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Poem
an old clock composed of several larger and smaller gearwheels 
hung on the wall; some teeth are worn or missing therefore 
the gears occlude poorly 
they skid and roll unbalanced   

no matter how long and how hard the clock chews ‘chronos/time’  
with its mismatched jaws, its stomach upset with ‘chronos/time’ indigestion 
keeps bothering him 

even so, you must eat to survive, thus time occasionally goes out, 
lying on the cane that became shorter by time and tide
and stretches his arm with open palm to ask alms from passersby; 
he looks worn and tired but what else can he do, it’s the karma of 
an isochronal pendulum alone to carry on dangling 

when time is shoved in to the point of twenty-four it steps on 
the delicate line between today and tomorrow, time must return 
to home and tighten an uncoiled spring, which just barely pushes 
time forward; then, time has to pull the lever to ring the bell relying 
on a worn screw that won’t tighten any more from years of abuse  
    
no matter whether the bell is ringing or not the man bruised from 
all day long’s abuse and punishment, has no interest in the ring of 
the bell but colors a picture with the colors of his choice pillowing 
the pillow named uncertain tomorrow; the man seems so pathetic 
the clock turns its face to avoid the miserable sight 
and each time the clock turns its face 
it gains a wrinkle that is deeper then the skin   

it doesn’t matter whether the scene is pathetic or happy,
the matter is that i can count the time hanging on the wall,
and that i am still hanging on the wall 

the wall though is partially fallen
it’s glad i am still hanging on it observing human lives 
counting their times; the clock, with bit of embarrassment 
caused from boasting, stays up tick-tacking all night through
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