Identity is a lifelong invention and the whole world is a costume party, so I’m inventing a man who clothes himself in snowstorms and papers his walls with poetry. He holds his ceiling up with songs and makes an attic of his voice. He brings randomness home like a stray dog. His house fills up with it. He’s gone the way of the moth and the busted chiffarobe, the cracked plate, the empty bottle. He is the stuff of dream worlds dreaming themselves beyond a river of blue horses where bridges dare not cross. Search him out in those secret places between soul and shadow. Find him beneath caves of oak and poplar limbs where the moon makes its home, cast in the fractal magic of bare branches clicking against a sky so flat it could be the celuloid of winter. Seek past the stonewall still scattering, the gap, and the swinging gate. Turn stick and turn stone. Worship in the cathedral of snail shells wet with frost melt on the rocky turf of morning. I am all these places in spirit and in spite.
hi matt. it is good to hear from you. i haven't seen you around in a while. i adore poetry so thank you for sharing yours. the record exec nods off is my favorite. keep it coming.
I got to say...I absolutely love Arrival in Strange Lights. You've made me feel so inferior that I don't know if I will ever be able to make eye contact with you again...and will certainly never allow you to read any of my poetry. There is no comparison. Bravo.
