Poetry Archives Bio
March 30, 2005
4:42 PM
Clot .45

tired disheveled from the running
from the bed to the computer
where a thousand angry letters
pester me into oblivion

and i get up to the day and
i end up in an office fixing
dusty old machinery that makes
hundred million copies of a

sign that i am bearing and the
night under my eyes and the red
red blood that flows now from
my nose into my cupped hands

i collect it in my mind to
the point i don't remember and
i tear a piece of paper off
and dab the red red embers

on the sink and on the wall and
the life and i am leading and
each worn out bloody morning leaves
a mark that i am leaving

tired disheveled from the running
from the evening getting nearer
i stand still on the cold tiles
and i stare into the mirror