i took a hammer
to all the hardest parts
of myself
until there was nothing
but bonesand
filling the skinsack

the incidental
invertebrate

trying to perfect
this imperfection
knowing no matter
how many swings
there will always be
the memory
of rigid truth
in the hand
clutching the hammer

i sit still
against the alley wall
as they spray
graffiti tags
across my impassive
emptiness
the fumes
fill my lungs
until they become
independently
buoyant
floating against
the cracked ribcage
unkept
unkempt
composing
unwritten lines
that never make it
to page

nothing can make
the malleable
human beanbag
anything more
than a collection
of half formed failures
spread across the surface
an oil slick
tainting the entire pool
of artistic endeavors

bagged and tagged
with the rest
of the unwashed poets
begging for scraps