"will all be forgiven?"

"will all be forgiven?"

clicking like a ballpoint pen
in its socket

my brain makes too much noise
for me
to sleep.
even with the radio
(i should sell it)
on repeat.

swaying to rythms,
i hope today
works out better
than this
2:42 circling of gears
--teeth grinding--
nothing quite fits
(she whispers).

will the music
turn itself off
as i write
this poem?

haunting cello
playing burntorange
hangs in the air
longer than the moon.

wearing too much

wearing too much

sitting in sweater
at my desk

i worry
about the hole
in my sleeve

but my sweater's
cherry red--
the color of fall leaves

summer's show
replaced
by fall's mystery

red

red

run through the woods.
grandma's house
is just a smell of flowers
away. but you'll
never arrive because
you're too busy
fucking the wolf.

i think i've seen this sanctuary before

i think i've seen this sanctuary before

your yesterdays are littered with smiles,
but you forget how to pray
to gods that don't answer.
man will be our salvation of trash
and of tears,
and the ivy
that covers everything
will erase all trace of pain.
all memory whispered words
that the wind will carry
over cliffs and home.
enter through the sidedoor
and kneel
with guided superstition.

reminder of no tears past

reminder of no tears past

your birthdate doesn't matter
when you're dead.
neither do raindrops
on thirsty grass
or the sun
peaking through the clouds
as you bury
your head under a comforter.

crickets still chirp,
but you no longer
will hear them.

old photographs

old photographs

sifting through longforgotten images
i see my face coupled
with friends i wish i had forgotten.

the pain of a wound that won't heal III

the pain of a wound that won't heal III

crazies...
and i'm a pill bug
rolling
on a piece of notebook paper
before they
do their experiements.

but you
wonder why i've cried.
my skin tightens
as you stroke my arm.
it's okay
i say
and can't say more.
knowledge
is the vacuum of space
and sucks
the words
out of my lungs.
there is no hope
in intellectual discourse,
only in the rising and falling
of two bodies
tightly clasped.

city park

city park

wandering through hedges and
staring at weatherworn statues
of patrons long dead,
i wonder if skyscrapers
look so forlorn in the rain
as they do in shining sun.

we howl

we howl

cold roof at night
moon in the rain

fall, small woman
and smile,
for you are the sleep of dreams

Fever

It's been a long time since I've done any poetry analysis. But since I've had a headache for days and I can't sleep because I have to work, I decided to bum around online a bit and find a good poem. And lucky me, I did! "Fever 103 degrees" has some real awesome imagery. I'm not exactly sure what the poet was going for though. Initially, I thought, "wow, this is a great poem about a headache," probably because of my own current physical affliction. Now I wonder if this poem is about anger. And why do I think it's so good when I don't understand what it means?

tension headache

tension headache

pain wrapped around my
head like a baseball mit--tight
and inflexible.

old friend

old friend

pirate westerns
and the apocalypse
with cello pulsing
to each (drum)beat
of my skin

sleeping sickness

sleeping sickness

sleeping beauty's lips
stained the color of summer strawberries
as she slept the sleep of death
but at least there was no icicle tear
clinging to the corner of her eye
as she spent years struggling
alone in the turmoil of
stagnancy

morning song

morning song

twittering and cheeping
in the no longer moondark night
interrupting my not yet sleep

there is a beauty to you
singing your morning song
when you only hope for light