Does It Say Itself

What is that central pole does it hold up a voice like a brazen spine? And the many rooms all of them built to be seen with no modesty nor privacy. Rooms where the talking clacks never pausing, never harkening. There are mouths in the air free-floating. This artless architecture, does it say itself as a poem does? Or does it clatter and broadcast its presence turning, revolving as a display will. There are holes in this unstructured edifice, holes where mice go to eat their own bones. Look! It is a brain, it is calcified a rabid ego haunts it. Can it be covered up, subdued, made to speak only when spoken to? Or is it a robotic manikin that will drive your being while you sleepwalk through its hollow domain?