Cut out my tongue and silence my voice box,
I was never one to bleed through the organ,
But these windpipes have mastered every note
Of sympathetic disposition that words can
No longer keep trapped behind the ivory keys
Of my lying teeth that tell my eye lashes to listen
To the rage that my ears are whistling in puffs
Of grey smoke that covers my nostrils from breathing
The intoxicating temptations of echoed harmonies
That slip through the slits in my Adam’s apple
And would pull me through and into the strings
Of a puppet master that would make me dance
To a tune of organized clichés drenched in pity
And waltz alone with my doubts and regrets,
Until my slouching sways of rhythmic failures
Can foxtrot on their own forward momentum,
Letting the organ play out its thundering depression,
And allowing the keys to lift themselves into
High-rung stanzas of quick jazz and swing,
With my feet kicking and my arms flailing
To the punctuation of when I bled fast notes
Of a refreshing nectar made of smiles and laughs,
Instead of the ominous tones of a bleeding organ
That yawns and sucks life from me lungs.
There’s a slight difference between an organ
Of whaling cries that echo in any given hall,
And a piano of sizzling soda-pop giggles
Playing in the bouncing hall floor of Friday nights;
One is where I am, the other is where I shall be.