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People search through holes to slip through.
Just the other day I sat in on a barbecue and said, "Madam, your python tastes like paper." Petewi!
She promptly replied, "Oh no! Not Gregory! You fool!"
And fell spiraling down into hysterics.
If I were a tree I would take 24 hour naps.
If I were a duck I would quack quack quack.
I wonder what a python would say to that.
I think the python would eat the duck, even if paper tasted like it.
I think to myself, "which came first, the python or the paper"
I thank God for scissor. Leave rocks at home.
Hysterics, my head against the time watered stone.
Even though rock beats scissor.
An endless cycle
TIme to buy a python
TIme to find a title.
Titles are just words
Honestly, I just want to get the hell out of here.
Then how will the work end?
Another round
When words fail, idolize sound.

the haze

The Haze

It envelopes the sky like a smoky bar

It evades the air like a flock of gulls

Anxiously we wait for the haze of the storm

Only thinking of the change at hand

The anticipation brings me back to good times

Times of wealth and prosperity

Soon we will be blinded from the haze

Only long enough to dream of change

The rain will come and wash the evil away

Their future lying in an eternity of hell

The sky will clear

High we must clime to discover the future

Far less that it seems

The Toll

We spoke of lust
The wind caressing our hair
The sun lifted our spirits to heights unfathomed
The stench of smoke hammered our noses
The enemy's voice of idiocrity intoxicated our minds
How many will perish
The toll will tell
Death is only a formality full of fear and facts
We have no answers... only results
We walk and do what we're told
Spoiled through flesh and worldly tangibles
The product stuck to our boots
We thought of our future as we scraped this product anxiously
The fight grows on
As you pick your battles
Looking for more ammunition, yet only find your knife
You pick at them anxiously and question your future
But only the toll will tell

Time

Time



A never-ending event
through which our life is planned.
an instant that dictates our life
But time is only numbers.
Everything in its sphere
what if time stood still?
I can’t even comprehend it, as I’m not even sure its real
I wish it would just go away and leave me to have some peace.
It’s only a matter of time
til I stand over you, ruler of all
and with each tick I’m older, growing only like a callous
an hourglass is nothing like the Jersey turnpike.
It is from the Day of our Lives Fancy Face.
I wish time would stop so I could make more money.
But how to get paid by the hour
time is for the worms, you sonofabitch.

Green turns,
without announcement to
crimson red.
Bypassers see the leaves as
all dead.

Green is a soothing color (though sprinkled with envy),
Red is the color of passion (or blood, or strawberries.)

They entangle, battle, endlessly struggling
untill brown reigns supreme.
It is not good to be chained by the turn of the seasons.

They glide into each other effortly and aimlessly,
swirling with gusts in arms of acceptance.
I, however shall reject their gentle nature:
even as the the wind assaults my window,
i shall quell its forever blow.
(Old yellow never cries, for she is a means
to the end.)

Fall is arriving.
It's almost time for the birds to fly south
South, south, and further south.

How far south, I wonder
but dont care.
I will not be going.
I won't even be watching.

I just keep what is mine.

Anticipation

Bright light beams through my eyes
Whiskey...
Not too long before I get a face lift
Hiding all the reflection
My soul visible for miles to come
Nowhere all at once
Alone...wondering
How will it end this time?

Trapped inside my own mind
Loneliness piercing through like the tip of a sword
Whiskey lullaby...
Laying in the fetal position
Letting time shift my bones
Letting my bones settle their own crackings

Setting sun sends us home
When home is home nowhere is better
Home is an enless destination
Home is drunk

The Hum Drum

worn out experience dresses the stage shallow laughter as the clown comes undone steps on his scooter, rides up the aisle stench of wet dog travels through the air yesterdays crowd, apelike as they throw bananas into the pit, all the while licking their lips the moaning day foresees a frayed costume an all too familiar glow shining down melting make-up from a face disguised in tears

Outside

Sunglasses on his face
A pen in his mouth,
He smirks and starts writing

Grass, shaking in the coolness
Glowing softly in the sunset
It is damp and itchy on my skin

The mountains act as a gateway to the valley
I watch them rise up and cover the sun
Then feel several sorts of sadness

Faint voices echo on the wind,
I listen for their secrets escaping
But can't comprehend the words

I watch when she laughs loudly and
Notice the contradiction in her eyes,
Thinking she's so surreal

I wish I could just forget all of this
It's not how I would like it to be
It is like settling for less than perfection

But I scream at the mountain so mighty
So forgetful at the same time
It doesn't know what I shriek in my head

And That the mosquito inhaling from my arm
Could only fathom where that blood has been,
It's been around like that Hilton in Paris

Jet black crows challenge the azure heights,
They tease as they leave me behind, here, lonesome
What do you call a convocation of crows?

Center, Central, Circle

Not a cloud to interupt centripedal forces
And wind pulling us together
Dewy grass holds us even closer

This smell of freedom
With symmetry
We find our thoughts

Drawn together
A vastness wraps our senses
A closed thought
close and concise we are

I feel myself falling away
Semicircular arches calling me to my fate
A curve ball
Toward the face
Or that crack in the sidewalk ahead of me,
Always reminding me of my place
Deep in the core of apples
There with the seeds

Grass springs up
Through the crack of forgotten season
Pulling us back together again

Bells

Celestial black is the spaces between stars, and
abandoned belltower black is when wild bells go to seed.
Stale air is pregnant with the drone of potential chiming;
the slightest wind on the lawn rings an ear-filling cacophony
changing like a river's surface, bellowing like a woman in want.
None composed this melody, this loud kind of black.

Only the Season Will Kiss

Splayed upon the green
I embrace the season
of not enough days
parylized as stone.

The scent of lemongrass
grows still and dies,

as I stretch sweet words
in maple color to your
temporary breaking,
your slight fall
away from the sun.

I wait,
my lips quivering
for your curling leaves
to descend upon me.

Gratification

A cracking laugh erupts like a clavicle,
cracking

Broken nuts litter the floor beneath my toes;
promises still unfulfilled

Day may end, but life looms before me
I am content in the darkness

I want to scream at the top of my lungs
Nothing...

forever

Early Onset September

Still,
Sweating beneath my shirt

anxiously,
i sit alone

waiting
stark, white, a diseased canvas.

for it to come.




A monster,
A beast of seasonal discourse

comes so often.
rears its lonely face,
divulges its terrifying story.



Listen and I will tell you -
I have walked with your idols and I am smarter,
larger, and more charming than you.

Soon they will know,

Insanity wages war on the fragile mind,

the countless stars are pits,

dreary and snowfilled.

clouds dim their shine.

Don't ever remember September. However, August and October are fine.

The best month for love is never.

Never Ever.

EVERYWHERE IS GREENOUGH PARK