Living in the headlines (slisha about insti-rumours)

you're sinking into the receiver
where her breathing is holding your attention,
telephone wires pulling your ear tight to her lips.
not a word spoken.
dejected thoughts too evident in your voice.
(this is how we keep in touch)

newspapers are keeping us alive.

the ink is the blood, writing lives obvious and misleading.
not a word spoken.
if you hear from me between now and then,
it'll just be the dampened hum of the printing press
mass producing the things we're too panicked to say.
(this is how we keep in touch)

and when the time comes
and the decision must be made,
the words get caught
in your throat where every
other empty sentence you say pushes
them further and further
down.

waiting for a cafe'

Waiting for cafe' can be a chore,
looking at my watch, and waiting by the door.

Anticipating the flavor and smelling the aroma,
I hope the waitress hurries before I go into a coma.

My life saving cup is finally brought while I nap,
and the waitress awakes me by spilling it on my lap.

The moral of the story is for cafe's sans distress;
Don't go to cafe's where you didn't tip the waitress.