Matty Matte Modge Podge

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