I thirst in my search
for words
that came first

in verse and in song
what's been here all along

since Peking (wo)Man
singing in the womb
at Zhoukoudian

when the first moon climbed
above branches frozen in time -

our rhythm and rhyme -
a memory of a memory
of the history

of how a poem came to be.

I spit bars
like a pharmacy,

Got a ***** preachin,
like a homily

Friend that had been
kidnapped and paid
the ransom in a
*** of cash

The Big Guy called
and called but His
angel's on lunch,
not answering

Warming
amen -rarely-
to the things that
live outside of you

Warn to you,
armed I
Warm to you,
worn I

At times I think
to write you some
dumb love verse like:

...to feel you pull me closer
in our sleep, as if you were to
keep me for more than the night...

And in that pause I see that it is
indeed some dumb love rhyme, so I
decide to **** my words swiftly with a
sharp, definitive line

There was no hope
for Dubliner Dedalus:
a shift from naturalism
into the bizarre

Not enough to effuse
or diffuse: a hero
in the firmest sense

Again I find
my heart twisting
instead of pumping,

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

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