The constant or consistent churn of it's measured gears,

And careful path.

It wasn't the idea of an operator I couldn't understand,

With a path so plain before him,

So much weight behind him,

And so little to do.

It wasn't the half kept business hovel,

Occupied by landlords who kept their order,

Of currency and obligation,

Without the aesthetic to purchase dutiful faith,

And a sense of obligation.

But with tittle enough to sit in a filthy wheeled office chair,

And crack a whip,

Without raising a finger. 

It wasn't the cheap jug of drug store wine,

Round and loving,

Cradled by the fetus of my adulthood.

Emptied by the child of the upright bearded forever-untill-never.

It was the past-tense,

Easy and painted up,

Shinning like a new bike.

It was the nonexistent,

Ever present,

Always fading,

Never leaving.

It was the unbrushed hair of childhood,

Made to look intentional by backward eyes.

It was true love in the classroom,

Made to seem undying by the sound,

And texture,

Of a crumpled and miss spelled note.

It was the pocket hole in thrift store pants,

For a dumb girl's hand,

And an anxious boys cock.

It was the lunch bell,

That tore apart the most important conversation,

That had ever been ended.

But really it wasn't anything.

Because it still is.

And it will be.

I still think one day I'll see the future.

Despite my fetish for the past.