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Matterhorn Apr 2019
The subtle whishing
Of flowing gasoline
Sets the mood;
An ugly, teal-colored,
German-engineered insect
Rolls up to the pump
Alongside mine.
I note the empty car seat
Cramped in the back
As she steps out,
Her balayage-curls swishing
As she flashes me
A cursory,
Carefree smile.
Grinning stupidly back,
My eyes gloss over;
Déjà vu grips me and
I search my memory
For her face—

The insect scuttles off;
My tank is full.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Matterhorn Dec 2018
scene I:

a squirrel
in the road,
cars whizzing by
left and right,
narrowly missing
the fearless traveler
by the shortest hair
of its bushy tail.

scene II:

a young bird
in a nest,
screeching loudly
as a human child does,
though not for fear
or hunger,
but anticipation;
then leaping into unknown vastness.

scene III:

a caterpillar
traversing a leaf,
the green ground
shifting, swaying,
as the teenage insect
searches for the place,
the perfect place,
for a coming of age.

scene IV:

an ant
building,
laboring feverishly,
driven by pure instinct,
innate obligation—
perhaps love?—
to create a world
it likely will not see.

scene V:

a mantis
praying,
a final worship
to an unseen,
unknown God,
preparing for the ultimate,
honorable sacrifice,
to be unremembered by his brood.

scene VI:

a grizzly
charging through the brush,
a mad fear in her eyes,
in her heart,
as she bull-rushes
the two barrels
that threaten her only child
and will surely take her.

scene VII:

a rebel flag
emblazoned on the
rear window of the truck,
the truck driven by a man
who cares little that
his 7/11 cup now lays by
the side of the road,
or for the journey he just ended.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2018
Matterhorn Apr 2019
Doggy paddle isn't swimming,
It's "active drowning."
The little pieces of information
Learned in the conference room of a YMCA,
Preparation to carry a red tube
And sit in a chair, observing;
To preside over age extremes
Swimming to and fro.

I sit in my chair
Carefully keeping track
As people come in and out of the room.
Someone comes up to me;
I stand up, shake their hand,
And maintain eye contact just as I was taught.
They walk away, leaving me to sink
Deeper and deeper into this chair.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Matterhorn Nov 2018
Graphite looks nice in the light,
Like stars in a pitch black night,
Words popping like popcorn...

I’m torn;
Why do the girls over there laugh at me?
Am I like some comedy act—but free?
Perhaps it’s my face
Or the way I like to trace
These words on this table,
These little meaningless fables
Flowing straight from my mind,
Only to be left behind
On this starry night sky,
Installed by some guy
That nobody knows
Or remembers when he goes...
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2018
Matterhorn Feb 2019
Across the room,
Through the undulating mass;
Somehow, we discover,
Inexplicably,
Each other's eyes.
She holds my gaze for but a moment,
Then quickly looks away,
Timidly brushing aside a curly strand of hair,
Staring anywhere else.

In the corridor,
Swiftly walking, pushing and shoving;
Our eyes meet once again,
And again,
Her pupils dart immediately to the left or right,
Studying the wall,
Suddenly in love with the smeared fingerprints and tacky posters.
I silently hope to be perceived once again
As she disappears.

Often, it seems
This process repeats.
Who is she?
What is her name?
How is it that, without fail,
We find each other
In one world or another,
One intrigued, the other embarrassed?
For the sake of the miracle, I refuse to know.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Matterhorn Dec 2018
little treeling
reaching down into ground
attempting life
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2018
Matterhorn May 2019
An onomatopoeia
From another time,
And yet metastasized into this age
Of silent computation—
Faster than thought.
Seamless auditory stimulation
Permeates;
Many cannot go without a soundtrack
In which to willfully drown.

Click...whirrr...
Another ubiquitous day dawns;
The moon falls and the sun rises
And the bright little creature
Emerges from the darkness
To end the oblivion,
To replace,
To put an end to the silent pain.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Matterhorn Dec 2018
He awoke.

His eyes opened slowly with a purposeful slowness; an action that for most people is the beginning of their life was, for him, a procrastination.

He arose.

The floor felt cold, unwelcoming as he stumbled reluctantly to the sink. The bristles rasped against his teeth, gums bleeding out of spite.

He entered.

Breakfast—a lonely egg, boring toast—entered his body; each bite was scooped with the utilitarian vigor of one who is no longer enchanted by food, yet the relationship must continue: a compulsory marriage without option for divorce. This discomfort washed down with lemon-water.

He contemplated.

Thoughts, those musings that are feared, condemned by most and yet became the greatest of comforts for him, reminded him that one day it all would end and he would be free.

He wasted.

He stretched out his hands, offering up his life force in the daily sacrifice to the eager god that, in return, lit up with the brightness of a thousand stars that blinded him from all that he wished not to see.

He showered.

Cold water ran down his soul, icing the most superficial inflammations while taunting the deepest wounds; no matter how long he remained behind the curtain, there would be no true respite.

He returned.

The blackness beckoned. He entered willingly, surrendering himself to the dark embrace of that demonic respite, his beloved above all others.

