A Balanced Pendulum Swings Left Again

There is a beautiful tock that clicks in the left-hand corner of my left ear,

and it speaks poignant ticks like a good grandfather should. It is wise

and inert. It has a face. Why did they choose to call it a grandfather

clock? Why are Arabic numerals the number of choice

in the United States, and will that change in light of the recent Osama,

or will Roman numerals replace the terror of IX/XII?

There is a beautiful empire on the horizon, not quite as beautiful,

perhaps, as the ethnocentric one in which we reluctantly admit

to live within, but a wonderful example of imperialism, nevertheless.

This new empire refuses the Roman numeral on Grandfather clocks,

and it sticks with the numerology of the community

from which it ascended. Within this new Empire, the clocks all read

Chinese characters. (Insert the Chinese character for 9/11 here___.)

There is a beautiful girl down the street that swings some things

that fit within the right-hand side of my libido, and she tilts her voice

up and to the side like the gorgeous epicanthic folds of her eyes.

She is wise for a twenty-year-old. She walks like a gold pendulum,

balanced and rounded, keeping time and distance, and I want to be

her chime at the top of the hour. I want to be 9/12 for her.

I want to be 9/12 for all of US.