untitled III

“High school is where

poetry goes to die.”

—Billy Collins



she’s stuck in a chair

in a roomful of chairs

fighting the urge

to cover her ears

sorry, she says

i don’t mean to stare

she peers through her hair

she counts down the years


does she see

herself at all

like i see her

in me?

i know that look and i know those eyes

i wear them constantly

we are the ones

who don’t see the point

but still keep our lyrics in mind

and we are the ones

stuck in small talk

in a world full of small talk

and can’t tell a story

unless it rhymes

we are the ones

 who want to feel troubled


some of the time 


and we wish for the rain

the old-fashioned kind

from those songs that appeal

to shallower minds

those songs that are now

bad taste in a writer

but we don’t care

about class or cliché

it doesn’t matter

in lines of desire

they’re wetter than water

and hotter than fire


 there is no difference

between poet and liar


but does she see

herself in me

like i see myself in her?

i bet she understands the struggle

of fitting your soul into words

in a world full of words

‘cause whatever they’re saying

just rolls through our ears

funny, i say

i’m sure they’re aware

we peer through our hair

we count down the years

Taos, NM

The End

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