My Head! My Head

O how I lie! Upon a bookshelf, should I find but bunch of garbled junk?

I check all through, till dusk— for you, to not but bat fowl eyes.

I punish, so punitively, but only repeat what so many before ne’er could defeat!

For what is new? To say, this chair— that wasn’t the same as yesterday’s?! Yet with what I still claim to own,

I sit right down, and change my tune— to my lecturer’s fumbled drone: I know, I nod, I jot

but what for at all alas forgot err lost?

O how isn’t it truth— found in my bookshelf, pressed into pages, loosesown white with such filth—

that I flip right past you to dawn. For me, I just can’t shut my eyes.

So, I push, so powerfully, but only can I concede in knowing I’ll know nothing ‘til I’m freed to dreams.

Of what malicious desire, to say, I’m fed up off feeding to what happened yesterday. Yet, what could I claim to know?

I sit right down, and take to my cue— to stack on to this history: I linger, I lead, I left

but what, is there something just in it for me or for you?

O what a new species of precarious thoughts, we tend to avoid, in all. It’s in closures,

we seek language, till further— for us, don’t dare decry thine—I…

I pause, so briefly, as it’s been a minute, or a century so by— to my panted bleat,

“For what is new to say?” This care— constructed upon the tomorrow— won’t dare be claimed alone.

I sit right down with a feeble entreat, to plead to more, to more than just sounds: i e a o u e

—but something newly fashioned and not repeat.

but yet I end up with won’t near wet my sore feet.

O how I laugh! I strike to preserve, what I found upon the blackened desk.

It’s early for light, if dawn—

for I to be have’n to state a goodbye.

I bear solemn protest to your prankful life I’ve fallen unto; as now but what of him, prey? Tellin’ of what pure sin could do.

The car revs the same, no? If not the same window, when I tie up someone’s tomorrow would it not be the same dawn?

I lie down alone, despite a body right next to me— no, he wasn’t the same as yesterday’s! I like, I claim, I owe

but what, I can’t now call them a friend?

O how my head, my head! decrypts the world, as if one little letter slinks across a stage

to find but only a period of embittered Ends.

O how so many contradictions construct the world, if one little waft would cleanse

to allow us but only a fraction of transcended assuage.

O how tolerated contempt has boiled itself up-front, as if one little drop could ever leave its own pot

to singe but only a part of our world’s skin.

then would new complexity emerge to headline the front page?

O how I lie upon a bookshelf, to awake to but a bunch of garbled junk!

I check all through, till lunch— askew, to still a chunk of intelligible thought.

I publish, so proudly, but only retreat from the idea—again, now not so sweet.

For what is new to say!? This text that sure isn’t the same as it was yesterday’s!?— Yet, what is I still claim to own.

I’ve sat, written down, and changed my tone— to my lecturer’s droned enfeeblings: I risk, I reject, I revisit

but surely, they ask: “Alas, lad…”

“O what is it?! Upon a bookshelf, should it you find, but bunch of garbled junk.

You can check all though till dawn, if likes you, to not but find one but I!

I profess I proceed, nay not so concrete as other’s may’ve before me excreted their deceits,

but for only what is new!” I say they stared as if it was/as if I were a blemish on rules of yesteryear.

I signed right up to bake in their reviews. As the lecturer’s Keebler coos I admire, I accept, I accord—

O how I swiftly shelfed their book talk, so I could find but a new branch of flowering youth.

I whisked it through so brusque— mind you, to not but let it all go.

I rapen, so rushingly, for the buds fallen neat insofar, that I’ve shortened… [tsk, tsk. beat]

For, what is new? To say, with care— full of new admiration for today— is something that no one could ever own:

dare it sits right down, and changes the construed— like a lecturer’s garbled junk. I sleuth, I stew, I spew

but what else to do as I wait at a stop for Truth?

O with the company of wood knots I build a bookshelf;

if you too inclined, would you smoothen

and sand them down? Salted cashews spill— sinew, between fresh fibrous wood.

I synapse—so gaked is a man in the street, cut planks fitted to size, pants missing their pleats,

and for what new issue to splay—the air not quite as pleasant to let in. It spits its dew against my bone.

I’m finished now, and it’s but afternoon— to my luxury, tweedled sounds: I stoop, I breathe, I rest

but what, for now this happens to be my best.

Brayden Biersner

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