Matty Matte Modge Podge

If its Thursday it's Friday, and it seems if I think blue, it's green. It's never warm enough, until it's too warm, especially under the covers; that when me feet traipse the cooler edges of the beds frigid edge, and reach the brisk cool that wraps in between toes like a wedged sock, I am for a split second appeased, and then all at once too cold. Music abounds, drearily as a hazy faded image of a distant vision, that words all meld toegether to form one amalgum of a holiday song that teeters the intelligble realm of having a set denomination. Christmans time is Christmas time, would be the safe descriptor for a snowless mid December, and slipping in and out of the work day through the branches of the month, lingering to close on the edges of the weekends limber branches, we again slip off into the vast abyss that is Monday, reminded of the fact that weekend has past and we must endure through another week to the more mild and relaxing confines of our weeks repose! I sh

I recall that this particular Sunday, hit harder than other Sunday's, that the moment of recognition that the day had to end, would be lost somewhere between the bookend of the evenings sleep and the following weekend. I might recall the next Sunday of this particular moment, or look back to this photo as a reminder of that transient feeling of wading into the streaming flow of time, held afloat on the back of another day of the week. That we all feel this envy of ourselves tranposed upon the ideal of the day, is less comforting and more alarming, that we don't do more to create these moments in the majority of hours that make up our actual week. I close my eyes to envision this lighthouse, caught in the haze of my subconscious fog, and dwindling in the distance, the day has finally given us it's beauty just a few moments before it takes it away. I wake each morning, and in a sort of karmic jest, drive the half a block to the Sound's edge, and glance across the water to

If it wasn't for this chain that sinks me down I'd probably high step walk right out of town I wouldn't turn my back, not for a sound I'd simply sink my feet and toes on forward ground. I wouldn't put a price on it I would just pack my bags and quit! But I haven't found the courage or a pair of shoes that fit! Onwards down the road I'd go Onwards to a place that I won't even know Onwards to a time, without a worried Mind Onwards to a new place that I could make my home! I'd clear out the cabinets of my mind I'd empty out the attic, leave it all behind I wouldn't stop to review what I'd find I'd trade it all for dust and wind and ties that wouldn't bind I wouldn't try to salvage it I'd burn it all in a fire pit But I haven't found the reason or the match that would stay lit Onwards down the road I'd go Onwards to a place that I won't even know Onwards to a time, without a worried Mind Onwards to a new place that

Musical Interlude: It was wholly ironic, wholly Camden, quite dirty, quite quite dirty: As we remarked a few nights earlier, amidst that vast dark corner of Jones Beach, that far side of the venue with no exit(just old cups of coca cola which we still aren't sure were ours)of being very Camden, very very Camden. It was in that space , treading steps up the steep corridor of the venue, and certainly a few tiny misteps of my mind, that Summer tour of 2009, where the first symphonic blasts of Meat Stick became all to real and funk began to lay it's plasmic hands a top the stratosphere, lending an ooze like quality not unlike the Ghostbusters holy slime, for all to wade gently through in the following days. The Thick and the Quickening: But what of Camden, a haven of a venue having sought refuge from it's bastard drug addled, and addicted brethren of a surrounds that is Camden Township! This venue, finding safety between train track and deep plunging river, where everything com

I've been lost in this place, center of space, unable to rectify my own withered face, willing to give "save for the grace", a chance to tug pant legs with the glance and a taste, unable to trip to the chaste for the chance at a place in this race. So I move my position to the left, a knee jerking jest to the crowd that knows me best, off left center stage, I pull rank as a blow to the chest, unable to keep up the pace I relinquish my grip, trip and rest. If you thought it wasn't much, stomach punch to the gut wrenching thrust to the push comes to shove a warrior in tattered scrubs, my words they traipse with a grace along the rug, as I saunter, coat tails waving, top hat contemplating a rest on my head, twice I'd be dead, laid to rest in a carnal dirt laden bed, roses at my ankles, the green matted surrounds, i've adjusted. The wind circled in just to listen, then, forgetting the reason why, dispensed on their way again. It isn't right just to steal brea

I'm not crazy, though I split my time, between broken thought and pirate mind, and afloat aloft a sea of clouds, determined to loosen the tie that binds the mellow drowned out frown of a temparate mound-like structure of cumulus white; they scream aloud for all to hear: "WE ARE HERE!" But do not fear the coming night when these mischeivous shades, turn silvery gray, their crows ignite to vagrant decay of the sidewalk's dismay, as they keep footsteps at bay, not faulting those for stepping on crackes as they stray. I've been lost in this place, center of space, unable to rectify my own withered face, willing to give "save for the grace", a chance to tug pant legs with the glance and a taste, unable to trip to the chaste for the chance at a place in this race. So I move my position to the left, a knee jerking jest to the crowd that knows me best, off left center stage, I pull rank as a blow to the chest, unable to keep up the pace I relinquish my grip, tri

