Hey look the poems don't accomplish anything
You peel away layer after layer of skin, thinking
That's what you're made of, anatomy textbook
Unfurling, bony whittled core, emergent, your
Surprise seems almost hilarious, auto-dissection
Actually hurts the self, a poem is a telephone
With a dead battery, at the bottom of the ocean
No reception (What's the sound of one call not
Ringing), your suffering is the only part about
You that I don't love & I'm calling you on it
©
is a musician and poet from Northern California. His work has appeared in New American Writing, The Iowa Review, Handsome, Abjective, Pank, American Songwriter, and elsewhere. After several years as a touring folksinger, he currently teaches songwriting at McNally Smith College of Music in St. Paul, MN. News, tour dates, and contact information are available at www.brianlaidlaw.com.
We’ve published two more poems by Laidlaw: “Your Brother Was Raised By Ghosts” and “Notes For A Song Called "All It Takes".”
