While I
try to find
some peace
of mind that
could be mine,

the roots of
weeds tangle and
twist inside;

And time
goes by

I've not been myself
lately, I've been some
other archer firing off
blanks at a wide target

What's a poet that
doesn't write?
A thing that jot
down drivel before it
got down off its pedestal

The code shook
loose from the text
—buried in the text—
compressed with
pressure

poetry is a
pressure cooker:
words thrown in a
*** and condensed
into mush —like potatoes
and curry chicken left in
too long—bit into and
the bones too brittle
breaking, aching

a poem aches,
the code aches
within the poem

Again I find
my heart twisting
instead of pumping,

again with that steady
wrenching *****-****,
****-****, ****-****