a medallion hangs on the christmas tree;
somebody is proud of something.
whether this medallion hangs alone
is beside the point.
the glittery streamers still fall by the sides,
and the scattered lights still shine bright.
behind the tree stands a coffee table.
upon it a family photograph.
somebody is proud of something.
The candle is lit,
like muse taking notice
of itself.
/
The chair rocks beside
its sill;
the wind raises feathers
before its face.
/
The sunken ship befalls
its final toll,
though no one hears,
no not a soul.
/
The lucidity
before dawn, forgotten,
by night.
/
The elevator reaches the fifth floor, opens its doors;
out walks the moon, asleep.
/
“What of this?”
-the floorboard seemed to creak.
/
Left are notes rung sharp,
out of tune by the same cold
that set dawn’s blood shot eyes
closed through the morning door.
/
“Tomorrow take the stairs
and bring home supplies:
a candle awaits your muse.”
-read a note tucked inside
the overdue library book,
drunkenly placed in the briefcase
the evening before.
“I work hard to be the disaster that I am;
at least I’m no worse.”
/
Leaves are in the blender now.
Books neither sleep nor
change through the seasons.
/
“This isn’t a falling out—
this is beginning every time
from the bottom.”
/
To the steel of resistance,
to the absurdity,
to the swarming mass
defying physics,
we now write.
finally i asked,
“do you want to hear my story?”
eyes fragile and hands relieved,
i spoke in deep breaths—
recitation like poetry.
the life of the inside
rolled out between us
in a muse of remembrance,
resolve, and fortune.
the lining of the clouds
shined silver,
like eyes opening after winter.
the hold of the desk chair
knows how to let go.
it throws me, inside and out,
backwards, sublimely
into and out of
my self.
i catch my balance,
fix the hold,
and swirl till i’m facing
the open window;
sun shining through.
I turn the apple in my hand,
and out falls its seed.
A tiny plop on my palm,
becomes all that I need.
View Larger Arcata, CA
Good morning beautiful
/
My first thought upon waking this morning
was “good morning beautiful.”
I sleep next to a window with a view
of redwood trees and small town charm.
In the morning water dances with the sun;
crystallization in its essence,
surrender in its existence:
It has the most beautiful role
in the cycle of life.
/
With that as precedence,
My next thought is on the human body in love:
a parade through the jugular,
a jazz concert of the heart,
and humans holding hands, everywhere!
Like the coming together
of synapses—long awaited
to be put together again.
/
A deep breath brings this body to existence.
A courageous step brings this body to essence.
-Matt l.
I wish that there were less convenience in our lives. that in order to hear a song, we had to find the radio, or the record player and the record. hell i wish that we had to go to the jazz cafe or the concert hall or the high school or the university to hear music. i wish that we still had to go to the library to find new things to read. i wish that we had to search the reference list of a book to find books like it and then use calling cards to find those books. and i wish that typewriters were the best we’ve got. we type into microsoft word like zombies playing on a pinball machine.
but i guess that isn’t truly what i wish. that’s old technology. i wish that we understood the access that we have. i wish that we were more sensitive to the proceses in which we act. i wish that we hung on words and notes just a little longer. i wish that we could sit into our chairs without fidgeting across the desk table in search of something entertaining.
i guess i would switch that we with i and then just do the damn thing.
When the consciousness is broken into by an emotion
poignant and sad,
the whole body moves
in the direction of the wind.
Thoughts cease to be tallied and calculated
and those processes are unveiled
(for something more).
They resemble a harbor.
Nostalgia rises from the decks of ships.
We remember the steer.
/
The tide is surely coming-
but with it comes a storm.
Beneath us currents battle
against the norm.
Above us, the sun
is closeted by clouds.
Before us, a wall of rain
surrounds.
/
We—of course just merely standing on the pier—
wait for a hand to help us build a boat.
We imagine the woodwork, the process,
the sweat and the passion.
We dream of the first sail (as if it were towards eternity’s horizon!).
/
Alone we stand there.
Alone we gaze.
Alone we are stuck
between walls of rain.
Alone we long to care!
/
To care for the building of an instrument of wood,
natural and able to move forward—
able to go against the storm—
able to meet the sea and the emotions
beneath with more than just our feet
upon the pier.
/
We wait for someone to kiss this tear.
Your eyes are beautiful
/
The stars I feel have lost their shine—
replaced with gloomy life, chagrin.
It is to this that I wish to speak.
To you again I’d like to speak
of the newness of stars.
/
Your eyes are beautiful.
They captivate my senses.
Your intention is unquestionable.
From heaviness comes lightness.
/
A long time ago I wished upon stars.
Now I rest with reason.
I want nothing but your eyes
and all that they behold.
/
I want to find truth with you. Together, we can dance upon it,
laugh at it, pull and push it,
moving out to sea.
/
We find ourselves and then breathe together.
We hold each other and then become lovers.
We dream of lighthouses at night and lasting candles by day.
Our solitude remains, but our loneliness escapes.
Our virtues intertwined, our smiles, combined-
we are two dancers in a ballroom.
The chandelier reminds me of the way the stars shined
right before I met you— an artificial construction.
Now I can revel in your eyes, more beautiful than a gallery
of chandeliers beneath the full moon, more beautiful
than any star I ever knew.
Wood fire
/
I watched you sitting by the wood fire,
outside at night surrounded by redwoods.
You wore a brown flannel and a gray scarf,
and held your hands above the flame.
There was a warm correspondence in the air.
You had built the fire yourself.
/
The wind picked up
and the flame jumped towards you.
Chills ran down my spine, as you pulled
your hands from the wood fire.
/
I stood there, next to a redwood,
frozen—trying to figure out
how to speak, to you, from afar.
At this hour of the night,
I dare not approach without precedence.
/
An owl hoo-ed behind me.
The girl, moved by the sentiment,
Looked towards the origin of sound.
She saw me; I saw her.
We both had fear.
/
Time went by.
Silence.
Stillness.
/
“I was just walking around
and then I saw you
and I’m a poet
and you are beautiful.
The scene is beautiful.
That’s why I stayed, watching.
I can gather more wood.
I’m cold, and could use a wood fire.”
/
I gathered the wood,
brought it to the fire.
I placed pieces strategically,
like words in a sentence of a poem.
/
It must have been 9 o’clock.
I sat down at the 9, you
were sitting at the 12.
/
I placed my hands above the fire.
Soon enough the wind came—the
flame jumped. I pulled back
my hands and chills may have
run down your spine.
/
“This is good,” I said
