tread

tread May 2011

Time's Essence (seems Diluted and Refuted)

The send and receive signal is blinking,
And the single mind is syncing to the altered pose of the twinkling stars above,
Via the screen and LED beams that stream into the seams of your consciousness.

Your brain is blessed,
Yet lacks the zest of wisdom once residing in your soul;
Outdated like coal, the role of the toll booth is old and invalid,
Like the side-dish of salad,
Replaced by the rancid infection of fast food,
What a bad mood society must be in.
You may die of respiratory inefficiency,
But you've got me to inform your next of kin.

You're not as blind as I would like you to be,
Yet you don't see as clearly as is necessary,
So I'm wary of your willful ignorance, as it's frightening and malignant,
Yet the signals sent don't pay my rent so I vent by waiting on Clark Kent to save the day,
He's on his way, right, Sir Gawain? Right, brave knight? Sir knight? Am I right?

Irrelevant,
So, for the hell of it,
I descend into a hedonistic viewpoint stuck in a pit,
Of what I call economically unsound wit;
Perhaps a writ of notice regarding my upcoming eviction,
They punish those who find pleasure in a lack of plight,
and claim their sanity is out of sight;
Well, ******* too,
I'll stage a coup so you can be you, through and through.

Please, freedom;
I need you to unlock the cages at this human zoo,
Because the free of us are too few,
And the few of us are who?

Speak up.
For the love not of God, but of life, speak up.

tread May 2011

Limbo

I call this one the limbo week,
Where everything lies on the verge, on the peak
of an outbreak of sorts; the end of an era,
Staring out towards the French Riviera,
Still waiting.

tread May 2011

My Words Seem so Stuck, and my Actions Amuck.

How do I give traction to this estranged attraction?
Do I put my thought into action, and gauge her reaction?
Or is looking to date, for me, a risky transaction?
I keep pushing these feelings into blatant abstraction,
And I'm sorry.

I'm bad, at this point, with our interaction,
It lacks a consistency,
Yet withholds sporadic satisfaction,
And I'm not all that sure on how to approach you,
Every time I'm around you, it seems the uneasy stages a coup inside my head,
And proves it don't pay to be well-read, if the words you have learned seem to remain unsaid,
How silly.

tread May 2011

Osama bin Laden is Dead

Osama bin Laden is dead.
That pretty much sums it up right there- the tag-line to the War on Terror we've all been waiting for;
The adherent doctrine dealt out like a decoration to add decor to the death and destruction distributed so freely like health care should be,
But isn't because Fox News and the Tea Party see it differently;
"The only thing that should be free is the freedom to spread freedom against the wishes of the oppressed by utilizing force of arms to instill upon them a will to fight what we see as their evil sheikdoms,"
Stage 1 in a dramatic ensemble of violence all directed at the elimination of human toil in pursuit of the spoils of unjust construction,
A naive assumption based on silly presumptions against Islam in conjunction to the real world.

Osama bin Laden is dead.
A euphorically jubilant crowd applauds outside the steps of the White House,
And I listen with incrementation as the news station sponsors discrimination to add flames to the hate machine,
And I wonder;
Can we not just cut the cake? Clean the slate of the human race just to cut to the chase and reach the release we sought in world peace in the first place?
Probably not, as it is our woes that have brought men from silver to gold, modest to bold, caring to cold, and 'on sale' to 'sold' in this system.

And I can't accept that.

It would be a different case if my sad face brought a poor man back to first base in terms of sustaining the ability to remain within the mile-high club that is the human race,
Or if my woes brought all poverty stricken panic from financial rags, to spiritual riches,
Instead of all this **** where people are paid to dig ditches just so, in turn, they begin to build bridges over said ditches simply to stimulate an abstract mathematical construct a few inches further from rock bottom.

Osama bin Laden is dead.
For the past ten years, what ground did he tread?
Not a lot; at least in comparison to his pursuers who tread streets full of hot lead and ****** head's, each still scarred with a lingering dread left unsaid;
And so vivid, is the anger, so vivid the hate and horrors of war, to the point that one is beyond asking 'what is this all for?' and simply hits the floor as rockets **** by like angry boars, and bullets shatter walls and **** at a pace that a pill couldn't heal your soon to be charred corpse,
And life looses all meaning;
War is no longer a late-night TV show screening, it's men and women screaming with their guts spilled and steaming,
And the tears don't suffice, as everything cuts deep like a knife to symbolize this endless strife,
The trial and tribulation.

But, don't fool yourself.
Osama bin Laden is dead, he was shot in the head, now all the men and women can go back home to their countries and back to their own beds,
To night terrors instead, as they realize their sanity is caught on a thread,

But the truth still remains quite complacent;
As it is the truth that is adjacent to the lies of news stations and corporations looking to make a dime off the fall of a nation,
All caught in a frenzied impatience at how long the castration of the Haitians is taking to make a dollar towards their next Palm Springs vacation,
And all the concentration, under-the-radar conversations or over-the-top public declarations at anti-capitalist demonstrations, whether in New York City or the Appalachians,
Goes unheeded amidst Wal-Mart's new decorations, or the Palestinian deportations, or Quaran desecration's carried out by ignorant delegations filled with a fundamentalist generation of observations,
So we're blind.

Amidst all this truth, we are blind.
And to this day, my head still sways at how insane we make this world with our memes and the capacity of our brains that go unharnessed in our head,
But none of this really matters, does it?
Because Obama said Osama is finally dead.

tread Apr 2011

The Moment, Or, Go Do.

