By Mike O’Connell

as years bounce by, time becomes compressed gets slammed against the wall of mortality taunting history, demanding revelations concerning unfolded futures
and other intangibles, using unstable
guidelines as personal dogma, usually
coming up short, or not connecting to
the carefully planned, disappearing
lists of stuff to do. we follow
the bouncing ball, hopefully learning
the words to songs, not yet sung.
we assemble on common ground,
searching for friend and enemy alike,
hoping we will be recognized,
or at least noticed. we have differing
philosophies concerning the structure
of the universe, how it all began,
and where we should be standing
when the curtain falls.