Millstone Pool

Look closely; up

against the white mass.

There, a delicate truss.

White spindles twist

in a single plane are repetition,

bracing. A ceiling suspended.

Hoisted from beneath it runs

flush and then up, suddenly a

pyramid of glass. Securely mounted

on calculations of force dispersion

that zig zag across the

web of needles and into

thick I-beams, who punch

deep into the earth; past basement

grading and into

deep set concrete pours.

Swim

Tons of this liquid, controlled and

lashed into a prison. It is

confined near overflow.

The command of planning

dictates most efficient utility.

This cold calculative nature

attracts me. I cannot resist such

grounding and am pulled to the leftmost lane

where I kick into the fluid. It splashes,

lashing out in pain rippling, quivering

at the violation. The little life

it clings to leaves it cold and the

chill creeps through my skin and sends

a small but violent tremble

that runs to my toes, which

have rotated and pressed themselves

against the tile wall of the cage.

My legs bunch up, the muscles tense

and then I release.

A vacuum of motion

sucks the body of water.

Chlorine ride violent flash valleys

through new rifts in my hair

and my goggles sit deep

into my eye sockets

with great and sudden

gravity. Here, in the middle of the pool,

the far end's deep tiles blend

with more immediate patterns.

First World Problems

Migraines. Time. Work.
Comfort vs. Tension.
Sugar: tooth decay.
Calorie free: cancer.


Buffets!


Auto-complete?
Fuck you.
Cords?
Fuck you.


Ignore speling.


iPod. Blackberry.
Tight pants. No space.
Fuck you.
I'm a tubby little emperor.


Buffets!


The best method?
Stay on top of it all.
Especially the ladies.
Fuck yeah.


Swol as hell.


Nagging. Roundabout convo.
Waste my time?
Fuck you.
No time for lightweights.


Real problems.


White man's burred.
Guilt. Hide.
South Asia?
Sub-Saharan Africa?


Hovel in crap.


Run away?
Good luck.
Cyclical conundrum.
Wherever you are.


You're white.


First world problems.
One thing is worse:
My sweaty left palm and
the itch in my right foot.


They're new kicks.

Mommy Makes Ty Take a Walk

The hazed horizon simmers in broiling sunlight

marked by a crimson octagon that signals pause.

Oracular structures jag across a runny orange sun.

This screaming hawk, it circles like death above me, cawing,

screaming, shrieking psychotically for speed. Incessant, insane:

“Drive!” she says, “Drive, Drive!”

Foul demon! Accursed fertile nymph!

There is comfort here, beyond gates of wood and steel,

nestled delicately on a supple seat awash in cool breezes.

Of what gain, pray, is this final frontier?

Entertain these: safety and well being.

Do not forget the honor in modesty.

The cackling hawk hears none of this.

Its seething rage boils over and its talons sink deep.

The pain is overwhelming and anger spits fire deep within.

Four steps, fast and terrified, this shattered body pushes

onward. It stumbled broken, but determined,

the mind sharpens and prepares itself new contest.

Aluminum Foil

Cold to the touch,

Chilled, sometimes hot, and burnt. Seeped

In oils and fat, containing wild scents and seasonings.

Sometimes smoky, charcoaled

Bits of black dirt tracing footpaths across the wrinkled terrain.

Explore it! Conquer it!

Bending, crinkling – but silent.

No smell. A scent accepter, with an open mind.

Small mountains rise mighty and tall, tearing deep valleys that

Creep across the burnished landscape.

A thousand reflections!

But

None too specific

Only colors; general

And mostly shades of alloy (grey?)

To white.

Twist it! Now see

It’s a funny hat!

Oh joy! And, what do we have here?

A space alien.

An antennae remedy for white noise and snow

Forecast for the news:

Clear and strong!

Disappointed

Deadpan glares

Everyone disappointed

The pain is palpable

I had almost made it

I had nearly made it

Why were they mad?

They should have helped

The grandfather clock looks down

The hands are at five and seven

They droop, frown

Disappointed. Everyone is

The etching above the face furrows

My father’s face furrows

“You need to learn”

Today?

“You’re too old for this”

They shouldn’t be mad

It wasn’t the carpet

The tile was cold

But it is warming

I warmed the tile

I never even like the tile

I’ll clean it up!

“No, go take a bath”

“Get in the bath”

They’ll clean it up

That will make them more disappointed

Disappointment

Once I fix this

It’ll be another fault

I’ll never escape!

In the bathroom

I stare

The toilet stares away

Porcelain white, innocently

Avoiding eye contact

You and me, I said

We are going to get along

I’m going to sit on you.

Every. Day.

And you know what?

You’re going to like it. And that’s that.

And I’m going to like it. And that. Is. That.

the inconclusively big. Easy

milky horizon dims the outlook for the day

a note a bump breaks my travels in thought

How many more miles do we have?

that sucks

when headed for fun

guitar chords strum against my mind

for journeys and anticipation

guitar chords strum against my mind

we surround ourselves with diversion

or no- who says songs don't prompt thought

for it is these thoughts. they consume me

is it: insight? Self-reflection?

for whose sake do I value these?

Foolishness. These are inconclusive non-directional ramblings.

Sweat seeping in pores of self indulging

overeducated pulsations

these fill gaps of my mind, it swells and I settle for a feel over true dialect

Cubicle Rock

his warm baritone selects dead voices.

he refers to a grainy collective memory

you did not experience.

you've chronicled their experiences

organized them alphabetically

listened to them, believing there's

"always something there to remind me"

you compensate for your life's diligence.

the bobbling piano and warbling guitars

soar you and your burlington suit and tie

on the wings of cubicle rock.

that band blowing dixie, Guitar George with all his chords

they give you, the Harry with the daytime job, value.

who sacrifices youth for this?

this is a classic rewind,

back before the network of perpendicular gears,

whose folding and closing trapped you,

funneling your effort away from original thought.

funneling it away from that urge to explore and understand:

"ain't that america?"

and consoling you:

"it's gonna be a bright, sun shiny day."

you've chronicled their experiences

organized them alphabetically

listened to them, believing there's

"always something there to remind me."