He died, once again.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2018
Matterhorn Jan 2019
I got too close;
I had to take a step back.
Here I stand,
Trying to catch my breath.
There you are,
Looking so wonderful;
Even a Kerouac haiku
Would pale in comparison
To your sparkling smile,
Your huge, engrossing brown eyes,
And your tender words
That put my restless soul at ease.
You spend more time in my mind
Than even my own thoughts;
I miss your touch,
But you do not miss mine.
You don’t know;
How could you?
I never told you.
And you will never know
How much of my heart you have stolen.
You are the most beautiful—
And unwitting—
Of thieves.
There is nothing to do
But stand over here,
Hoping that you somehow understand
Why I can’t meet your gaze
Anymore.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Matterhorn Feb 2019
“Read my poetry,”
I say daily;
I hope that some day
You will do so,
And that then you may know my heart:

For you, and only you,
It beats within my breast.
Every waking moment it aches—
Yearns!—
For you, and yet there may be no peace,
No cessation to this injury;
Perhaps you have chosen another,
Or perhaps it is simply not meant to be.
Regardless, my heart remains
Forever yours, forever broken.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Matterhorn Feb 2019
I hope you know,
I don’t blame you
For the pain you bring.

One does not blame
Alcohol for alcoholism,
One blames the alcoholic;

One could not claim
Heroine causes addiction,
As it is the addict
Who becomes addicted;

Likewise, it would be unfair
To point the finger
At the beloved,
For it is the lover
Who chooses to love.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Matterhorn Mar 2019
i had a dream
the other night,
which was strange, since
i hadn't had a
comprehensible night-musing
for the longest time...

a baby bird
steps out onto a branch,
full of anxiety,
then falls to meet
it's demise.

a mother clutches her child
close to her heart
as the oxygen masks
fall from the sky.

a ****** pulls at the cord
repeatedly,
but to no avail.

a dolphin struggles
desperately to escape the net, choking slowly.

i plummet toward crag and surf.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019

Btw, I love dolphins.
Matterhorn Apr 2019
I dread the sunrise each morning.

Even darkness,
My oldest friend,
Abandons me each day
To fend for myself
In the world, naked, exposed,
Alone and unprepared.

They reach out to me,
A warm,
Welcoming embrace,
Tentacles licking at my stiff heart strings,
Striking up a tune
More melancholy than a funeral dirge.

I can't help but to fall into a trance;
They whirl me around
And I easily keep step
With their back-and-forth dance,
Slipping and sliding
On angry tears mixed with mucus.

Finally, I've had enough of the dance...
I push away the monsters,
Hurling sticks and stones
And laughing coldly, unfeelingly
As they hiss in surprised pain;
Tentacles recoil.

And I retreat back to my hole.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Matterhorn Jan 2019
As I do every day,
I sit in my silver Altima;
Joss Stone serenades
My damaged soul,
Lifting my spirits as I turn the volume
Up and up,
Drowning out the jeering throng of my peers
And my heart's own anguished cries.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Matterhorn Jan 2019
There is no escape
From the ruthless, wrathful scourge
Of my intestines
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Matterhorn Nov 2018
An empty room,
Full of ancient boxes
And *******
And other discarded things,
Accumulated over
Years and years;
But still, emptiness.

I return to this
Room more often than not
When I am
Trying to remember them,
Remember the things I
Left behind;
But they are gone.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2018
Matterhorn Feb 2019
There are plenty of fish in the sea;
I should know,
I'm SCUBA certified.

And yet,
It feels as though the reefs
That I frequent
Have stagnated,
Colors weakening.

Perhaps I spend too much time
In the shallows,
Where every kick
Throws up silt,
Stifling the corals and choking the fish.

Fading beauty or
Compromised visibility;
Who's to say
Which plays the bigger part
In my dissatisfaction?

Who knows?
Maybe I just need to switch
To hiking.
© Ethan M. Pfahning
Matterhorn Mar 2019
I start to back into a spot,
Then they drive in front or behind, rushing
Somewhere; those people are the worst.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Matterhorn Apr 2019
A lone plastic bag
Of unknown, mysterious origin,
Now floats, heaven-bound.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Matterhorn Feb 2019
Picture a meadow:
Sheep graze peacefully,
Happily bleating
At one another and
Moving together,
Obliviously, to and fro in a sort of
Natural harmony.

Yet none stray too near
The treeline
At the edge,
For within the dense foliage,
The dark shadow,
Awaits sharp yellow teeth
And a swift end to peace.

