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.