"matts" poems
It was about fifteen years ago
No romantic notions
No grand stories
Just another part of my strange journey
For a high school dropout
It was a wooden bed
In a blue storage trailer
One and a half month long
Sleep deprived
Long drive
From site to site
One week
Per city
Doing my laundry
At laundry matts
With strange pretty girls
Hanging at a bar
Playing slutty slot machines
No drinking
Cause I was only nineteen
It was two vets
From different wars
Smoking *** in the morning
It was my first *** buzz
Staring stupidly up
At the ceiling
The strangest set of strangers
Bathing in the back of a semi
Getting lunch with a lemon punch
Using carny credit
It was sketching for a distraction
No artistic satisfaction
Very few journal entries
And those journals are now lost
Searching for myself
As all young men do
In the end it was just another job
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 6:38 AM UTC
“Amanda,” she said, in a bold assertion
“We really are the same
Person.” Limp in the dew and
Wise like a sage, no wound cut
No blood shed, yet,
There was something this
Bandage shut,
Something yawning, gaping
But I don’t know what…
How sad! She’s crying, that Amanda,
Shrugging ‘gainst the colic rain
And almost lost in the copes-y veranda,
Weeping softly on
Those concrete flats, wearing “Red Tom’s
And” both “Dating Matts” while
I saw her fear in that moment, appalling, stalling
With soroitous heart, “and fear of falling!”
Binding them tightly: “That’s US haha!”
How many laughs does a limp spirit draw?
—(a disparaged few or none at all…)
Still, she writes, “I am so glad” (a huff annoyed
From Amanda, distant and sad, that I
Can’t tell why “you” ever “joined.”)
But this is not my place, a passerby,
To pick up trash, inane and lonely,
To cast my judgments and inquire—why?
To heal the unbroken with words unspoken
But scratched on refuse, she may
“[heart] you” but refuse you, too
The spirit of [heart] in Amanda awoken
—(But she refused it, too!)
And then be a token
Some stranger takes home.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 7:52 AM UTC
Indigo darling,
Puff disappeared
so I stopped reading your poems,
I didn't know
Puff turned purple
but now I'm reading
now I'm reeling
Indigo darling
put your gloves on
wrap a scarf around your slender neck-
it's winter now
and the world to you
might seem mighty cold
so keep wrapped up tight
keep warm through the harsh winds
and dreary rain
that matts your envious mane
Indigo darling
look at your hot breath
in the cold air
know that you're alive
and human
and nothing can be more beautiful
Indigo I think of your smile
and soul
and century-old eyes
that glisten like stars
mapping out your past
and hopes and dreams
Indigo darling
you are loved
by many
by all
by I
Indigo darling
don't harm yourself so
don't say unkind words
you don't deserve that,
know that it's winter
clouds are overhead
but the sun lies just underneath
just wait
just wait
eat well
and breath
and adventure
don't you dare weigh yourself
until those clouds break
the holidays are gone
and the sun's warmth
can wrap around your slender neck
and lighten your hair
and blare brilliantly
off your pale hands
reaching to the sky
thinking philosopher's thoughts
Indigo darling
let that warmth touch your heart
because you can say unkind words
and shake your head at the mirror
and stamp your feet at the scale
but these things
won't stop the world from loving you
it won't stop the truth
so Indigo darling
write a happy poem
wander up a mountain
and please
just stay warm
stay warm
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 7:51 PM UTC
concentration camp of my emotions
every statement i make gives the feeling of fake. its been less then a day and already i want to say, **** this is tough I’ve almost had enough. i have to lock down my thoughts like there are spotlights searching for any escaping expressions. I’ve put limitations on my own emotions all I’m allowed to show is pity for my self, hell id rather off my self. the situation isn’t a cold war the glass cover over the launch button is shut, crisis averted we can all go back to being automatons emotionless, cold like stone statues buried under the field. i can’t even share what is going on in my head without a censor bar blocking because i feel like its too shocking and it would be mocking the proposal i composed. I’m allowing myself to believe in a false sense breathing in false cents. I’ve never felt so uncomfortable to talk to someone who, when we walk made me feel….. well a lot. this situation is unbearable but i don’t know how to coupe without my fix. my mom said i need new kicks because theres holes in it but my heart is fit for a good stitch but nobody has a sewing kit. why do i continue to push when the door says pull i guess I’m just not on the ball when i fall. i don’t check the ground first. i didn’t look to see if there were matts to brace my impact, no i just fell and said “oh well” i sprained my leg but broke my heart. I’m in a camp where my emotion is lined against a wall and publicly shot on the spot, red lead hits the spot as emotions drop motionless its pure hopelessness and god **** do i miss it already. the word freedom has no meaning, theres no formal greeting in prison just keep your head down and hope for the best walking in a crowd wearing similar striped attire all tiered looking somehow wired to string strung and hung down from the set. the puppet masters pet. i don’t know where this all will go but i know……….. i don’t know but I’ve lost hope years ago.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC
When I realized I had fallen in love with you
I slit my wrists to stop the bleeding.
