Driving Einstein's Bus
God’s pendulum is that squalid lie you tell yourself driving into non-being. Einstein’s bus picks you up at the womb driving you away from Time’s clock tower. You age with distance, yet you hardly notice till you shatter the mirror. Clocks are not of your choosing. Neither is place. The bus is full at the start. One by one they all get off. They watch the scenery of their pains pass in the little square panes. They gaze intently wondering if it’s happening at all. How would they know? They never chose these disturbing scenes. Where’s the paper work? The affidavits? Their Scantron bubbles are all empty. No one gave them a #2 pencil before birth. They are bereft. Then they see it. The end of the line. Little tan sailboats hurry home. Their brave green and white sails flutter against dark rain filled clouds belching lightning to show a way to the weary. The bus speeds by that woman holding a lantern while her son chops the wood. Bagpipes scream for everything to stop, but no on