THERE WAS A NIGHT...

dark and forgettable,

that's how it was
when i slept on your front porch
after the fact, far after the world ended.

then walked
away, still drunk
before you rose:
before you woke.

to this day, never noticed.

that was the night
that hindsight caught up with me.

an idea of you being perfect,

as if there were such a thing.

and how out of love i'd fallen with myself thinking in such ways; i was

further gone than i imagined.

and of course, no one told me, not a friend in sight.  not just even one
pointing me in one direction or another

and i wondered
how i got to that point.

i'm smart, and charming, and hidden well, and so on...

and so

the fact that you lived on the same street as me
didn't make up for the
perfect; fucking cliche metaphor
of the pedestal
i'd conjured up in my mind.

(a place to place you.)

those things didn't happen, nor exist.  why would they?  why
would the universe ever tap you on the shoulder, whisper in your ear; and

then be wrong.
except perhaps he wasn't,  and maybe  never could be.

yet still i divide...
directly in two:  part one

hopes i get a piece of me in the deal,

standing if front of the mail box
waiting for the letter,

"save the date",

the other part existing somewhere else,
another beast all together

a hair extracting skeptical, knees bleeding across the floor, heart: well...
giving all it's got,

not for even one second, "holding it's peace".

not one of which,

are of,
nor ever will be

any of these far worse images conjured up:

an elephant scared of a mouse.
shingles falling on a roofers head,
the same shingles licked slowly across one's tongue,
a different (and of course; somehow better) man fucking you.
the smell of pavement

as it gradually turns a hard, your nose first

experiences, the scent then
up in disgust, and soon high
from the fumes.  high enough to entreat the texture
of the shark as the remora
bites down.

a grain of sand
might as well be the pyramids of giza
when you want something bad enough.

Probably the worst thing about California breaking in half and falling into the ocean is not being able to laugh and point at everyone and say, "Told you so!!!"

THE GHOSTS OF NOTHING

sometimes, in the country

(when even winter is exhausted by itself)

the stillness and the cold forget to argue over

who is more important, 

so they don't.

and all things usually harsh, become soft.

the part of you that used to simply tolerate

wears off, while acceptance creeps in.  

you let it.

the quiet that so easily, once before, haunted your past

allows translation.  it's not your fault she left,

you were always good enough.

the end of august

autumn takes the last
of its luke-warm tongue
and warps it around
the soft seashell ear of summer.

if trees had eyes
september's breeze
would cause them
to roll back into the
forest's canopy. half appauled

by the pleasure, not knowing
what it could possibly mean
having been
seduced into letting go.

for each season without a lover
the heart finds new ways
to compinsate: a bottle of wine

and a good book, a hot bath
or a cold shower.

come spring, the woods give way
to wild flowers, and it starts
all over again. an ephemeral

race for beauty and grace, as your

chances for love close in around you.

CARVE MYSELF A DREAM

some nights i lie awake
and convince myself i'm fine.

that the breeze through
the metal screen is really comfort
calling me for sleep.

though knowing one thing
and pretending another
becomes a cut so fine and deep
it goes unnoticed
until infection.

maybe it's pride
that screams intelligence
is the only help we need.
maybe fooling the mind
enough times can actually
change its make up...to
renegotiate the truth.

but something is telling me
that i'm so very wrong.

that time has never really healed a wound,
just lent itself to getting used to.

the fact is, we're all of us
bleeding from somewhere ripe
trying desperately not to look down.

in the tiny corner of my room
the curtains swell
like giant lungs
then exhale across the bureau,

the book left open
next to the bed stand
has started reading
with a pair unseen hands,

the slightest breeze
which can turn a page stops,
then looks
for a place to keep going.

the night draws out;
a serrated edge on a blade

and i can't remember the last time
i'd met myself
and had something interesting to say.

in the soft quiet of my sheets,
i do the very first thing
that comes to mind, turning
my head ever so slightly,
closing my eyes,

and carve myself a dream.