Where was I, when you were alive?
Was I sleeping, dreaming, kicking, screaming,
Staring in wonder at the bright stars a-gleaming?

Where was I when you were crying?
Was I thinking of life after dying,
Seeing as it was, or blind and sighing,
Where was I when you were crying?

When you were born, what was I doing?
Was I speaking, walking, peeking, stalking,
Dancing, singing, laughing, mingling,
Looking, lying, toking, trying?

Where was I when you were on the beach,
Staring out towards the sea?
Perhaps I was taking a ***,
Or sipping my hot cup of tea?

Where was I when you were sleeping?
Perhaps I was in mid-air, leaping,
Or watching as MTV was bleeping swearwords.

Where was I when you fell ill?
Was I parked up on a hill,
Waiting for life to arrive
With a plan it did contrive?

When you were driving,
Or tidying,
Perhaps on a snowboard somewhere, sliding,
Was I alone at home and hiding?
Or on the bike somewhere, and riding?

Maybe I was wide-awake,
Or laughing with my friends, while baked,
Or greasing a pan to bake a cake,
Contemplating what makes a lake.

Or perhaps I was asleep and dreaming,
and lost in my subconscious readings,
With avatars of all my friends,
Buying a Mercedes Benz.

Where was I when you were wasted?
Was I laughing at old hatreds,
Staring at a crawling aphid,
Or in the shower, and stark naked?

Where were you while I was thinking?
Perhaps you were awake and blinking,
All the sleep out of your eyes,
After dreaming of cute Albanian guys?

Where is everyone this second?
I mean, this specific second,
As I write or read this poem,
Perform it for a crowd so wholesome,
Where am I as you read this?
Up on a stage and fighting fears false lisp,
To make sure all of these words are crisp,
Or eating bread with ham and swiss?

Are you dead, or are you living?
A minion to society's bidding,
Or policing streets and finally ridding
Pavement of the hobos twitching out of crystal ****?

Perhaps you're firing a gun,
Or you've found the only 'one,'
To love through thick and thin, till death;
Or thinking, "Wow, poor old MacBeth."

In this moment, is it all;
So listen to the moments call,
And cancel all your texting plans,
And use those thumbs to grasp the hand,
Of a loved one next to you;
"The day before" was never true,
So there's no better time for you,
To look for some more love to brew.

So get up, and go do.
Go do it.

tread Mar 2011

Optimistically Realistic

He was never far away;
And the last to ever say he was gone
Was the same who could stutter brains and brawn away in the skylight.

The city is bigger and pretty,
Prettier aesthetically in his brain,
Where the pretty place he remains is driving him insane,
Can you blame him?

He called it, in the end,
He even said it was around the bend,
Yet as a friend to himself he threw out a hand to lend
In verbal assistance.

He feels the grease caress his fingers,
As the smell of sadness lingers,
In his mind from a past mistake he did partake upon himself to rightfully correct.

He is hauling himself from Hell,
Smacked straight in the face by the sale of his emotions to sadness,
He is buying back his shares,
Because he cares.

He was never one to trust complete optimism;
In fact he felt like optimism was simply one side of a schism,
That would take 1 step forward,
Only to end-up 2 steps back, and off-track.

Maybe it's his misuse of the art;
But logic and realism are a part of his mind he can't silence.

He believes himself to be,
Optimistically realistic;
One who will not deny life's hardships a good cry,
But will strive to try in making things better using the side that's much brighter,
And lighter.

He is a fighter who looks not to fight,
But to do right, and live life,
Beyond his work as a writer.

tread Feb 2011

I'd Rather Not Admit It, No.

I'd rather not admit it,
No, I'd rather not admit it.
I'd rather not admit it, that I have yet to quit it;
Or that you still seem to plague my mind with words and images,
And that when I sit in the same spot that, for the first time, we held hands,
I can feel liquid as it swells up in my uncontrollable tear glands.

I'd rather not admit it,
No, I'd rather not admit it.
I miss you and I think about you everyday since I was forced to quit it;
Yes, I'd rather not admit it,
No, I'd rather not admit it.

I remember all the moments,
And all our beautiful components,
Which we used to patch together,
Perfect love within bad weather;
It felt perfect for awhile,
And then you put our love on trial,
And it ended in a second,
Yet you came back on that same weekend,
Saying things were now to change,
And we were to rearrange,
What it meant to be in love;
But you left me with the glove,
And decided to tear off the one you had.

It ended once again,
And 2 days later you did bring,
Your heart right back to me,
And believed that I could see,
You'd done no wrong.

You promised you had changed,
And that you would rearrange,
All your action in our love,
Yet once again you tossed that glove,
And left it all alone, to myself.

I sacrificed and compromised,
Believing you were doing right,
Yet you sat there in stagnant indifference;
I knew, inside, what that did reference.

Hurting, deeply insecure,
I broke it off, as you had lured,
Our love away from being repaired;
Retreated back to your single lair.

Sick and tired, upset and lost,
I knew my ending it would cost,
The girl I love with all my heart;
The one who'd loved me at the start,
And still did in the same way,
Yet she wished to get away.

My heart was broken,
And every time I breathed,
I felt my chest expand in pain,
My solar plexus bounced away,
In memory, and thought fighting tears;
You switched me out of silent gears.

I'd rather not admit it,
No, I'd rather not admit it.
I'd rather not admit it, that I have yet to quit it;
Or that you still seem to plague my mind with words and images,
And that when I sit in the same spot that, for the first time, we held hands,
I can feel liquid as it swells up in my uncontrollable tear glands.

Because, I'd rather not admit it,
No.
I'd rather not admit it.