one trick

[Lightbaron]

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 man's hand              
               
making an old horse              
march on              
in misery