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 Aug 2013 tread
Super Creep
I might be dead, horn-fed poultry.
Pluck me leave me cold and bumpy.
Eyes gone slimy,
Feet still trying
But I'm still your love.
Keep salting.
 Aug 2013 tread
Riq Schwartz
useless
 Aug 2013 tread
Riq Schwartz
I wrote a book called "Useless"
a thousand pages long,
and every page is useless
a thousand letters strong.
And each disjointed sentence
on each disjointed page
makes up another chapter
that I could call a day.

And in this book called "Useless,"
each task I was assigned
took up another hour
I wanted to call mine.
But in this useless novel
where nothing lasts for good,
it made such little difference.
I wish they understood.

It seems most of my pages
were writ without my words
by many other people.
Oh, had I only heard
the voices of the others
who told me not to write
unless I was the author,
and never stand contrite.

The creases in these pages
were put there not by me,
but by the "Learned" people
who thought it best to be
the leaders of my charges!
The heroins and kings
that lead me on to vic'try --
the "freedom" that it brings.

And so they tore those pages,
divided from the spine
of that old book called "Useless."
I loathe to call it mine.
There each and every paper,
now added to their own
collection of these useless
thoughts, was ne'er made known.

'Till dust began collecting
upon the golden leaf
that read the title "Useless"
so powerful and brief,
until I dared to read it
and so lament each time
I had no say in rhythm,
in meter or in rhyme.

And there spread out before me,
each letter cold and black,
contained my very life, still
no life was reading back.
I wanted so to burn it
and send it to its grave.
'Till, better or for worse, I saw
this book is all I have.

I quietly replaced it
between the other books,
now something less embarrassed
by all the space it took,
and realized there with reverence
I needed a new page,
to change my manuscript and
above all else, engage.

And so I keep old "Useless"
so that they might believe
that I write in these pages
for them and not for me.
And here I write another.
It does not have a name
since only time will dictate
the nature of my game.

Now tired of that story,
monotonous and prose,
I altered my technique. now,
it, something like this, goes:
I wrote a poem called useless
though I dont think it is.
You see, it is a prologue.
 Aug 2013 tread
Roderick Wolfson
Waste Not
Waist Got
What Not
What Knot?
Tough Knot
"Not Happening"
Not Shaping
Lots Shopping
Lots Wasting
 Aug 2013 tread
Tom McCone
dawn's clouds curl upon
the cycle of horizon. light
seeps, wells up in a silent
garden of distant coastlines
and suspensions of dust
particles. torn pinnacles
arrange in geometries known
only to collapsing cities;
boulevards of tremulous
ghostlike figures, swaying
staccato below collected
damping leaves in perfect
symmetries against the sky of
tiled grains.                          
                     oh, if time stood
still. if the blood could freeze
in my capillary beds. if this
feeling would last for the
remainder of days.
 Aug 2013 tread
Tim Knight
took sight of the seafaring kind
in a queue, in a cafe, that wound around
tables and carried on the line out the door.

your small vessel body will travel
with clothes and stitches and sails of material,
mapping points in the tide that'll
slide away as you move on
unafraid.

your jumper hangs off your left side
shoulder, or is that your port
side shoulder that dips lower in the air
than you starboard blade?
i'm new to this, please stay and listen

Catamaran girl with a smile as white as wave tip breaks,
what a sight you are on this flat sea lake
of-a-queue in the height of summer,
the air-con-is-broken-
we could leave now and do a runner
find a boat and paddle out,
fix the rudder and raise the mast,
have summer on an island
and not look back.
coffeeshoppoems.com
 Aug 2013 tread
September
we see angels in forklifts fixing our powerlines but we never see the snake in the river handing out our medication. it's mediation that keeps us mellow.
monday's blues.
tuesday's yellows.
the sadness keeps us happy.
the sadness keeps us happy.
 Aug 2013 tread
September
My pulse skips from rocky mountains/ to rolling hills/ to plateaus./
glaciers to deserts—
my skin deserts the ground.
8\
 Jul 2013 tread
raðljóst
it's getting harder to think of
how you will think of
       me
when i can't think of myself
in any way at all.
the small-feelings and the moments when you re-realize you don't know who you are at all.
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