In Time’s dominion, the longest day foreshortened. The darkest night emblazoned with gold, platinum, full spectrum of the sun and moon. In Time’s dominion, the clocks are the kings, the fools, the ones forsaken by trust and everlasting vengeance. No more can the jester hear the falling of the cards. No more the milk maids hear the braying of the calves. Touching intergalactic waterways from Island Park to Outer Mongolia, from Argo Livery to Amalthea. To infinity and beyond, Oberon spills and sinks to the endless bottom of Huron muck. In Time’s dominion, we watched the swans suck seaweed from the rocky riverbed of retribution. In Time’s dominion, we all stood stock still. We stood towards the never-ending mythos of happiness and calm. We all looked longingly into the outer reaches but were pulled back. In Time’s dominion, strange fruit hang low upon the branches of history and we write her song again. It’s never too late at the speed of sound; it’s never too late to pause a moment for new and outrageous weirdness. The crown sits heavy on his head as Time casts a glance back to yesterday’s dark and unforgiving wilderness. Back to the whisper of rolling thunder beyond the cries of rolling hills. The crown sits heavy in Time’s dominion but never falters. In Time’s dark dungeon, we sit and stew and the bitter world rolls on. Christ in the parking lot with flowers in his hair. “I haven’t eaten fish in months,” confessed the poor boy. Christ in the French Toast with syrup as his eyes. “I haven’t turned water into wine; I never ate the body,” the poor boy of Muskegon cried from his dungeon cell. In Time’s dark dungeon, he faced the void; he stared into the void and trembled in fear. In Time’s dark dungeon, we sat up all night, sleepless and wide awake, listening to the bass bomb our hearts and souls. Sleepless and wide awake, we read Oscar Wilde in the pitch-black corners and saw the return of the art of lying. In Time’s dark dungeon, we ate our bread and water. In Time’s dark dungeon, the void found the truth. Five hundred mating hawks blocking out the sun. They’ll either make it stand stock still or else they’ll make it run. Who among you has bathed in Time’s dominion? Who has walked their final steps in Time’s dominion? The bell tower casts long shadows over pubs and boutiques, restaurants and coffee shops. Café on State St. at one AM, we watched the acid crazy schizophrenic run in circles as police tried to subdue and conquer. Who among you has run in circles? Who among you has been conquered? Who among you has walked with sweet daughter Irony through the nightfall of yesteryear. Through the diamond glitter of yesteryear. In Time’s dominion, Lucien Febvre sat under Lorraine beech trees, Lorraine oaks. In Parc de la Pépinière, Febvre sat in Time’s dominion. In Time’s drawing room, we drink our brandy and smoke our cigars. We clip the ends of our cigars and dream. In Time’s drawing room, we played charades and whist. We danced waltzes and foxtrots in Time’s drawing room before settling in to a heavenly game of similes. “As tight as a….” Ah yes, in Time’s drawing room, the Ghost of Columbus Day Present and the Ghost of Columbus Day Yet to Come shared their inner most desires. “As quiet as a…” squawked The Ghost of Columbus Day Past. From Time’s drawing room we adjourned to the sidewalk and admired the daisies, the yarrow, the Sweet William. From Time’s drawing room we adjourned to the diners for coffee and potatoes
About the Author:
Andre F. Peltier (he/him) is a Pushcart Nominee and a Lecturer III at Eastern Michigan University where he teaches literature and writing. He lives in Ypsilanti, MI, with his wife and children. His poetry has recently appeared in various publications like CP Quarterly, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Provenance Journal, Lavender and Lime Review, About Place, Novus Review, Fiery Scribe, and Fahmidan Journal, and most recently in Magpie Literary Journal, Cajun Mutt Press, and Idle Ink. In his free time, he obsesses over soccer and comic books.
This piece is part of Issue Two: CHRONOS. Read more like it here.