Writer Between Worlds

The age of sweat is over. 
The age of skid marks is here. 

Deep trenches crisscrossing the country. 
Every which way, everyone's rushing - 

each one of us thinking that we

     can squeeze more life into that cracked 
hourglass: 
     61 seconds to the minute (going on 62), 

     can pedal faster than the rest and come 
around again 
      to whip our laggard selves into shape 

      can tweak and tune the mechanics of mating, 
narrow the gap between 
      fasting and feasting, peaking and puking...  

Thick muscle pulsing around the country. 
Every which way, every one of us spinning - 

     hurrying, dashing, whizzing, furiously
improving and delivering ourselves each second into 
      the patient hands of death.