Mushroom Memories

Time is not some clickety clock,

It doesn't go hickory-dickory, Doc.

There’s no such thing as months or years,

We made those up from spinning spheres.

What's really, truly going on,

Behind the masks of dusk and dawn,

Is something subtle, something slow,

More like how the mushrooms grow.

Every human being among us

Moves through life like swelling fungus.

My decisions, hers, and yours –

all our actions - spread like spores.

Often nothing much ensues,

But sometimes, man, a mushroom blooms!

A mesmerizing bulbous dome,

Or multicolored, feathered comb.

But once these actions happen, see,

They freeze-dry as a memory.

Recollection’s like a trip,

A mushroom tea you daily sip.

Some of it is poison, right?

Some can keep you up all night.

Some are dull or dusty dry,

But some, dude, make you smiling high!

Them’s the ones to look for, bro!

Them’s the ones you want to grow.

So smash your clicking, clucking clocks!

Dash them on the nearest rocks!

Seconds sicken, minutes harden.

Instead, go tend a mushroom garden.