life is the death
of a thousand little set backs
dripping down the leg
is a bruise put there
by God only knows who
It will slide to my foot
before passing from my body as a dream

Each day I am ground into asphalt
peppered by doubt
salty as rage
basic and visceral
I shake my hateful days
like calendric manacles holding me
to the vestiges of a savage primitivistic pursuit
making stones out of rocks to turn to gravel
day after day after day after
and you get the tone
of the poem.