productive

A poem about the hazards of promoting intense productivity, which I first wrote as a university student but still find remarkably apt.

Me, many years ago now, struggling to fall asleep away from college on a writing retreat because lack of sleep had become the norm.

stop using that word
i won’t use please

the crunch of a water bottle
after an athlete’s breeze
the crunch of the bones
in her knees

don’t tell me
not to make a scene
about something

when the butt
of a gun passes
lighter than
the tick of a
clock

say uncertainly,
“certainly”,
knowing there’s
not enough
time to keep
our word,
our promise,
but betting on it

the crunch of a piece of paper
after an idea has been
scratched out in the head
the crunch of the pages
of the book in his hands

i think i’ve never enough
time to understand the
tick in my soul

stop
stop it
stop it all

my eyes can only see
what’s right in front of me

stop using that word
we are not machines