grandfather clock (the history of bells)

every five minutes he needs to be reminded that she didn't leave him
the gun is so well hidden someone hopes it goes off
pills are like doors only someone else has the master key to
she can't tell him it's not a prison
they haven't spoken since she bent over to pick something up
it's been physical therapy (since)
every audience member with a wad full of silly putty
every piece of newsprint faded from the photocopier's light
each day the sun became closer to being a Canon
the moments became more like counterfeit currency
every five minutes he needs to be reminded she's in the hospital
the nurse-bell is so well hidden no one knows it's a special event (or commemoration)
he doesn't know the person in gloves administering his medication
she can't tell him (we) hope he dies soon
they haven't spoken in over fiftyfour meals
some bells were invented for war and just burning things down
each day was another layer of sun
one more copy of the copy
no one can tell him what had happened 2 weeks ago
some bells lasted two&ahalf centuries (the audience clapping out into infinity)
we were tourists in a museum
tongues like bells behind glass
ziggurats to-be bell-towers counting the rings in our ears
the clock can be heard over long distances
the origin was a tree we carried from house to house
the roadrunner-clock left in his condo was a 78rpm record
every time it hit twelve
something no one could carry for too long on their mind
every five steps produces five more to climb
down
some bells
were too large
were (built) clamped mouth down (stuck inside a fire alarm)
the gun might as well not even exist
pills were seven more pieces of mail to open
each day he seems to lose himself a little more
(she can't tell him who he was)
a photocopier becoming obsolete
(less need for actual pieces of paper)
they haven't spoken in over fourteen signatures on prescription notes
she couldn't write out a schedule for his pills anymore
the audience keeps showing the stamp on their hand
everyone showed up because no one could bare to watch what they would become
the cannon he was shot out of was lit
(with a flame that was struck) possibly decades ago
and the cloud of smoke it produced lasted many days
many of us forgot how to count the years
he was another man when it came to dying
midnight on a compact-disc going off in a bell tower in the center of our now
how many pills does it take to hit 90(something)
they haven't spoken since sometime in the early thousands like they had in the 50's
and may not speak
ever
again
he needs to be reminded how much he loves us
the war is so well hidden it doesn't even have death
or anywhere to hide itself
we sat upright (or slouched) in a mass grave
washing stones (like blabber)
to build another rock wall
another discovered emotion that knows its own borders
one day we will walk over it all
far from now
in arms and walkers
i die every time before i walk into a room
(every dream out on display behind museum glass (like the next round of pills)
it was like one could actually prepare for being woken up
the rooster was a recording of a bell going off in bumblefuck idon'tknow at hell in the morning
maybe pergatory is alzheimer's
incurable life
"a process of purification or temporary punishment"

the house had too many stories
the sun could never speak over it
the moon jumped to get out of the way of us
his body wanted to last longer than his mind
it was a race
of pills
down his hoarse(dirt-road)throat
to which could hit the bottom (the last house) first
her mind was well equipped to outlast her body
it was a matter of utilitarian choice
"no instinct goes extinct without willing itself too" (somewhere in its cells)(somewhere in its cages)
the row of knees and o(a)rs says from a water cooler on the sideline
the only cheerleaders were angels
(and everyone knew they weren't real)
it was always easier to complain
faking dancing was much harder than actually doing it
do we wish he would have remembered where the gun was (when it was possible) (and mattered)
does years off your life take years to live out (years of living it out)
where does the cuckoo(roadrunner)clock run out
of road
and highway
we sat waiting in the middle of the road for a late and mysterious bus
death only showed up sometimes
most nights it was just simply remembering
most visits i was never there
so how could i really say
where in the road did i sit
when did the cone in my eye become obstacle
where does the last place he remembers seeing her sit in or on his mind
with only three legs
and running
when was the last time he really saw her
when did the wood, the scrap and the nails and welding equipment(really)run out
it must have happened many years ago
she left him every day
every five minutes
it was the gun he could never find
it was the right car to take off out of
this bulk train(now even bulkier) this bogie or locomotive's been running longer than the amount of
stops it's made
where did it start
(what's its coal) (what's his relation-ship to it now)

he knew his pill started somewheres in a bottle
every five minutes was a new ocean
to throw himself out over
he'd known he was going
only sometimes
in the clear moments of seeing himself
the belltower was a campfire
none of us could sit around
but still talked about
and felt burning (us) somewhere in our soaking-wet hearts
somewhere doused in immolation petrol and labor callouses
his mind had lifting blisters
five minutes of work in four hours worth of time
that never existed
the clock is so well hidden it never goes off
the roadrunner never runs over to the next hour
the Sprint still costs us
every memory counted with its licked thumb through the dollars
every door told you how much you were worth
his keys were now windchimes (hung from potted flower hooks)
seeing as though he now never had the right to go out
we could only hope
the wind kept blowing
or maybe that it would stop
which is less cruel
dying aware of one's own life lived
or dying long before you're really gone
and can't remember
no one could count the weeks or the amount of week he'd gotten
or has
every clock in the house fallen over
i couldn't help
but think maybe i've got it wrong
i could've been anything
to him
but this wasn't about me
the origin was a tree with a bird in it we carried from home to home
via email
on a cross
he dies in Times New Roman over a getting home from work cigarette stuffed thanksgiving inna slack jaw
the (obvious) metaphor was the first thing that came to mind
(but happened to work and consume like clockwork)
his pills went off like bells commemorating the dead
and gone
i feel sadness like the yoke of the bell reaching for the mouth
ringing for my father
for it was
his father
he had to house
like a garden
for going blind
in the sun
how many meals are worth eating
if you can't taste them
or if nobody can recognize their origin
what is life worth in this era
on the bottom line which keeps it alive
it was instinct to make a bed out of wallet
it was out of capital we paid for these i's
and i can't say i'd done any different (myself)
after-birth of after-birth we splash around the clock all we can
every ten minutes he'd needed to be reminded of
what he was now living
it was tough for the guns that had to tie him up
for the rough water that they needed to dock him
a concrete ship already half buried in sand
every involved finger left unoccupied
was counting what was ours
and what it divided down into
i can only point upward
i can only build (and bull-y) myself up with the tools left within me
she can't tell him they may not see each other again
and even so he may not even remember being told
or if they did
ever see each other
again
will he remember dying
did he remember dying?
when was the point he forgot where the gun was
when did she stop telling him she couldn't tell him where the gun was
how many pills does it take to hit 90(something)
how many lives does it take to forget living
does each bell remember its last ring
do we
ourselves
actually stand in
each ear
we hold up
to the
next day