These things are idle. We set it all to ticking. We walk, talk, stall, and pause in sync with a restless beat. There's no freedom or knowledge, just movement. To step too small and throw the clock off balance would be an unravelling. String and wires come spiraling out of the walls and cores of batteries. As the tocking comes knocking looking for the tick source gone shopping for a pair of pants and a future, the clock struck a negative second and stopped.

A scritch a scratch,
a sealed over scab
decayed and unmade
with the blood of scrape
With the weight of the bandage
covered in addages
and razorblade eges,
we could never leave

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© 3-14-06 m.m.