autopsy of an artist

my body’s on the ground
face half buried in dirt
jaw hangin loose
breath snaggin in my throat
my shoulder’s twisted back wrong
shirt stuck to my spine with sweat
blood on my cheek
where gravel kissed me
fingers twitch once
like they’re reachin for a pen
reflex or memory
it’s hard to tell

my soul squats beside me
and sighs in annoyance
that we’re here again
its voice cuts thru the quiet
“you’re wastin what’s left of yourself”
it presses a hand to my ribs
feels the rise of a melody
the tremor of rhythm
then digs in deeper

it turns me over slow
checkin what’s still holdin together
skin splits under its grip
tearin in uneven lines
ink leaks from the wounds
mixes with blood
words crawl from my mouth
slip from behind my teeth
drip down my neck
and pool in the dirt

my soul works quiet
rummagin thru my busted frame
pulls a sentence from my throat
a broken note from a cut in my wrist
a smear of color from under my nails
lays them out neat in the dust
one by one
decidin what’s worth keepin

it holds each one up to the light
occasionally mumblin
“this one’s still got a pulse”
and tucks it away
the rest…
it drops back down beside me
into the mud and meat
where they belong

when it’s done
it wipes its hands on my shirt
shakes its head
like it expected more from me
and whispers
“I wish you’d stop makin me bury you”

I can’t answer
jaw too heavy
lungs too slow
everythin too broken

it exhales
drops back to its knees
hands diggin beside me
no hurry
just work

the ground shiftin easy
b/c it knows the shape of me by now
and I just lay there
dissolvin slow

still leakin poetry into the dirt