Unshaven In Thinned Out Black T-shirt and Greasy Jeans

The other day while reluctantly shaving,
after a few downward strokes,
I noticed a spot of blood.

Diverting my attention from surfaces,
was this bead of the interior.

Then I looked over,
in my false foam beard,
at the mesh laundry bag
hanging from the hook.

A week's worth of clothes
shoved in there like the innards
of a torso.

And I must say
I know nothing
of this existence
except the blood
ticking in my wrist,

and my yards of guts smirk
at History,
at Exteriors--

these things
the masses
kill for,
die for.