I used threads of your hair I had stolen,
from a voodoo doll to sew them up.
But it seeped through my sleeves so I tye dyed
my shirt with phlegm, feces, and ****
After it was dry it looked like your face,
like finding Jesus or Mary on a pancake or in coffee.
You're my messiah and I would wash your feet
with my hair but I haven't any, cause I shaved it off
when you left.
I wear hats all day now, my head gets cold, and the beanies
smell like hair oil, shampoo, and follicles.
And sometimes I wonder what you would think,
of the way my hair matts down from the pressure and heat.
Kind of like the way you bedded me down with the same,
weight and warmth of blankets and body hair.
What do you do when you haven't eaten all day
and you're scared of being fatter than your significant other?
Paint your nails **** red and hope your heels are high enough on Saturday.
Oct 24, 2011
Oct 24, 2011 at 5:15 PM UTC
I close my eyes and dream of winters so pretty that even angels sigh at the scene
cascading snowflakes softly falling, in shapes of doilies and paper ruffle dollies
Winter hats and muffle mitts of red, snowman whispers as red sled rides go by
carnival rides and children full of chide, what a wonderful world of white...
A winter scent of magic, white deer and shadowed antlers of incandescent wood
log cabins with fireplaces and verandas with copper foot welcome matts, come in
make yourself comfortable while the kettle roars to life, tea toddler or coffee lover?
Enter into our little jovial cottage story and stay a while.
Jan 5, 2022
Jan 5, 2022 at 10:37 PM UTC
I have a name
One of those names you leave on welcome mats, but don't leave a key under because you're afraid of letting someone in.
Its easy to dust your feet off on me.
You do so everytime you leave this half empty house
I'm easy to leave
You don't think twice about making sure the door is locked
You don't linger on the porch steps near my name
If the house was on fire, I'd be the very last thing you'd save.
You don't bring me inside in the winter
I'm a placeholder
I keep the dirt from reaching your crippled frames.
I'm not a necessity.
I mean, how many people have welcome matts anymore?
I have a name.
But it doesn't bring joy to your home.
I'm not a welcome mat.
I am a mat of despair and anguish.
"Yes, please enter our lovely home! I've died here more times than you can count on your temperate fingertips!"
I do not feel like home
I do not soothe you on cold rainy days, but rather sit in the damp haze of depression.
