A Crack in the Block

With cables connected to a tried and trusted form, 
I turn the key 
and get nothing but sputtering expletives.

Fearing dry rot, 
I rotate the rhythm, 
adjust the jumpers and try again... 
            silence.

Yawning, 
my muse points at the paint box--
continuing to prefer ink and gouache 
over the poetry super highway.*

*A nod to Rick Lupert.


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