Ribmeat Of The Family Tree

Covering the low, wailing the high

7-30-05

It's getting too late to think.
The calming of a buzz
is replaced by just a buzz
in my ears reminding me
of sleeping just to awaken.
If I had a dollar
for ever dream minute left
on the table when you're talking
aggravation in circles
I could buy the temptation
to never sleep again.
We need the answers,
not the antedotes.

Your listening expectations are underwhelming
as are your words speaking little
more than catchy chorus refrains
echoing the aura your voice casts
over your own ears.
I patiently wait
like chalk on a board
becoming a forgotten art
in your middle school years,
knowing that when you be quiet
your breasts won't look so hot
when you lose that bra.

Smokedrunk still singing
just underneath you;
I've forgotten our names and
what we just fought about
but I still know every word in this song.
If this pen wrote a little smoother,
I'd jot them all down for you
just so I'd have something to say.
But you're talking forever
like your mouth's on speed replay
to ears that hear words
going in one side,
out the other
and wrapping a mask 'round my face
of your thoughts.
Clearly now all I see is you.

One rotten lifelong weekend judgement
is all it must take
for you to unbury our dead
and parade our unliving,
decorating our time
with skeptic inquisition
and hesitant intrusion.
Love me, just love me just love me
for all that I am
and what little I have
and let me be all you want me to be.
Then we can sleep
and all will be well
'til the next time you open your mouth.