...so i'm in rutland for the next two weeks before heading for my 7 month adventure in the wild, teaching young minds how to fall in love with the woods. dear god, i'm bored...i don't think i've watched this much tv in my life. it's a pretty damn good thing that there was a battlestar galactica marathon on before the brand spankin' new episode last night. of course, the sobriety doesn't really help. i feel like crawling out of my skin and clubbing someone over the head so that i can take over their body. i'm so bored that i just called my mom and asked her what she was doing..."big lots" she said. i said "what's a big lot?" she laughed and said that she'd call me back. i guess i deserve feeling like this, having put feeling anything at all on hold for years. a haven't gone a week without anything in a long, long, long, real long time...even my pee smells different...like it misses jack daniels and herion. shit bird, this sucks. but all will be well when i get to the woods once more. and my dad won't have to worry about why i'm sleeping for 18 hours a day. i think i'm in love with the chick from "everyday italian," she's got great boobies.

-m-a-t-t-

LIFE, LOVE, SHOPPING, AND SUNSHINE

the sun looks like a daughter
tugging on the back of her mother’s black skirt. one hand
holding tight, the other stretched out like the whole
world could end if she doesn’t get picked up and held.

I spend the morning walking towards the sunrise
as a way to digest the week and more
than anything it’s the calm I morn. and find it unsettling as
the darkness who clings to the greedy half-light of dawn.

I’ve always had this notion that I could fix my life
by over thinking it, that my mind could somehow
rationalize all the things that I’ve done wrong.

it’s one of those days in mid-january
where dead Christmas trees garnish the sidewalks, the
germen shepherd next door only stops when I start
barking back. the coffee shop on the corner percolates
patrons in and out on their way to meet mediocre people
in incredibly important places.

the year’s hottest fashions start to go on sale. and soon
you’ll see that pair of jeans marked down to forty-three
from one hundred and eighty-six.

you’ll shake your head and bite your lip
having bought it...but will do the same thing next year knowing
a moment is the only place to live. because

by that time you’ll forgotten the foresight that's important
for life and love and shopping. the sun will have finally
risen and a new day means a brand new chance

to fuck things all up again.

...when someone 'seems intriguing'...you should read their blog. because after that, it could go either way. i do find you cute though....and intriguing as well...and well, "cute" and "intriguing" can't be too bad a combo. i hope you continue through the long, drawn out, and sometime creepy archives though...they're worth it.

SIX MORE WEEKS OF WINTER

it's the purple dusk of summer
that's kept me around this long. the
phosphorescent warmth dripping down
one side of the inside of my skull and the sun
refusing to go to bed early. it's the scent
of freshly cut grass that's got me sticking
my head out the window of a moving car at night. the
sight of a thousand fireflies blurring in a field
while i'm speeding by. and the desire to get out
before slowing down. to tilt my head at the stars
who scatter like a giant monochromatic jackson pollack
across the sky. it's the being alone that keeps me warm
at night, as if the winter were kind enough to take pity.
self aware enough to wear my own faults like a blanket.
I don’t think that it’s too much to ask, to grab a hold
of the world with both hands, turn it upside down and squeeze
every last drop of life into my dry upturned mouth. to quench
this hidden thirst, as if all things boiled down to two simple
and very clear choices and i couldn't possibly exist
without making one: either say farewell to this tiny ball of dirt,
or fall madly in love with it forever.

FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME TOMORROW

-for kate


...maybe it's just
that time of year? you start
noticing the subtleties
of winter’s sun.

a friend
you've long but seen
starts home. that's what has

you sentimental...

the scent of cold.

even as a child
you can't remember, ever having

felt so scared. it's january,

you're still so very much in love
with someone you've never had
the chance to.

the rain
that's now turned to snow, causes
a blush so very pure and warm, that
it simply caters the blood
towards reminiscing. a blush

starting just below
the ear and then tickling
your clavicle. and it

decides, symbolically of course, to knit
a scarf made out of kisses, from one lobe
to another, the same way i used to.
not hard at all to remember

being so young at that time,

that all we
could possibly do was make mistakes, excelling
with blunders at one another's expense. learning

to simply miss a step
then to keep on dancing unless...

both of us became surprised
at how it came. so natural at falling
from impossible heights,

excited,
un amused,
enticed, and as if landing
wasn't necessary.

tonight,
i played your phone message twice...

to complement my imperfect evening,
by myself in the early morning, maybe
it was just
to hear your voice,
i used to tilt my head
to hear you breathing, this was that same
kind of thing...i just needed
something familiar.

to sleep next to something other
than my pillow.

obviously,
it's just that time of season, everything

falls in small deliberate flakes.

the streetlights type cast with reason,
the snow's decent make the sky ornate...and i still
believe that if i make a wish, that wish
has a chance
and might come true...

dear lord,

...please lift this sorrow

...so i could meet her for the first time,
for the very first time tomorrow.

