Spelling Bee

Do you find it
boring
to spell out the word
"subconscious"?

Not the way I spell it.

Many step onto the first "S"
as if it were
a dirty rain puddle,
but I'm sufficiently alert
and can see that one must dive
into the word's application,
nimbly rummage through the

annals of its history
before conducting one word
in or against its favor.

Glide downward
through the
rhythmically breathing curves
of the voluptuous prefix,
"sub-",
as you begin
dreaming
further
down
towards the comatose
of the rickety construction

that is your superego,
to the "you"
no one knows about
in clear daylight
(even the mirror).

Minor turbulence
may occur
within the rest,
"-conscious",
just a few jagged rocks
stirred into Cloud Nine
to alter your perceptions
like a face hit by a bus.

This is the meat of your matter,
the acidic ruptures
that only the most cunning
infiltrators
can identify and nudge
with their index fingers
using a painful precision,
the dirty band of undergarments
that always seem to loiter behind
in the town laundromat.

But a jagged rock
is a jagged rock,
never eternally bordering
the outline of the planet,
just lodged within the corners

of your comfort zone,
their presence

a necessary evil

for the times you must steer
through the swarms of cataracts

and endure the exrcuciating agony
of becoming a better human being.

You launch yourself
from your adolescent crutches
like the roots of teeth
erupting from the base of the jaw
and prevent single definition,

hack away the tentacles

of emotional paralysis,

by remembering to mend

the tear between

two polar halves,

"sub

conscious."

Under your false promises,
your Freudian timeline,
your ever-quivering Id...
every single one of you.

Salad Bar

Melting pots are for racists.

The USA is a salad bowl.

The student lounge features

the veggies at their ripest,

collecting oxygen amongst themselves,

for the corn cannot exist

with the broccoli,

and so on

and so forth.

Don't even mention

fruits

to the potatoes.

And the tomatoes,

they're just weird, man,

don't even know

what they are.

We are all at our most

savory and nutritious,

our youthful wisdom

emanating through our

concrete set of hues.

The chili peppers emanate a color

as red as the blood

of their ancestral martyrdom,

no other color,

just red.

Same for the cucumbers

with hearts so coolly refrigerated,

taking forest green,

taking pastel green

with just a few drops

of ivory-scented beige

tucked neatly behind

walls of bamboo-level peels.

The voices of the onions

thud onto the floor

as if being catapulted

from cumulonimbus peaks,

causing the Iceberg lettuce

to almost drown in its own

dressing.

Lady Liberty,

a series of

produce section fragments

sitting much too sternly

with no regard for sprawling.

In the same bowl, though!

Small Recollection of my Day

I wrote the words.

And it felt
like I was making love
to the air.

Silence

Silence is a lake
resting equilibrium
before the shock waves.