The Time Machine
by Richard Tornello
Atoms pulse. Light has velocity. Traffic tickets cost money.
Femtoseconds, a name given to the spaces between
pulses, can be calibrated as needed.
Planetary rotational activity can be measured,
a necessity for living
happen, locally, universally.
And within the human
things can be done, too
a degree of precision.
Time, described, writ and played,
in wishes, dreams, and books,
in videos and on stage,
an ingrained/embedded/clinging/clutching illusion
the deepest order,
the tooth fairy, Santa Claus, and all the gods.
to go forward in time,
would be akin to running faster than a bus,
plot its path, its mass calculated, and expect, within that very bus,
as a god, and would wish it,
to view the new and old passengers on board in their activity,
I suppose could happen?
Likewise, moving to a past-event-space, attempted and undertaken travel
and similarly calibrated,
yet another bus
from another space route, as you entered into the time cone path,
would serve you,
empty, an open manhole of a space place.
A solution to this confusion:
Step outside the universe, faster than its total motion,
As an elevator opens
a bigger bus?
Time machines are brains,
and so ends with the death, and the machine holder’s last breath,
a return to the infinite, timeless, always.
“As the earth spins, the clock ticks, the calendar flips, and
you say no time?
Blaspheming old man,