Matty Matte Modge Podge

If I wasn’t relentless you’d expect this to be the last of my attempts; that blank page taunting my brows to drench, waging war, digging deep in my mental trench, but repetition becomes absurd, as quick as the repeated word—in the third verse of the terse line-in that rhythm-in that conversation-that time. If you’ll remember when the sun beat down and caught the corner of the room, kiddy cornered the portion of your soon, to be thought out plan of attack, conscious of the morning’s slack over your potentially blacked out coat over the walls of your mind, and in time you’d find that words bled sentence, bled thought, bled rhyme. So you put down your gun for your turn, took your finger off the trigger and yearned for the burn of the motion of a hand slicing down, and around the corner of the room, music lay as a blanket for the looming sense of abandon, frozen stare at the pen wondering which hand your set it in, the child lock of your mind, incessant tick tock of time, couldn’t dispel t...

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, the far side of the Jones Beach venue, the side with no exit (just old cups of coca cola, which we still aren't sure were ours), we accused it 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, that it (Summer Tour 2009) became all too real. 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 ...

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...