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?