Another poem at a quarter to four
With the slow binary dripping through
My clock like the sands of time stored
In the pixilated hourglass gyrating anew
While I wait for beloved Word to load.
A slow bass guitar resonates smoothly
On the radio, pulsing like a heart struck
With arrhythmia, or a metronome free
Of the constraints of tic and tock, lucky
For the liberty to make me twitch in dance.
Pounding words onto yielding keys is not
Music, not anything close, no moreso than
The sound of hail on your roof in a storm hot
With evaporated oceans and confused knots
Of pressure ripping and straining, Herculean.
Obstinately, the fan meant to cool my frame
Drills a low hum into my ear, making sweeter
Music than my provocative keystrokes could tame
If given all the charisma of a soapbox blasphemer
And the capacity to conceive a hollow threat.
It’s easier to write about music at this hour
Than it is to admit the invasion of time still
Marching as if strip-mining greedy power
From my drying reservoir of ohms; the mill
Grinds on, like a prodigal god with abandon.
I fret [look it up; all of it] about the changes to come
Seeing as I’m blind to the onsetting onslaught, I adopt
Tiresias – caution, exercising a wary unumvirate, One
To rule an environment with phases stopped
And holds barred and ciphers locked and status quo on high.
Melody and harmony are beyond me, ignorance
Being abundant concerning music and time, all
The implementation of periodic droning, a trance
Of sonic vibrations which stir behind the physical.
I feel like my days are deflating, bleeding
Minutes as the minutia correspond with focus.
When I sleep I waste away, consciously leading.
When awake, I obsess on my devotion; an opus
The likes of which have never hitherto been seen.
I fret the day, and the night frets me: change ringing.
