Gross
27 September 2011
By Jason Fresh
My daughter paints. My mother cries. My heart waits for the sternum to open, the soul to show the world something greater than I, the family to come around and finally let go of these ties.
I’ve tried so hard to be free. I talk about freedom during most conversations. A friend says, “Hey, Ortiz had a few good rounds and that was some shady shit while he was looking at the referee.” I say, “What does freedom really free, asshole?” “I was talking about the Floyd Mayweather fight.” “And I want to talk about your illusions of freedom.”
It is pretty fucking gross. Most people I talk to are pretty fucking gross, gross like assumptions about another, gross like pontificating on academic topics while the girl with big tits listens – the one who wants to feel smart, gross like smartness, gross like talks about boxing when we should be talking about freedom, gross like that dumb song that goes ‘everybody clap your hands, now criss-cross’, gross like comedy addressing, addressing, and addressing the same old topics. Fuck. Old Hank was right. It is all pretty fucking gross. The day awakens me, I sing some song logged in my spine; I break into a yoga pose - the only thing I can do that is not gross. Cheesy, sweaty, yoga asses bend over, push over, and fold. They used to turn me on – give me an erection. Now, well, now it just seems fucking gross.
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