Certainly it’s not the thought of an adventure, that culminates in an abstract appreciation of the convoluted, that gets me all tizzy inside. Certainly, not the thought, or narrow prospect, that by being the early worm, I may in fact be dead, due to the daily feeding habits of the proverbial early bird. Most certainly, beyond this all, I might conjure a guess, and beg then to differ, when the request for my esoteric resignation is called for and asked to be presented in my own blood, as to why I waste my precious essence. Further than this, and I might add neutral countries will protest, at the Nobel Peace Prize given to oil company that invented the newest technology to stop the spewing and cracked well it negligently oversaw; and those protesting countries, neutral for all matters, were in protest that they were not the ones who sprung up this grand scheme to present to the masters of ceremony! In all, the sense with which I make my matters pleases me little in the turning of words t

I am chasing the dream, the narrow, straight and curved, the packed down soil, hardened to a solid mush of deeper brown; moist and organic, weaving it's way to...The World's Best Lobster Roll! To begin, one must make a simple choice, so forked it conjures images of a snake tongue, slithering it's way near your ear; Snake might be the perfect extended Metaphor, as it seems the polar extremes Lobster Roll fanatics take their love, of their type (cold or hot), can be sinister as a snake carrying an apple...err...a lobster roll through the garden of eden; tempting youthful minds for the taste of something...well, Fishy. I prefer mine hot, and it would do my mind a restful peace and solitude to know their are no menus in existence that garnish the word "Lobster" with "Salad"! Lobster Rolls are meant to be hot, (Ask Jesus, he served up the finest hot lobster rolls on unleavened Bread at the last supper) hot and teaming with knuckles and claws, seething heat wi

A Jumping Off Point Before I embark upon personal journeys, these vision-quests which I know will undoubtedly toil with my mind and ultimately alter my particular points of view, I tend to view them with a great amount of exhilaration and limited but palpable trepidation. I grip the steering wheel a little tighter, knowing the approaching of the next city, the next big event, the next rollercoaster scream attack of a night, dipped and now ready to ooze in all the pulsin g and sensation of another Phish circus will ultimately suck me up, duck me down, turn me round and spit me out like a sugar ravished kid on a sit and spin. I knowingly enter these moments, the ether blistering with possibility, with choice and freedom, with the knowledge that there is No-Thing that can be pieced down, pinned out and sewn with any real understanding of what will come...It is the innocence and bewilderment that is the still gestating tour, the verbage that gets coined in the first few carnival nights, th

I enlisted the forces within to conquer the Whitestone Proper quelled to imagine the musings of such Sea Birds, rolling their plastic eyes at the pigeons of Washington Square. Where are the leaves, the squirrels raged, tender tips of fondling fingers folding and rolling their acorn nuts. I might just squeeze his little cheeks at the sight his nose, so squeeky and rabid. I scurried for the ground, found yellow drips of picasso's blood boiling over the brim of the Hudson River Bandit, steaming down shore towards cities edge. If I looked twice and slowly, the world might just edge to the end near battery park, might just turn down 90 degrees and allow us to slid down to China. The sea birds down here don't have patience for me, and the pigeons have stolen one of their glass eyes, so I am sure my stay is overwelcome and my welcome over easy like the eggs scrambled in the Diner on 43rd. I searched for Pizza, 33rd, 32nd, 31st, like the clock ticking forward, the clock ticking forward

I turned and left, rose pedals falling, charging the ground like rain water being pricked by each falling drop; now puddled and pregnant, the moment collapsed and I was gone. If it was Tuesday, the skyline ignored it, as wind sheeted by like worn linen over a freshly made bed. I thought it might be her bed, clouded and wet, electricity scuttling, lights flickering in a mimic of bright eyed filament mistaking Morse code; that I could watch the bulb fire on and slowly fade back to black. I remember now, how much darker it seemed, after starring intently into the dying glow, my eyes blinded for moments. In a later moment, I saw the clouds tear apart, light shone, but still grayed, and lit to a blueish hue. I felt my lips, chapped, and heard under the rolling tires, the crumble of some loose gravel. I parted my thoughts like the sky, let the road veer the car, and loosened to the night. Somewhere detached, between nervous and cold, my toes met wet sock and I knew you knew I should have br

