frying my mind ain't so bad (as far as i kin feel it)--

it's losing my teeth that truly frightens me.

it's listening to my father blindly spouting truisms.
so i may likely smoke prior to seeing him. this will also help me stomach any food stuffs he may suggest we devour.

i mind the people around me when they are not listening. when they are merely awaiting their turn to speak, counting their thoughts and the seconds and gripping tightly to their words with their tongues behind tight lips.

people and their influences. their influences bother me as well. why couldn't they float past the gate of possibilities. why must they insist on following the same tunnel without exploring the windows on their way. without investigating the source of light shining high or to their far left sides upon the aging roads they tread.

i'm unwinding blissfully, arrogantly, ignorantly. i hardly know what goes on around my own perimeter, where do i get the gall, the nerve, the inclination that i know better.

i only want to step upon a stage and bang my drum and sing with a proud tightness around my eyes and a wide mouth excreting the biggest words i can think of with abandon.

i want to live with abandon.

i'm a recluse--

trapped in a hole i've dug myself into

can't seem to realise
i'm standing on a ladder

credit to the record spinning
gotta stay till the song is over

it'd ruin the integrity of the artist
to just run out on her mid song

can't hold my breath for too long
cos the water's much too hot
so i guess i'll be comin' out soon

love,
gato

sit on the roof of your house.
stare vacantly at the gouged sockets
blood dribbles upwards.
cars act as cells traveling through capillaries/
aging wrinkles gape upwards from the cement.

below the cement lie
trillions of grains of sand, dust,
dirt, debris,
earth that's been traversed for
years upon years with centuries to
claim to have lived through.

sit on your roof and see
and deep inside this endless
row of palm trees and houses
and buildings and highways/
contained within a sphere that
hovers upon seemingly nothing
swinging by an invisible string
this language calls gravity.

time means nothing to
the tiny bodies of matter
waiting patiently and
quietly, far beneath our feet.

they ponder why the
surface dwellers whine
so much.

all the while, far above
clouds feel the prying eyes
of the many voyeurs,
some thinking of the others.