My words are neither in the past

or in the moment of just now

Not distant recollections or

the contemporary holy cow

Genius premonitions are

not my stock and trade

The words that leave my mouth

find your ears another day

Janet wrote that tenses were

like chalk writing on water,

 every year that passes by

I see things more just like her.

Born alone and die alone

and muddle through the middle,

Memories dreams and nostradamas

painting murals in our heads

Remembered favours, lies

and exactly what he said

We fill our lives with verbs and nouns 

words valued and deemed worthless

In the end its the bloody heart that goes

and stops this flow of verbiage.