one trick

used to hang my hat          
on what I thought          
were good stories          
now, far from sober          
but not that particular sick          
I see a singular          
well-worn tale         
        
      a different city          
      another bad-write woman          
      me, asleep again on the floor          
          
all floors everywhere reach the same height          
          
still          
I am leading that same pony          
with lame knees          
through towns where my credit's no good          
          
too broke          
to buy even the shadow of a dazzle          
          
too weak          
to shoot that poor horse          
                           
I first learned the retroactive lesson            
when I heard my paintings cry          
laid to rest too long    
dying          
but I loved them well enough          
to slam a four pound sledge      
through canvas      
sheetrock and security deposit  
 
art is big enough          
to remove walls          
      
but life is not    
       
it's too small          
with its molehill desires        
making mountains of habit            
     
just steep enough          
to strip a gun from a mans hand          
          
making an old horse          
march on          
in misery