first poem in a new place

my mouth is full of clay,
warm and wet and smooth and impetuous.
there is so much dirt here,
i am rolling in it, i am roiling in it.
i am lighting all the candles
just to sing myself pretty
to the cracked mirror face.
my skin is dry and peeling up
around the edges, the hangnails,
the papercuts beginning to show
from hard labor or self-psychosis,
who could tell.
my mouth is full of warm clay
that balls up when i speak,
collects in the corners of my lips
and fills in the cracks.
there are plenty of people in this world
with pens and typewriters and pretty words:
i am rolling in the mud,
my words are caked with clay,
my skin peels with grime
and i am seeking words in the muck
that are less pretty,
to speak the ideas i must speak.