this poem is not original.

Familiar sensations:

dull blue window screen

rounded black keys

coffee wafting

are power enough to penetrate

physical sensors.

Gooey antibodies,

salves in wounds.

The self mirrored in brown eyes.

These are poetic dynamos.

The slink from bed

the work to pay the bill

beauty to thought to arm to hand to fingers to keys to screen

these the breezes to word sails.


To act or not to act,

is the real question.


Tasting the bitter rubber of eraser

hearing the scratch of lead on pulp

kills the tyrant,

punishes the betrayer.

Dare to die, Derrida.