Mandatory Eight

I circled today to stop lying.

I'll need to make another mark

to surrender snide,

pick a date to bury

the fake New York accent,

lay the sharp tongue

and Woody Woodpecker laugh

to rest.

Don't speak when hungry

except to say, "I'm hungry."

Don't speak when lonely

except to say, "I'm lonely,"

"Tired" when tired.

A mute button

would be bionic mutation,

what better machine than

a scale to weigh my words,

a vision of my voice in the world

as perceptive of sour notes

as American Idol judges.

This different drummer,

unsteady in time,

skips from the lightness

of laying down the mask.

As I step through the ropes

for the knock out punch,

my ears perk to the bell

ringing true.