Clutching

Your clutch is broken.
Slipping as I rev the engine;

Generating noise, with heat,
Screaming angry grinding gears,
Worn out parts of former finely-tuned
Precision-tooled machinery;

Cacophony!

As ancient brasses blared and frenzied whoops
Clashed staggering across a register
In a tortured loop, forgetting the idea –
The purpose – once was traction.

Maybe we should stop.
And even try reverse?

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Time has stopped

No planning, no research, no thoughts
Of future time,
Only echoes of the past:
Ripples, eddies in the pool;

And the only thing that is remembered
Was the need for it to stop,
And some rocks below the surface,
Shielded, hidden, from the flow.

But motion and action have not ceased
Acting separately from consciousness:
Not only does the tree fall in the forest,
Cross-currents everywhere surge

And spring, agitate and swing and veer,
Cross-cuts drive across the grain,
Wanderers fight against position,
All against (over, under) all;

And random losses suffered here
Accumulate elsewhere without design,
Reaching up and unto powers
With no responsibility.