TIME TO TRAVEL

i remember his mouth
pushing air across the contour
of his lips, except no sound was
coming out as everything else
gave in. i remember the cold

sitting up in the hospital bed
and how that giant white-rolled
paper felt, the kind they'd let
you draw on as a kid. and if i had

some crayons i might graffiti it. a nice
house, some trees, the sun wearing
sunglasses...how i envy him. i wish
someone could have drawn a way

to protect me from myself. so many
words have no meaning. they don't
stand up or carry weight but hide rather
in a sentence. they need their friends

for relevance. though some words
stand alone. like a naked man
on the street, they stick out. and

what an awful face it takes to pronounce
the letter "C". squinting your eyes almost growling
while showing half your teeth. and
the tongue disappearing before it starts
flirting with the "N's" sound, humble
not quiet it lives towards
the roof of the mouth. and "R"
is simply all throat with a quick in and out

and your left staring at an ansel adam's

wondering why in god's name haven't you
been to that place yet?

THE NEON

the neon above my head
flickers in its unnatural rhythm: millerlite.
millerlite. millerlite. miller. they don't
even serve it here anymore but hangs

still. like an old family portrait with
the soft blue background, sweater vests, and sunday bests. each face adorned
with the most perfect smile one could muster
at a Kmart after church. long since
divorced parents hands
resting on their children's shoulders who might be

old enough to drink here by now. and billy
who once loved baseball is leather clad
in the corner. brandishing nose rings, and
skull tattoos, a chain clinging to his wallet.

maybe that's julia, the oldest, leaning over
to ignite on a match held calmly by a man
who won't respect her in the morning.

and that incessant buzzing hums on as
a reminder. what's here today will
be gone tomorrow. that history might
as well be hanging from the walls
of every dive bar in america. a shrine

to things never working out as planned.
and with every sip the buzz gets louder.
drinking to forget in the first place.

I'm not sure what you each need around grandpa but it looks like he's getting ready to finish this lifetime fairly soon. He'll be entering the hospice facility today and their job will be to keep him comfortable...the hospice nurse let me know that she's not certain how much longer he'll hang on and has encouraged me to get down there fairly soon. She'll be calling again later today with an update.

I'd love you all to be there but understand that might not be possible. I'll pay for you tickets etc if you decide to come down. Clearly the decision is yours and I respect whatever decision you make. Let me know what you think ASAP - preferably this evening. I know Matt's at Keewaydin so I will call him there.

Love to you all...and know that Grandpa loved you each for the incredible individuals you each are!

Hugs - MOM

In the end what matters most is:

How well have you lived;

How well have you loved;

How well have you learned to let go?

OPEN INVITATION (NEED ALL READERS HELP)

...i'm getting ready to send out some poems for publication this fall and need all the help that i can get. if you tend to read my blog once and a while and have some spare time on your hands, i'd love to hear which poems are your favorites. i'm looking for around 10 total but am having one hell of a hard time deciding which one's are the best. sometimes you're too close to your writing to actually be able to choose your favorites, or choose them wisely rather. if any of you out there in blog land want to go through my archives and pick your 10 favorite poems in ranking order (1 being your favorite and 10 being your least favorite) it would not only mean a whole lot to me, but it would also be doing me a huge favor. and who knows, maybe with all your help i'll be able to get a few more publications under my belt. just type them up and send them as a comment to this post. if you'd like to tell me who you are that's cool, if you'd rather not mention your name, that's okay too. it'd still be a huge help either way. look at it as a way to give back to the person whose given you countless minutes of mediocre reading material while you're at work/at home/prolonging your homework/getting home drunk from the bar (you know who you are)/ or just stalking me in the only way you know how. thanks again....

