two months away from 38

today i sit & listen to grains of hail

click against glass panes

like multiple clocks ticking

like fingerbones

i remember being in my 20's

staring out dark windows for hours

gazing into the guts of the future

instead of basting my shape

in the gravy of the NOW

now the hail comes down faster, harder

like Time's stern pointer

tapping the blackboard of life

where an outline of a body is traced

with the dust of chalk

monotony of blood

supposedly

every time

the heart strikes

it has enough pressure

to squirt blood

30 feet

how sad it is

the body oppressing

this fist-shaped

pump's

full

potential

instead

w/every beat

the blood circles

the same loop

over & over

like a red

broken record

x-ray

my brain

is an

uncleaned

latrine

& my heart

a wad

of old bloody

band-aids