The Tuning Fork (a poem)

Thursday, March 20, 2025

Workflows,
frameworks,
the frequency—
a pressure gradient, a tuning fork,
a hum beneath the skin.

Bio-mechanical turnstiles,
tendons winding like cables,
ligaments taut like piano wire,
the ligature—tethered, kerned,
push and pull,
a crank spun forward,
a ratchet locking place.

Turn over—
ignition, compression,
pistons firing,
the body as a combustion cycle,
pressure differentials, valve release,
expansion, contraction,
throttle, intake, exhaust.

The pump, the force,
a mesh, a muscle memory,
bone as scaffolding,
a framework—calcium lattice,
a skeleton wound tight,
torqued and tuned.

Skin and port,
pressure chambers,
vessels at the brink,
pulsing, pushing, priming,
a circulatory turbine,
red spirals, white currents,
fuel lines, charged conduits,
the bio-intranet running hot.

Tongue and cheek,
wind in the pipes,
gears shifting,
pitch rising,
the body an instrument,
resonance chambers,
lungs expanding,
a brass machine breathing.

Signals, rhythm, spark and pulse,
veins as circuitry, marrow as factory floor,
red cells hauling oxygen cargo,
white cells as gatekeepers,
the network tuning itself,
calibrating, correcting, compensating.

The lid and the lens,
intake, conversion,
calculation, recalculation,
assimilation, elimination,
gears grinding, teeth biting,
ratchets clicking,
a clockwork mechanism—
but is it on time?

Revolutions, torque, force,
the flywheel spins,
power courses through,
systems online, systems aligned—
but misfire once,
one skipped beat,
one missed sync,
and the whole machine locks.

Frameworks—
irresponsible.
This chain, disconnected,
rogue mission—

We’re bleeding out…
the ballast slipping,
pressures dropping,
check fluids—

Tacked out.
Cycles per second.
Heads not screwed on straight.

Running on empty.
Going nowhere.
So damn fast.