monday, april 7

it ain't just feet of clay
you shatter and shake down dust
from all the way up
dust and pieces sharp as glass,
colors of broken bottles
trap shot pigeons, storefront panes
and busted windshields
edges like the beercan sheer
that lacerated my fingers once,
the taste of blood like copper
no like coors light aluminum
and my face in the mirror
as i fumbled for a bandage
mike outside the door
it's just a little cut
my face in the mirror
a stranger through the bloodloss
buzz, to myself at least
in all those mirrors from
nebraska to colorado and
points in between asking
what are you doing?
i didn't know then,
in kansas city bath
grand junction billings
christchurch wichita
westmoreland salina
or maybe i'm a liar
maybe knew too well
but it was always a rhetorical
question and it at least
has never checked the motion
of these brittle feet.