"Killing Time," a Visual Poem on Weird Catastrophe

Imagining what it would be like to actually kill time.

Today I’m presenting another visual poem, a short video narration of what was originally titled “Better Since.”

This work was inspired by my partner, Willy Wilson. Sorry not sorry for the sentimentality.

This video was first shown at the 9th Upham Film Festival. You can check out the other festival submissions and see their archives at uphamfilmfest.com

You can view the previous Weird Catastrophe visual poems here and here.

The aforementioned article about US-sponsored terror is turning into a beast, but it is progressing well and I’m excited to share it as soon as possible.

The text of the poem:

                                                   Better Since

why do you demand
as the best followers throw themselves at you,
trying everything they can 
to graze your garment
and serve you flesh and harvest,
as quickening time catches you unclothed and unwed

the kids you’ve raised for years 
and the many faces you’ve seen come and go, 
you’ve been both taking from and leaving something for them all,
not to remember but to feel,
not to last but to look back

with pictures of lovers from long ago bearing down and permeating dreams 
for wonderful days and hot holy weeks on bended knee,
the bastard time showing up again uninvited and unwelcome

let me hide myself away from the others,
away from the time before you were here,
away from Holland and Logan,
from the cafes and the auditoriums, 
to film cameras and art school,
to our cherished houses and our loss-for-words affair,
to time unrecognized and at our perfect uncommand

so that we may speak ourselves slowly
and invent new situations, 
new troubles for us to get into,
something closer and brighter and on the edges of everything, 
a communion of brain mishaps,
of common work and surprising passions
not hedonist but selfless, 
not enclosed but open and vibrant, 
letting loose shared fights against violent time 
and all of its friends

knowing we couldn’t possibly go on like this,
not with memories unbroken and days slipping out of our grasp,
not without trying something truly reckless and out there for our own sake

as you go into the kitchen
and hold on to the lapels of time 
and stand on your tip-toes, just like we planned, 
and I come up from behind to break its neck,
a crack then a thud on the floor,
not really believing it worked,
that it happened so fast, that it happened so easy,

and we bury time in the backyard next to our old dog Hank,
unmarked and unwound,
wipe the sweat from our brows,

now that we may breathe easy and flourish 
and look into our eyes, 
really remember the colors,

and
something felt,
something thought,
the smell of Spring trees drifting between us,

as you smile
and say

now what?