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This poem is a personal one, based on several idiosyncratic details about my current life. The German is translated roughly as You are a Pigdog, which is a terrible insult, essentially words I hear or say to myself when I'm in a self-hating mood. The "dangle of pots and knives" and "beams rigged" refers to a booby-trap at my door, made with two heavy beams to which are attached a device made of a pot and several heavy metal knives, meant to clang and clatter if anyone tries to get into my apartment without permission. That's the fear part, the loneliness part is last, when despite the people passing in the halls to bring their garbage to othe chute on my 12th floor, no one stops to visit...And the last lines are indicative of this in their open but sadly unanswered invitation to ANYONE to come in. Title started as a play on words, but may be changed as it is too obcscure. Hope somebody likes it!
German of the Headboard
Woke with a migraine,
throat in my throat, thinking
in German, self-hating, my only:
Du bist ein Schweinhund!
The lubdub of pain, too much light-giving
life unwanted again and again.
Morning slashes its name across my eyes.
A door opens down the hall, the rumble
of footsteps to the chute where the garbage falls
twelve stories to earth.
No one stops.
Dangle of pots and knives goes off,
beams rigged at my door against strange enterings,
the gunshot of trespass.
I startle, heart-pound lacerating darkness,
starburst, shards, coruscations:
Is someone there?!
Silence inserts its scarring blade.
No one, no one, is listening anywhere
my meager thoughts left standing, charred knobs
of trees, stubby teeth along a past wall
Who�s there? My door is open.
Will you not come in?