Mechanics. Mechanize. Mechanism. Mechatronics. I am. My finger. I am my finger. To myself. For them, I cannot be. A lean, crumpled, hair-laden skin, nail-headed, generating motion at will. But I, my finger, isn’t what it ever seems. I am the millions and the millionth cell, and above, the bodybone mechanism—the system of mutually adapted parts, bound, veiled under the fragile pink.
I am a mechanism. Running on the knowledge of blood of which they deny the knowhow. So they shiver and shake when the fuel oozes out, and gape, and wipe, as if someone has put the blood from the outside, as if it should be anywhere but there. Like the flesh isn’t there. The blood, the city’s underground drainage. It’s so vital that it’s scary. As they clean me and hide me– something of me, as vital. The underbelly draped, trapped to show there isn’t any or, maybe, not to show there is, and yet draped, because it is. The drape cannot deny its existence. Absence feeds on presence. Gets fattened.
Like I am: present with my finger’s mechanism. Withering with Marx.
I am my greatness. My unprovable greatness. As great as it may be. The ocean’s oceanic mountain. No one has to climb it to prove it, toil to freeze the sweat. It is simply floating at the summit of the sea-level. On a glorious morning, sunlit, fluttering the moist hairs inside the seawind of the blue blue vastness. It’s me under. Me. I have no ascent.
Yet, could he ever descend so easily, drilling the deep, prove his footprints on the barren, desolate toes of the mountain’s unfathomable base, where I sink, stone-laden, never to float up again. My historic feat! Diving below myself. Through textures of a low-life, hollow crevices—fumbling along sleazy, run-down bars, salivating over left over dignity like dog brothers stalking greasy dustbins—into the sandvalleys of a billion nothingness as I de-scale the bottom to reach the peak never to return, to tell the flat world swaying in ignorant harmony of the mad waves.
Like a second, split, but a second nonetheless, squeezed between the transition clock of a pair of empty and loaded cluster seconds. Seconds, time-full and drank, and filled again to be drunk again.
I am the uneven, the protruding edge of a finite second, broken, tiny, clinging to the ground on the barely-there and unacknowledged bridge between two body-seconds. An anomaly in useless physics, the extra quarter of a full-bodied second, however, wherever, yet present.
It is, I am, the hollow silence, the pause between two gulps of water being drunk, the intermittent breath where no drop is consumed. Yet it is this presence that makes the drink enjoy itself.
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