-m-a-t-t-h-e-w-j-o-r-d-a-n-m-a-r-r-o-

CARVE MYSELF A DREAM

some nights i lie awake
and convince myself i'm fine.

that the breeze through
the metal screen is really comfort
calling me for sleep.

though knowing one thing
and pretending another
becomes a cut so fine and deep
it goes unnoticed
until infection.

maybe it's pride
that screams intelligence
is the only help we need.
maybe fooling the mind
enough times can actually
change its make up...to
renegotiate the truth.

but something is telling me
that i'm so very wrong.

that time has never really healed a wound,
just lent itself to getting used to.

the fact is, we're all of us
bleeding from somewhere ripe
desperately trying not to look down.

in the tiny corner of my room
the curtains swell
like giant lungs
then exhale across the bureau,

the book left open
next to the bed stand
has started reading
with a pair unseen hands,

the slightest breeze
which can turn a page stops,
then looks
for a place to keep going.

the night draws out;
a serrated edge on a blade

and i can't remember the last time
i'd met myself
and had something interesting to say.

in the soft quiet of my sheets,
i do the very first thing
that comes to mind, turning
my head ever so slightly,
closing my eyes,

to carve myself a dream.

THE FRAMING

maybe it's because we learn
each way save forward?

sideways in our convictions,
experiencing life
with what's peripheral.

it's not that hindsight
has great vision, but rather
that the past stands still
until bumped into again.

there's a winding path
through gentle woods
and wisdom is a river there
if fall asleep next to.

dreaming of stones
shaped by time, i hold
ever close to me.

my heart is so very similar
it astounds me.

made of all
that's passed over it,
blood.
water.
flesh.
love.

the ideas of something
better hinting at, and then
leaving nothing behind
but shape.

carving out the negative space,
around the man

i'm soon to be.

FEELING "YOUNG"

it's the smallest
of gestures that keep me interested,
the tiny things for which i look up.

a blue dress passing my eye, a smile
owning a room, a single ring

out of a bracelet
composed of many falling, too

cheap to clasp back on.

so you fashion it for me
into my very favorite of clichés.

the last of which who still
stands for something:

the shape of a heart.

bringing flirtations
to a recognizable halt, or enough
at least, to re-examine.

another level of how cute we are.
perhaps a small step forward?

i keep wanting to go back, and
ask you out again.

after a thousand tiny dates
of besides the point, under
the unfortunate pretense of simply

being friends.

it took away the edge, leaving assumption
and nervousness behind.

all things real
replaced pretend, so that

we might know each other
slowly.

a single sarcastic comment
at a time, one tiny truth
to hide behind, a field

who mumbles softly
of wild flowers. knowing
of it's beauty, yet afraid

of what it could possibly mean.

i enjoying being here with you, yet
intend to something about it.

LATE JULY

it's mid-afternoon
before the beaten down porch
catches enough of a breeze
to warrant company.

the honey locust clamor
from the heat and july
didn't take the time to be noticed.

i try suggesting a better spot
for the spider interested in real estate.
building condos in the only corner
flies don't vacation to, but the
translation gets lost between
the ashtray and sounds of children playing.

so the enjoyment of my july
is lemonade, the scent
of hibiscus groves from next door, and
the hope i'll fall in love
with something more than these
kinds of moments.

too few and far between
for anything less
than a brief affair.

a small, and fleeting taste
of each other's
eccentricities, like

chocolate flowers
on the finest of pastries,
melting full bloom in ones mouth,
as sweet as the finest summer day...

then gone.

so few things get under my skin. though somethings surly do. using a plant as an ashtray. or putting the milk away, without leaving enough left over for cereal. not all these things in a bad way: one of the most notable would have to be how you always combined your "shrugs with a smile," the indian name i would secretly give you if i had the time to do so. and sense you refused to apologize for a single one of your foibles, i fell in love with them one by one. but not in a comfortable way. but rather like a bandaide being pulled off so slowly that the wound was healed by the time it got there. you always wore your downfalls like a dress i'd take you to dinner in, but which you refused to wear out. i long for the day when i might see it again...commenting on how beautiful you look.

PERIPHERALS

i could understand you know,
if you told me.

how you can
try and love
a family man,

without the time to make one of your own.

the world is always going on without us,
traveling, buying cars, having children, as
proof that they exist.

you can always tell when
someone cares for you, if
they neglect to mention
caring for someone else.