Thursday, March 6, 2014

Matthew Rotando


The horror of time was that beauty made us pull ourselves together, close our eyes and whisk stuff around in the kitchen. We said the things we said we’d say. Then we predicted what came next. The good things fell apart and you became an agent, investigating your illness. You pulled me under and I covered my eyes with my history of other love. Here’s to Saint Honesty, sack of grief. This is the worst. It’s not even a thing. It’s just what I get for trying to ride that dog. There’s some shame in saying I love what I love. Enough to keep me saying it.


Them Just Goes 

We’re not about giving up or giving away the mental. We’re about correcting for echoes. We’re about gathering details and the smoky bottom. We’re about trash; like all the waters, we refuse to go down hoses…but we go. Them is a way to start; them raspy details. Deets. Hangtags wimpling in the storeshadows of a frantic year. The fervent all-out sureness makes us seem ugly to the bodies that grew up around us. We, in our bodies, in our aches and skin, in our swilling holes full of robbers and liars. We laugh and cry, return and pick some how-to chatter. Them is not a way to go, them just goes. The phone you were on was a stalling effect for doing what you do. If you touch only sheer things, you’ll touch elusive fingers under your smoking ghost hands. Smoke, it really has a hold on your imagination. This is a problem, as your imagination is not an organ. Not a skinnable thing, just a skinning echo.



Holy grapes, hearty mouth, harrowing hearts and tinny sobs, sunny arterial ceremonies bounce new winter waves off memory caves. Even tongues find pictographs to tarnish, make contact with forgotten love, and release. Words return to trees and die when leaves fall.


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