lament

You can call me something-
maybe anything,
you know she didn't call me afterall
I'm just here,
on my computer,
or downtown,
or lying in my bed, running away, running free,
and I'm not much to see-
too unused cartoon fists,
and parabola hair,
decked with a Bob Dylan beard.
Not much to see,
and I can't recall the last time
someone told me
the simple truth,
and I can't remember when
my worth--in change and dollars-
was measured in something
that isn't A's, and I can't recall
when a girl said "yes," but I remember their lies.
I'm not straightedged, but
I wish I was,
not tossing money on beers,
and wishing for girls,
and maybe hardlined,
using these cartoon knuckles
on hopheaded punks.