there’s a thin layer of
dirt on the top of my thoughts
gray rivulets of memory
drips of things that
haven’t happened yet
bleeding into my actions

i need a pressure washer
for my mind
to blast off the grunge
and road dust

there’s an incredible
crick in my neck
but worse than that
the panic is back

my bones ache
carpel tunnel is settling
in my pinkie finger
every callus i’ve collected
has fallen off my palms
the urge to create
something
anything
making my
skull pound

i wish i could just
pressure wash it off
clean out the corners
force it all away