fallibility
of memory of all things but maybe if you really write it you’ll
know yourself a little better afterwards but out of ink paper and time you’re
running out of one and you need all three to do the thing
or four if you count actually having something to
say but who has that dostoyevsky? kant? probably they did but
who knows after all what the fuck did socrates know about himself anyway
did alexander know himself well enough to know that the
typhus would kill him does god know he’s a kid holding a
magnifying glass to an anthill on a sunny day do you figure
pol pot knew himself or bin laden or the
buildings or the planes or the murdered
millions and all the time ravels
out and you into it and
it into you and the
page too.

Smiling Stellar Shapes Shown in Eyes Like Reflecting Pools Drained Dry (or The Great Nothing)

Time’s passage in perpetuity
struck such staggering
blows
to youth—
all hope, our hope—
all faith in the future

and the seconds slid slowly as centuries when
we shattered;
beliefs beaten, butchered
ideals broken up into
short shimmering shards sharp as
straight razors, slung across
searing stellar streams of screaming smoke and steam,
like shell-shot slivers set to shred souls into strips—
strewn stiffly about, shouting in stark stuttered
shock
all shining under skies stained with stilted
steely starlight of silent
solar spheres, smiling
dead across the
wastes of
time and
space—
dead smiles
dead lips and dead eyes
twisted into hideous smirks of caustic mirth
gazes fixed in the black.

Those staring stars are turned toward us,
we civilized machines of carbon
we who bow before our own brilliance, our antibiotics and our
diesel-electric locomotives and our intercontinental ballistic
missiles;
we who poison ourselves to pass the time,
we the sole manifestation of an empty universe in possession of the
capacity to conceive its utter emptiness,
we who tried to fill it with our follies
we who—we—who’d been so sure, whose salvation was
so certain—
or so we shouted as
we slaughtered ourselves—
so certain, so certain,
but we’d merely mistaken for sparks of cosmic affirmation
that we might have indeed been significant
that dead sneering scorn of dead distant suns
which fell upon our fields of forty thousand felled
before batteries of rifled artillery pieces;
but their bitter grins aren’t real
and there is nothing.
Because the folly of men oft felled folly itself, clear-cut forests of fallacy
in our pursuit of salvation
eternity, infinity
but in the end
it wrought only ruin.

Oh, man’s forlorn delusion-obscured impotence

And the stars all strung up in their sockets
each whose dead fixed stare touches nothing
do not exist
just illusions of our own illustration
and we too are illusory, and our being is
much too fleeting to be—
for the stars and the seas could switch and we might
tumble through the earth toward cerulean skies and
we might fall upon the heavens from below
and then out here, like the rest,
out here where the weed decays,
we might have long been
already but rust
and stardust.

 

This means nothing.

Letter To Myself/Ravings

Years ago
I remember
I wrote myself a letter
to be opened at some distant point in time
one long since passed by;
funny how the future seems to become
the past without ever really
being the present at all
it just barrels along too fast for anyone to keep up
and that’s why I never opened that letter
which I’d fully intended to read on the date
the date I’d arbitrarily chosen for reading that letter
but we’re two different people
my past and present selves
and not two people who’d get along
no, if I could speak to myself in the past
or pose a question to myself in the future
I wouldn’t
I wouldn’t say a fucking thing
because what I’d say to me at seventeen
if I could think of anything to say
would fall on deaf ears that
don’t know that
they can’t hear
and anything I could ask the future
couldn’t be answered—
not in any way I’d understand.

Maybe this is what people talk about
when they talk about living in
the moment
and taking it day by day
and those sorts of cliches
but I always figured it’d bring about some zen-like calm
serenity state of self-secure sangfroid.
No, another concern just slides up to take its place
like hydra heads springing from severed stumps.

There’s no winning since
all the players die first
the game beats itself
when no one’s left alive to play
and then it ceases to exist
for a game is no more than the people who play it.
I guess that’s why life itself is one game I don’t play
to win.
It’s rigged every which way
and it always wins
I don’t.
I guess the reason I play at all is that I’ve always done it
I can’t remember any different
and I often think about how I can jump to my feet, overturn
the table
draw down on the dealer
contact range, base of skull
crack
turn, level the pistol
toward the door, crack
crack crack round the deadbolt
bring my boot-heel to bear upon the mechanism and
run off into the night
but where would I go?
and what would I do?
I’ve got a sinking feeling that there’s
nothing past that door except nothing
so I’ll keep quiet and I’ll keep playing
keep losing, keep losing, keep the piece in its holster
dealers dealing, doors barring
medullae and lock cylinders intact.
I have a vague, sinking sense that there’s
nothing, nothing better out there.

Besides, the room is warm
the company’s not bad
the drinks are cold
and I’m losing with
utterly impeccable style
which in my experience is
much more memorable than merely
winning.

I haven’t read the letter, don’t intend to.
I’m too busy keeping busy
for
that.

Time

Everything changes
changes so much and
it all changes so quickly
that it’s really amazing how it’s
amazing how there’s no change
there’s no break only the constant
constant changing of things
constant cyclical changing
ceaseless cycling changes and it’s
it’s like the only thing that
never changes is the way the
way it’s all the same it never
changes always the same
it never changes
nothing changes
ever changes
it never changes
nothing ever really
nothing really
nothing ever it
never fucking
changes.

What Time Cannot Heal

It has been long said
that time heals all things
but in my experience,
that isn’t entirely true—
you see, time does heal most things
but some wounds are stubborn
and it takes a while, but even time
sometimes loses patience
and when that happens, it’s over
for what time cannot heal,
it kills.

Electric Can Opener/Spending Time Saving Time

I have an electric can
opener
and it opens cans quickly,
saving some seconds
per can opened—
seconds I would’ve lost
had I opened the can
with a manual
can opener.

I travel by airliner
whenever possible because
five hundred and twenty-five
miles per hour is faster
than walking
but when I can’t fly,
I take interstate
highways because
they’re more efficient than
small roads,
so I save time.

I wait for convenient
spots in
parking lots
to become available,
so I spend less time
walking to and from my car,
and I have more time to spend
waiting for convenient parking
spots to open up.

I wait for the elevator
instead of taking the stairs
so that way I can spend
the time I would’ve
spent taking the stairs
waiting for the elevator
so that way I can save the time
I would’ve spent taking
the stairs.

I don’t know what
I’ll do with all of
this time I’m saving,
but hopefully I won’t have
to spend too much time
doing it.