DIGIT HOUSE

Alone, in a room of my unmaking, I process flux.
Only a private password allows me to access flux.

Since there is never enough time, I make more. A brutal
schedule’s expected if you want to harness excess flux.

One night, it leaked under the bedroom door, stained the carpet
on the splintered floor. There was a not nice smell: abscess flux.

1 0 0 1 0 1 0 0 1
1 1 1 0 1: intumesce and effervesce, flux.

Navajo and Choctaw and Comanche and Meskwaki
and Cherokee code talkers allowed me to possess flux.

Still, information ain’t knowledge and knowledge ain’t wisdom.
But moving, I paddle into eddies and assess flux.

A culture dipped into a medium is rarely stable. Bacteria
breeds. The speed of a sneeze makes it tricky to finesse flux.

Protein runs away but now the hunt’s buffet. I sup and
sip, digits clicked to the bone, chasing the leopardess flux.