White Boy Time Machine Safety Tips.
And all the sentences kind of run into each other.
I understand no one wants to be remembered at the 20 year
high school reunion as the guy who
cut off the tips of his fingers, trying to dissect a fetal pig.
I really wish I could help everyone
who asked for winning lottery numbers or a second chance
at something better than a fully furnished patio.
But no matter how many times I've tried,
the town still burns.
Unlike a wound or fire, time needs
no tending because the flames will come.
Even if it doesn't come from your hands.
"Are we done here?"
the machine asks, while buttoning its pants.
The red metal of its hips cooling.
Near a river, I see my grandfather.
For the first time he is not a photograph.
I want to fall into his hands.
My favorite story begins with, let me remember.
I cannot stop him from disappearing into the wall
of smoke.
I don't know how much ruin I can drag through time.
How much ash can fill a bed before history claims my name.
Let me tell you the problem with history.
Somewhere, somewhere, someone wants you gone.
Don't you think I know the rules.
Fasten your seatbelt. Keep your arms inside.
The white boy's throat, a light jacket for the rain.