1. |
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A Shooting Between 4th and 5th
Young wannabes
flipping a trashed sofa
back over
for a photo-backdrop
pose outside my apartment,
hoping to add the sleaze
they so desperately, selfishly,
need for their
sound-snap-twinder
profile-picsta-story.
The model displays himself
atop the back supporter
as if he’s at home
with the homeless,
who most likely
waddled away with
the orange couch cushions
a night or so ago.
The photographer,
with her phone,
crouches down in the gutter
copying moves she’s seen
in viral videos
or cheap montages
in Hollywood movies.
Her fingers aggressively tap
the camera screen,
shooting pics as fast as
trigger fingers drop shells,
as if fearful
a parking-starved commuter
will take her out,
knees first,
and park his gas-guzzling
shit-box on top of her
just so he can scurry
back up on home
and scratch that beer- itch
that’s gnawed at
the back of his aching
nine-to-five neck
since nine o’ five A.M.
that very morning.
When the duo used
up the whole scene,
copying every display
from various rap record covers,
they slink away together,
shoulder to shoulder
to check their score
and leave behind
the tattered old sofa
like a cheap
over the hill hooker
in her dingy hotel room.
As my attention
begins to wander
from my window
I imagine the sight
of its original owner
clambering out their
apartment to the
orphaned hunk of furniture,
calling out to
the photogenic degenerates
claiming ownership
and some form
of compensation.
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2. |
Take A Breath
03:14
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Take A Breath
There are those that boast
they can peek over
the peaks of mountains,
predict the changing coast,
and see behind the scenes
that slumber beneath
the blinding man-made mists.
Those regurgitating the routines
like overflowing fountains
slurping up the scum
back into the old machines.
Here they come
to claim the world.
Opening their purses,
rattling their pearls.
Quietly snatching
all and every attention.
Spinning cheap words
to hypnotic gold
from beyond the facade
the puppeteers have produced.
Those faithless false prophets,
upon their platforms
for their own profit.
But I guess, I’ll just take a breath.
You should not ask
what the dollar can do for you,
but what did you do for the dollar?
Cause Cain paid a price
and Abel got off easy.
For death is precise
while life is pretty hazy.
Masses forgetting
even the divine can
live inside empty pockets.
Desperate women,
Desperate men,
fighting tooth and nail
at turned tables,
watching sadly as
billards clack,
smack,
crash,
goodbye cash!
Watching the win
rolling with the lopsided
where Suits and Ties
with crooked smiles
wait impatiently
beaming with palms out and open,
preaching greed gospels
like,
‘Well too bad!
‘If you can get it,
take it,
if you got it,
add!’
But I guess, I’ll just take a breath.
Making mantras from mementos
the psalms of fake philanthropists
are illustrated in ink
upon the thin-skin few,
covering up their character
with every spouted slogan,
just as soon surprised
they all come to find
that what they’ve internalized
from their influencers
now leaves scars
upon their hearts and minds.
Blinded, the Lost clamber,
clapping against dust riddled floorboards
with hands waving wild and unsure,
as thoughts move across
winding walkways soaked
in the venom of double-cross.
Met with regret,
anger takes a step forth,
disgust too of course,
Some with stones and nails
held hand-in-hand
they stand prepared
to judge their new kings.
they have not yet
fully understood.
These players do not
HAVE to dictate their dialogue.
Nor direct our plays.
Each are given the same blank script
as the rest of us extras.
But I guess, I’ll just take a breath.
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3. |
Stained Glass
03:01
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Stained Glass
I used to make stories from stained glass.
Constructing characters from the colors
I made worlds from the light
and universes from the shadows
while sitting, rather fitting, in the house of God.
I used to make stories from stained glass
and overflow numberless lifeless pages,
but recently these narratives have run dry
as if I emptied my glass, bar-side,
without another dollar or tale to tell.
I used to make stories from stained glass
now the landscapes don’t form anymore
since realities have infected my dreams
and de-construct the building blocks
I stacked during my younger days.
I used to make stories from stained glass
so one can understand when I wonder
if this will ever start to pass,
this dark cloud ever growing over
from this day till my last.
I used to make stories from stained glass
but still I envision those intricate shapes
that once populated my imagination;
peering, striving, to see something again
so to never forget who I was once then.
I used to make stories from stained glass.
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Katcheen Tongues Los Angeles, California
Katcheen Tongues is a Philly/L.A. based art collective focused on fusing music and observational rhythmic poetry, wading in the waters of avant-folk and lofi psychedelia.
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