A lone sheepdog watches
Over this flock,
Carefully, suspiciously,
Scrutinizing each member,
Searching vigorously, endlessly
For a hint of gray fur
Somewhere in all the wool.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Matterhorn Feb 2019
Walking into the building:
Cold parking lot,
****** music blaring from that lifted truck,
People honking;

Glass doors,
Short, insufficient eye contact,
"Good morning!" from the lady who guards the door
With a laptop and a forced smile;

Quick strides,
A pinball-like dance,
Yelling, screaming, arguing, sometimes fighting,
Fake greetings and meaningful silences;

A tiny bubble of social-media-manufactured society,
Without the trials and tribulations
That make one human
Or the experience that makes one sensible;

I can't ******* wait to graduate.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Matterhorn Jan 2019
Rain drip dropping
On the outside of my bivy sack
Cold air, breathing
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Matterhorn Nov 2018
Ever think that the world
Does nothing but tear us up
And beat us down
Because it knows that it is just
A ball of dirt
And we are made of stars?
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2018
Matterhorn Jan 2019
From the back of the line—
Well, second to the back—
I see her there;
She is beautiful:
Piercing blue eyes,
Wavy brunette,
Sharp, cute nose,
Striking chin;
She is beautiful
Like the other two she is with—
Yet with the melancholy in her jewel-eyes,
More so.

She is much prettier
Than your average third-wheel;
And yet there she stands,
Waving a dismissive hand
At the offer of her two friends—
A couple, hands all over each other;
It is difficult to tell
Whose hands are whose—
To pay for her coffee;
She pays for her own.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Matterhorn Apr 2019
Once again, lying in bed,
The day's events
Flowing through my head
Like a movie
I don't want to see.

The dreams come and go.
I push them aside,
Each time wishing they would return;
They don't, of course.
Why would they?

I see her eyes—
His eyes—
Their eyes,
Painted on the back of my eyelids
Like graffiti on the silver screen.

Covers pulled over my head
Only serve to catch the vapor of my breath;
The click-clacking of a beast in the hall,
The quiet tick-tocking of a distant clock
Still permeate.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Matterhorn Apr 2019
It's been twenty minutes
And I haven't seen his eyes.
He blew his nose twice,
Sneezed once.
One time,
I saw him eat—
That was days ago, though.
His fingers tip-tap
On the click-clacking keys,
Hands moving faster
Than the greatest gunfighter.
He would never have
The patience or desire
To duel me, however.
I can't decide which I want:
To smash his face into the keyboard
Or to wrap him in fraternal embrace
Until he remembers he is human;
So I just sit motionless on the couch,
Guiltier than he.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Matterhorn Dec 2018
the other night,
i had a dream;
usually,
i don’t remember
my dreams—
those unconscious
musings
of my mind—
but this night
was different;
maybe it had
something to do
with the fact
that i had fallen
in the shower
half an hour
before laying it
down on the
pillow...

...a trickle of
blood running
down my forehead,
transforming quite
alarmingly into
a babbling brook
consisting entirely
of chocolate milk;
my raft bobbed
up and down,
the demon who
haunts my nightmares
now clad in a
tuxedo—
a nice change
from the bright
pink trench coat
he usually wears...

...the demon’s
strong hands
propel the
craft forward
with a rather
Huckleberry Finn-like
affectation;
i turn my
attention from
my oldest friend
to the shore,
sparkling with
broken glass,
thumbtacks,
and mathematical
equations;
there,
i glimpse my classmates
doing burpees...

...suddenly,
a car crash
occurs;
the chocolate milk
becomes a very
narrow,
winding road,
the end of which
is obscured by
an angsty cloud
of disappointment;
the elevator
plummets horizontally toward
the 3rd sub-basement
of the shower;
my friend in
the tuxedo offers me
a steaming
cup of hot chocolate...

...which burned
my tongue,
causing me to cackle
wildly
and toss the
mug into the
abyss;
“******* cup!”
i scream,
utilizing my
full lung capacity
as i begin to
fall again,
down,
down,
down;
and then i was awake,
sweating, bleeding;
i may have a concussion...
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2018
Matterhorn Dec 2018
a dark place,
dingy and cobwebbed:
the forlorn basement
below an unfinished house;
there is no hope
of an HGTV house-flip
or a makeover
or the sort of boring/heartwarming story
where some nice white family
—or conveniently diverse—
sets up shop,
smash-cuts through a renovation
and gets their dream home.

no,
the house will remain gloomy,
this basement filled with emptiness;
no one desires
to come through the door,
no one except the tweakers
and the vagabonds
and the runaways,
the ****** and the pimps,
the celebrities and psychiatrists,
the demons and the ghosts,
the preachers and their seething
congregations of judgmental ******
that live across the street,
and the ***** teenagers
hunting for a place to try out ***.

no cleaning crew
or maid service
or organize-your-life guru
or even the most experienced
of all the world’s janitors
could enter this house and clean it
or beautify this basement
or disenfranchise the squatters within;
the neighbors just try
and demolish it
every chance they get,
to rid their sparkling, spotless community
of this disgusting eyesore.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2018
Matterhorn Feb 2019
I wonder,
Do you hold others
To the same exacting standard
As your razor-sharp bangs?
Is that why I've never
Heard your voice?
Why I've never seen your mouth
Form any other expression than that
Pretty, perfect grimace?
"You have beautiful eyes,"
I want to say;
But they remain downcast,
Accentuating your general
Aura of discomfort.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Matterhorn Jan 2019
Headphones in,
Blasting something
Far more interesting than
The ramblings that issue from
Between my teeth.
She's a masterpiece.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019

— The End —