Please Disregard the Last Poem

It is no longer real to any point.
It is a past sentiment I cannot believe.
Painlessly separated from the present.
The past is an archive and the
future is a dream - good or bad -
Either whatever, it isn't now.
I don't feel, I felt.
By the time my nerves finish firing
I am behind myself
by hundreds of synapses.
Even my conscious sense is
a camera whose shutter can only
catch a flash once its trip is over.
Every memory is instantly a fond story
Lore and Legend
told around fires, whittlings, and
Half-vivisected automobiles.
I was, in the past, a member
at life's every adventure
but now I only remember.
The end of the road is where everyone gathers
Changed.
There isn't anything useful in the last poem—
It's all old news.
Perhaps if you watch me write the next one,
and perhaps you shouldn't—
It's dangerous to know too much.
We already experience our own futures;
you might not want to see me observe mine
- your choice -
I won't offer to stop you.
At any rate, please disregard
the Last Poem.