So many things, Frederick, then, quiet now they all disperse, and disperse only to resurface when tension builds. We walked today and you were quiet, a silent judge, hailed above the rest, an exception to the rule in many senses. What is it that we do exactly to make things easier. For me, Frederick, you said it was the fact that I was able to realize all things do not eventually come to a crashing halt, but that the things we have to do, those that need to get done, life tasks, will get done; regardless of any extra effort exuded by myself. So we are merely quiet and frail as humans, calm and controlled, doing our piece to create a whole, of something, not necessarily of a "whole of existence", or of a "whole of society and community", but a whole of ourselves, pieces of a puzzle to create an "image of a train station in the rain, with blurred outline of a man or woman waiting at the station edge, for a light in the distance, to come and take them away!"

Slow, Frederick, my breath extended, my chest rising, and along this hazy day, I watched as the clouded sky sighed, as I might, as if knowing that its current plans are going to be washed away; not much unlike the branches, tree limbs, and full tree bodies down Route 15! The wind scuttled, Frederick, and the branches fingers scratched at window panes, they too, whispering, Scuttle, Scuttle, Scuttle. And what of those wooden framed windows, on their track with painted thick rope pieces, only able to be risen or lowered if both sides are exactly parallel to each other; what of those Frederick, rickety, rickety shaken by the winds massive hands, the knuckles white where they gripped tight the window sides. Behind them, Frederick, the reckoning of the mind, subtle slowness encapsulating, and vertical and horizontal motions cease. Beyond those Windows it's Monday, I think , you say Tuesday, along the main street, we walking, you to the left of where you walked, to the right of the stre

Well, Frederick, last night I dreamt. It may sound funny, but I feel that we can have dreams, but when there is no understanding of these dreams, than all yo have are dreams. But, in the "act of dreaming" you understand, maybe I understand these dreams! I decided, in my dream, I would go bowling and entered the doors swinging inward and out like those of a bar, with a circular plastic window towards the top. Moving from the door energized and excited to gt bowling, I realized my bowling shoes were already on, laced up, and I was ready to bowl. All the lanes spiraled, or seemed to spiral in a way that kept their original straight quality; they seemed to buzz around me, all along still seeming straight. So while the lanes were staying straight and still turning, I turned with them, my ball, actually, turning and hitting the pins striking, with strikes or spares, but hitting all the pins in one or two or three shots. I was doing well, Frederick, well as in doing great, hittin

Of a post apocalyptic expression, my dear Frederick, spoken in the wired drone of a somnambulist's newswire; sent running silly of it's own sinister tone: And, and I choose to start this thought with the dreaded "And", I might speak to you, Sir, capitalizing the first letter of your name in my mind; or in sinowy mood, I too could take from your name the "proper" part of the noun and scrounge its nose in the less than desirable, in my mind of course. Cause is the real question here, and why do we mean to cause, in our less than ecstatic tone, a radio waved pang of soulful emotionally charged proverbial heart murmurs, to uproot that beat of other's ideation of body turned to thought, and why do we force others to turn from the smile, to a tear ridden jerking smirk of "why are you doing this to me?" I too, Frederick, cannot excape the extended hand of the lamb of god who has taken away the sins of the world, and is therefore allowed to demand my v

Here's to you, Frederick, your infinitesmally-cracked skin-pocked perversion of a self anecdoted reliant, hell bent on seething your unorthodox views to the world; you the robed judge of judges, pondering on the ills of life, pretending to prevent the weight of the world, and it's axis' from tearing at your skin, flesh from bone, cold stone of a slab, canvas torn. And in so much as you deny, ignoring the seamly ooze of unoxydized blue blood, rich with nitrogen, to river to a pool below your feet, you fail to fake a clown for clever magician of a well qualified scholar of a son who was born the sailor of another country. You have fought fire with gasoline, hindered a disease, crippled innocent life dribbling maze of cloudless window panes, waking for a moment of terror to collide and shatter their once whole and finite structure...and you do, how you do, how do you do, an incomplete portrait of squinted eyes, under candlelit, dribbling the fascination of another less then ho

I miss my dogs today, wavering somewhere below...no no no, I start thinking there are going to be words forged forth, theoretically of course, because before the words leave the diving board of my mind, or are even a thought of a thought, maybe making their way by that larger wheel on the side of the diving board, there to make it more springy...the vast wasteland that is the dust with which these all at once not thoughts were not made of is sailing through the air, obliterated before the non thoughts could even begin to become half a thoughts. But that is a thought and it is a solid one, that I receive the canvas like comunion, sometimes it is simply chalky and morose, the body of some old man making it's way down my esophogous and into my digestive track, and I receive it less willing, I receive it as if I might actually receive communion, thinking maybe this time, this one time I will have the courage, the audacity, the huxspa, the (insert witty phrase about confidence that I la

