Unbroken Fascination And Internal Echoes
On a regular basis I morph into a stand-up clock,
The grandfather-designed variety that resemble a miniature Big Ben,
Taking on one giant eye with twelve numbers circling around my face,
And my arms and hands there, as well, instead of at my sides.
My internal organs turn into gears, pulleys, and motors,
Each more intricate and tinier than the one in the chain before it,
With arteries, veins, and blood replaced by metal wires, bolts, and a light coat of grease,
And that heart, while making me tick, actually creates the sound to second the emotion.
My mind is replaced with mechanical precision and repetition,
Hidden any location you would like to place it behind my face,
Keeping time, quite literally, but for everyone else,
And remaining void of specific thoughts other the din of mechanical kinetic energy.
My body is no longer flesh, but solid, stained wood,
Sturdy as it was before, but more plainly squared, even if with ornate decoration,
Standing bolt upright like a British guard wearing a tall wool cap,
And ever at attention to keep things in motion and on beat.
The clock hands’ continuous motions are my eyes flitting around the room.
The internal gears, springs, and pulleys moving in consistent chain reaction are my ceaseless thoughts.
The pendulum behind the cabinet door is my heartbeat, translated to the pulse of my thoughts,
And the solid, sturdy casing of my parts and pieces is my external calm, betrayed by internal echoes bouncing off the walls.
If my outer shell matched the inside guts and assembly I’d be pacing till my shoes’ soles wore off.
If my internal make-up matched my outer demeanor my calm would be honest and Zen-like.
If my bolts, nuts, and wiring - holding it all together inside - matched the mood of their collective engineering they would be coming unhinged,
And if my face matched the action behind this housebound clock tower frame the hands would be spinning till they flew off.
The grease would run so hot it burned up, dry.
The wooden frame would fracture from stress.
The pendulum would begin swinging in arcs not contained by the cabinet’s walls,
And the sheer violence of the entire system’s vibration would shake it all apart.
Yet, behind my eyes - back on the human, flesh and blood front - only stare forward,
As my mind spins, like a disk in perpetual motion given a mission to never stop,
Told that it cannot rest until it expels the words, thought bubbles, and crudely scrawled doodles floating around in reach,
As the stragglers have their license plates’ written down and noted for future searches and attempts to quell this unrest.
And though this may be beneficial for moments when flurries of creation are in session
It prevents any and all peace and relaxation, otherwise, till enough pressure is released,
Through expulsion in chicken-scratched handwriting, amateur doodles, and endless notes to self,
Or typing away, with fingers moving like a madman fleeing an asylum he has just jumped the fence of.
Sleep will come when the montage-like, sped up time lapse is allowed to slow down,
As each passenger is accounted for, put on its proper bus, and routed for his or her particular destination,
Each one to arrive at a different time, as the juggling balls in the air keep within their arcs,
And will be received, or delayed, as the schedules may or may not align with my weekly planner’s dictates.
For now, however, the crisis of a clock on the verge of explosion, or a bus station overfilling,
Has been averted and calm, peace, and quiet may ease back into their seat on the throne of my higher mind,
As my body becomes flesh and blood again, the metaphysical bus station traffic flow becomes just steady enough to show signs of life,
And, finally, sleep or other errands and chores of the day may take precedence over unbroken fascination with my most favored, yet chaotic distraction.