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clear for next message
6‑7, the chant without anchor,
a number unmoored, yet sung
like a streetlight flicker in the mind—
an earworm gnawing its own refrain.
10‑67 crackles across the static,
police code for nothing but pause,
a hinge, a breath, a clearing
before the next dispatch of belonging.
Metaphors rot in their repetition—
once vivid, now hollow shells,
decomposed into rhythm, gesture,
the husk of meaning worn smooth by use.
Still, every age builds its passwords:
shibboleths whispered at the gate,
from Scheveningen to hashtags,
from biblical rivers to TikTok scrolls.
We are no different—
our codes are earworms,
our memes are passwords,
our numbers are chants of tribe.
And yet, in the decay,
there is stubborn beauty:
the loop itself, the readiness,
the endless call: Clear for Next Message.
.