Curtains hung down, extending to the length of the floor, teasing the floor as a dress does, mid waltz. The curtains wouldn’t normally be considered anything special, but in the midst of this altogether stuffy room, they are only things which appear light weightless. In my view, which is blurred by my stubbornness against wearing glasses, they make me weightless, and for the brief moments my mind envelopes their grand descent to the faded linoleum floor, I forget my worries. Interior monologue has always been easy for me. When there is no one to speak to, there is still me! I regroup my stance, having been leaning on the door frame, and I step out of the kitchen and into the hallway which, extends down the length of the house, connecting the few rooms of the apartment like nearly matched, yet mismatched puzzle pieces; it doesn’t quite fit. I laugh aloud, amused, bemused, altogether content with its awkwardness because it is not mine. I find what is not mine though, often times, much mo

I am cold today, old today feel the bitter sting as frost crack-spreads across a pane of glass. I am enveloped, wrapped in a wet towel in mid autumn, having thought swimming was a good idea. Gusts pale through vacant door ways and we realize why window treatments matter. Who were we to not make these realizations at such a young age, an age of profound ignorance and egotism. We prayed to the isms to release us from the tender veil and safety harness we masked as witches grip our parents held strong too. Why did we ever doubt, because others had had experiences, others had been duped, been beat, been left for dead in a dank ravine, swimming with shopping carts and dead rats. Why do our minds coat the warped angst riddled folly of youth and create doubt in our elders, and splendor and joy in our peers. It is our shakespearian rant that echoes the halls of Beowulf and rattles grendel’s aching ear; it a plague on both our houses, it is to be or it is not to be it is double, double, toil an

I have observed worse, obscured curse, devilish hell in the third verse, happen to expand my urban rhymes by ten times to include mother nature's cosmic chimes of squawking birds, flying by walking herds of talking heads lingering by the reaper's hurse, as they converse with a concubine, bodies ravelled, between sheets and entwine, screaming shouting, words so terse they tear through the fabric of time, printed ribbon of motion picture crime, captured by lense in 8mm, careful not to bruise but to beat her. But i've blurred lines to turn times turns elastic, bent shredded and burned plastic, automatic, words, head flashing to static, tv screens bombastic snowy visage, blissed out miscrient image of an edited scene, replayed in sepia tone, shrugged up in back don't you see me, hang up the phone, you won't drop knowledge from a ringing tone, nor gain your patience from the wireless zone, give a dog a bone, walk him in the park let him sit upon a throne, atone, for all

I spoke to myself of myself in the moments between moments that barely exist. Withered from time, like subtle decay, which one misrepresents as tarnish and flaw, these narrowly escaped moments draw out like fractions of pennies slowly accruing, but always forgotten! We speak the dribble as we walk our two step-day to day-rambling of foot before foot before foot! We quietly acquiesce to the passage of time as morbid fascination of a self euthanized death march. Why we don’t protest is less of a question than what would we protest against. And that we haven’t gotten that far in our thought process, or even begun to register what it is we are fighting against, is all the more reason why we bow down to the languid transgression of thoughts! There they go…and we breath, ahhhh, a long sigh of relief, at being able to get lost and finally numbed by our rapidly decaying minds. It’s not even that we have a rotting brain structure, but that our formed words, which create thoughts, and then sente

Was it the air, swept in with sea salt that grazed your lips Or the gentle breeze that caught your hair, tangled, blowing Across your face? Was it that, or the way my arms went numb; And circling all around, my eyes searched for place to rest, My shoulder a post to lean, and my hand a hand to hold? It could have been between Breaths, your arms stretched left, stretched right, then curled down under your stomach, where skin met white linen sheet, and hint of your lower back shown. “I’m not gonna lie!” you said, your lips, formed, loosened Then persed…and I don’t recall your words that followed, that Distinct mumble that I mimic in your presence. Was it that I recalled In a moment and forgot to say, “Almondy” may have been the tone Of your skin, that it was so fitting; but lost the thought in your eyes? There is a possibility, beneath the dock at Bowen’s Wharf, or Bannister, beneath the sheath of barnacles, where tops of hands Get cut, it may have been there? I wasn’t sure whether I rea