I am not your welcome mat.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC
before she was death I
often saw her in the orchard with
her pet ducks and fluttery dress
when ancient pear trees abandoned their leaves
she’d pick the weakest and tie them to her hat
collect the newest, give them to the river
the longest, she’d knit into baskets and matts
gift them to old maidens and lonely men
and the rest, she fed to the flowers
and I know that before she was death
she loved flowers but she
never plucked them
she waited for their mothers to let go,
then she’d take the cadavers home
and make beauty out of them
before she was death, she liked
to talk to the graveyard at night
dark wasn’t ugly to her,
and silence was only the trees talking
now, night lives in her obsolete house
when sun goes down, he likes to come out and
pluck stars off skinny bushes
her brightly painted walls are old lattice leaves
behind, the mountains laugh
and beneath them, a kingdom flourishes
not like corn fields near the bank,
a dust-storm, or a mistletoe
and no one talks of where she went though
the talk goes everywhere—
but I know she too feared lone woods
and moonless skies
she saw beauty in all, but nothing
sweet in the softness of flesh
and I know she despised the old cave
behind her house, for it was where she went
her crown is beautified with scared salvias,
petunias tremble at her name, and
daffodils don't even speak, and I
know I don’t want to take her place
so don’t offer me these pretty tiaras
and silence is so much more than trees talking
and some plants like to crawl up on others
**** the life and spit it out on the dirt but I’d
rather be towed down by those furious winds
and meddle not with me or my blood
I could show a softer way in—
like how her blades cut through grey grass
and how her fingers twisted to tie them strands to sheets
and meddle not with me or my blood
I could show a faster way out—
how the leaves bid goodbye as they glided
away with the waters; how her paintbrushes
emerged, soaking, out those liquids
and how she painted poetry out of dust
meddle not with me or my blood
she, who moulded the ground
into toys and pots, taught me
to befriend the daggers, and trust them
taught me how stinking corpses were better
than scentless lilies—and fanged
wolves were often what willed the sheep to live
before she was death she
used to sing a ballad unusual,
'I do not wish to take your place on that
throne, dear death,
I’d rather rot in your prison cells'
but death has not time for pleas.
Feb 13, 2021
Feb 13, 2021 at 3:28 PM UTC
It's cold in the fields, and the wind it blows fierce.
My fur is all matted, but the ice rain can pierce.
My paws, they are bleeding, I have walked a long way,
with no destination, no place to stay
I curl up in the bushes and hope they give cover.
I close my sore eyes and I think of my mother.
She was tired but kind and they took me away.
I cried for a long time and did quietly pray.
I stayed in a cage with my brothers and sister.
She went away first and I desperately missed her.
The boys went together and I was alone.
No family, no dinner, no pride and no home.
I tried to get comfy but the cage was so hard.
I saw no green fields just a bare concrete yard.
The men came with scraps they were rough they were cruel.
I slipped out of that cage breaking their rule.
I ran like a bullet and never looked back.
To the pain, and the fear, and the loss of my pack.
It's just me now but at least l'm alive
Battered and broken but still I survive.
I crawl out of the bushes disheartened and numb.
My stomach is growling, I can't find a crumb.
I chew on some grass but it makes me feel ill.
I will move on again if I can muster the will.
I spot in the distance, a human, I'm scared,
but I smell something good and I no longer care,
I run to the man with a devious plot,
I'll grab his good breakfast while it's still nice and hot.
As I approach, he speaks to me gently
He bends down to my side and says god must have sent me.
There are people who long for a friend just like me.
Just to play in their garden and curl on their knee
He gives me his breakfast and smiles as I eat.
He tickles my neck and lifts me off my sore feet.
He carries me home I'm too tired to fight.
I'm taken away to a shelter that night
I still feel lonely but the humans are kind.
They give me some food and my wounds they bind.
They bathe me and brush me and cut out my matts
They give me a bed, and some strokes and some pats
Some new people come in to visit one night.
I am happy to see them, they are moved by my plight.
They promise to come back so I can go with them.
They are sure of the joy and the love I could give them.
I go to the house, there's a garden to play in.
I got my own toys and my own bed to lay in.
I've got lots to learn about life with a family.
But I'm as clever and sharp as a little dog can be.
Soon we are family and now I belong.
My memories of past times will shortly be gone.
I sigh to myself as I munch on my bone.
Now I am happy, now I am home.
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 11:52 AM UTC
Hypnosis,
I drunkely post this,
You made love to a can of bud lite,
Too cool too cool,
Burnt ash on matts deck,
One hell of a night,
You carried me home.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC