Sleeper Hold Head

There are too many

thoughts and echoes,

sonograms of faces

and hands and lips

bouncing through

my head; my eyelids

pushing black back

against the migraine—

a thousand ripples

of electricity shatter

my skull. I'm afraid

to touch the paper;

I'm afraid to do more

than scribble mindlessly

with shaking hands:

sixty watt hands

that go back and forth

between cubism,

impressionism. I'm

afraid that a drop

of ink will vanquish

all the thoughts so

I suffer through

my headache and

squeeze the ideas in

my thoroughly frustrated

and inconsequential fists

though I still feel

the warmth as brain

matter slips through.