Cuckoos Clucking Ding and Dong

Inexorable and illusory.

time always makes a goose of me.

I don’t believe in it, and yet

I owe its tricks and tocks a debt.

Clocks promulgate a calm –

indeed may lend the only balm

sufficient to allay our fear

that chaos is the ruling queer

egregious motor of Existence.

So I will practice my persistence

in accepting it’s enough that linearity  

and sequence are in parity

with all that might as well be true –

although I never will be able to

escape the arid fact

that Is-ness isn’t backed

by logical fiat. Mindless flow,

schizophrenic stop and go.

cuckoos clucking ding and dong.
Unless I'm wrong. I’m often wrong.

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