tread

tread Jun 2013

sweet skin, sweet
taste September,
tomato-stained
pallet boiling to
an icecream froth,
eyes blue-moon
blue-cheese blue-
sea blue-teaful,
planets in arraign
of Pluto, far out
years before back
-hand kiss to back
-hand slap to my
metallic tears first
come first serve
arriving home drunker
than Charles Bukowski
on the average day, I
hope to be the barfly
of her heart.

tread Jun 2013

trading dreams for dollars

over-caffeinated like a maj-gician (the electricians of existence), Matilda sang her morning brew a lullaby as she convinced breakfast not to panic from the pain of the frying pan- "sit quietly, take the pain, feel the burn- SIZzle! soon you'll be a human being and begin your life as a synthetic deity free within the skin of metastasized consciousness."

soon the egg seized in pleasure; a masochistic joy overtook it as yoke splurged from within like ****** ***** during ******* when the gimp has forgotten the safety word, screaming

BANANA

NEW YORK

CODE ORANGE

! ! !

while the perpetrator continues to scream verses from the Bible and Leviticus 1:3; an audiotape of On Being and Nothingness sends chills down the dark-sides spine in a hyperreal realization of the role choice plays in evils mortality.

must we listen while we speak? does reciprocity die in egoic colonization of the African subcontinent of the mind? is this the beginning of an age of autism born within the confines of illuminated rectangles of permissible distance and social hell-frozen-over?

man, you weren't even paying attention.

*******.

inspired by JJ Hutton and Third Eye Candy.

tread Jun 2013

gradient

I can picture the graduation balusters and all the nervous, giddy smiles;
My friends and I tip-toe past the crowd, trying silence in a harrowing courtroom of 1567 where the verdict is
guilty!

aside from formality, I'd rather remain obscure.

I think of this previous contentedness and nearly cry myself to nowhere on a work day.

the floor still needs to be swept.

tread Jun 2013

prerequisite

they say to some, 'you need suffering
for art.' no; suffering can create, but
so can content. today, I am neither
suffering nor content. I simply am.
and this poem has existed forever.

tread May 2013

float planes and a 2 way ticket to paradisium

leaves manage, don't they?
blown away by float planes,
thrown away by old dames,
the same game,
return.

your cells manage, don't they?
sewn away by atomic frames,
time lapsed to transform again,
the same game,
return.

tread May 2013

I feel like a ghost today.

Leaving my phone on the
morning strewn bed, the
bus courses by and drags
me along for the ride. Old
high school friends pulse
through my head and I
contemplate their distance.
Every unrecognized human
who seeps into view or
distance causes me to bury
into my phone and feign
distraction. Feign importance,
like someone is paying attention
to me. Until I realize my phone
is my hand and my real phone
is still fast asleep in Asia.

I feel like a ghost today.

Not one word shared between
others as real as me, I figure
I'd feel as lonely at the bottom
of the ocean as I would on
-stage in Madison Square
Garden. 4 hours of work
slithers by like an injured
snake. After exactly an
hour and 17 minutes on a
bus home, addiction knits
the phone into the palm of
my hand like resentful lovers
wishing they didn't need each
other. Only 1 text message
and it's my significant other
slipping me recognition. Old
high school friends pulse through
my head and I contemplate their
distance. I return recognition
to my lover and hear nothing
from her for hours to come.
None of these old high school
friends seem to acknowledge
what I thought was love between
us. I pretend not to care as the
world ignores me and fall back
into the confused trance of
'keeping busy.'

I feel like a ghost today.

What happened to the school
-yard friends? The late nights
spent with nowhere to be?
The happy conundrum of life
as a game? What happened
to freedom? What happened
to freedom? What happened
to freedom?

I hold a sliver of hope that one
day life will electroshock my
existence back into existence.
It's been a beautiful fight, but
lets hope the war is over by Christmas

*** momma, I'm coming home.

life has been up and down. this summer my life changes, and lets hope I can blossom again like I once did.

tread May 2013

cyclical universe

nesting on an open fire, lungs
cramped, legs aching, the mother
of God lifted her finger to the moon
and said, 'he's my mother - I'm his
mother.'