waiting for the bell to ring

my tongue is tied down--
like a dog on a leash.
the verbs and the nouns,
you call a disease.
like polaroid portaits out in the sun,
they faded to sweaters
that spiraled undone--

sit in your desk, like idols of glass--
forget yourself-- forget the difference
between mirrors and magazines,
and don't you stare out the window--
ignore the sensuous song
of the scintillating sun,
the wilting breeze,
the gossamer grass...
let the dull deafen you to the lonely bird who beckons,
"poo-tee-weet?"

hide your disdain
in slanted smiles.
cover your scorn
in a chorus of cankerous yawns.
of course you'd be insane,
to differ from the vile--
call you "reborn",
in a cage of hollowed-out pawns.

spite?
no--
rebellion?
no--
there's just something I've been wanting to sing:

while you were lecturing,
we forgot who it is we are.

...when is the bell gonna ring?

jigsaw

life is a fucked up jigsaw,
I'm just reaching for some scissors--
it's easier to cut it to tessellating bits
than force it together;
so I burn my reservations
down to stems and seeds,
and I leave the lucidity
in the grass and the reeds--

latchkey kids shoot joy in their veins,
purging the noise and the novacaine stains.
the heatseeking junkie preys on shivers,
with heroine bows and chemical quivers.

find Grief in man, the shaking walls--
release him in treble and bass--
not wasted angst on bathroom stalls,
or fixes filling the space.

sanity needs escape,
but escape is insanity--
find Balance on videotape,
even in stale humanities...

if life is a scattered jigsaw,
it's okay to use scissors sometimes.

teeth like piano keys

with teeth like piano keys,

bought her soul at a cornerstore.

in a hole of concrete and routine,

she paints on a grin,

like poison come to supper,

like a convent cat,

like a crack in the pavement,

like a crooked high hat,

like a worn out washboard,

like a twisted cassete,

like diamonds in the dirt,

like an empty pack of cigarettes.

a heart that drains

at the rate of a battery.

with teeth like piano keys,

she rains down a melody,

all up and over me,

resonates everything.

a self-written eulogy,

she tried to forget--

but held it up in effigy and

polyethelyne regret,

like a homesick angel,

like a bubble of air,

like an unsure sine wave,

like your unheard prayers,

like a lonely balloon,

like a cold satellite,

like a sigh from a cherub,

like the poems you write.

an energy that dies

at the rate of autonomy.

with eyes like LEDs,

she transplants her soul

to a prozac bottle,

half empty, half full.

old souls

in billows of smoke

I waited--

in pools of fears

I drank--

she took a sip

and she took a drag

and I took a glance

and I tore myself away

she's an Old Soul

and I'm a heart in a cage

mixed signals and alien rage

she's an Old Soul

and I'm a blank nametag

tangled feet and sleeping bags

fires burn, I fall apart

I wished--

friends leave, trickle out

insist--

her mouth spun tautology

but I hung on every word

stale guitar strings

woke up every bird

she's an Old Soul

I'm another dart in the board

she plays with hearts, tugs the cords

she's an Old Soul

and I'm a fucking fool

legs dangling in dirty pools

I took a breath

I held all night

I took the hint

and swallowed hope--

she's an Old Soul,

and I'm a bed of coals,

lit in vain.

it's better than nothing.

wishcoin

in hot summer air
that sticks to you like bad dreams,
I threw a coin in
the sad ashen mouth of the wishing well

but I wasn't making a wish,
I was letting it go--
sometimes you have to throw out ideals
like moldy old candy

in cold, callow hands,
the Wishcoin can burn,
heated by every disparity
between life and love, castles and condos

so I -- dropped
the Wishcoin and I waited
for a settling splash
that would never sound.

So I trade singing lullabies
for the spite of spitting diatribes;
Saccharine daydreams
for the sleep of sullen routine.

So I went home,
and I put on a suit,
and I grew a few feet,
and I gave up.


They call me a grownup now.