Thursday, November 23, 2017

Signs of Progress



From weathered hollows, gray and orange
outcroppings sharply elevated along twisting pavement,
ascended in failed formation behind,
just waiting for the turnout, moving beyond
too quickly for the sake of others

Fallen canyon, edges into surreal haze, framing
specks of dust bearing repetition throughout lanes,
fractured from or rooted to a spine, flowing below,
currents of static cargo, sweeping the imagination’s
dreams that siphon their impurities

Glancing left within distraction, derricks protrude,
twisted ships lurching toward the shore
unencumbered by miles of sea retaining their majesty,
undisturbed in the channel, tricking the eye
into believing, signs of progress

Beyond all means of vision, horizon bent giving
way, purely discerned in the sharpening light
rising gods beyond the channel, impending reclamation
lying on the shore, blinking eyes re-framed
in the mist of their retreat

Matt Mauldin

11/2017
Santa Barbara, CA 

First appearing in Event Horizon Magazine
https://eventhorizonmagazine.com/
Issue 3

Friday, November 10, 2017

Abigail


It must have been a strange sensation
navigating tension neuroses, from space
unoccupied
Flesh and blood appear alike,
at least enough to be identifiable,
with some of the odd
idiosyncrasies
            Continuations

Amorphous without clearly
delineated courses, spinning cones
shape clay into something
unrecognizable
The day, shifting into hazy dusk,
drifting into Fall, sullen steps,
tracks uncovered

You bought me a tape,
King Diamond’s Abigail, when you took
me to the driving range
at some weird little record store
adjacent to a gas station in exurbs,
still in the 1980’s,
Sandy Plains

The weird little ways to make
connections
with those who are thirteen
Oh, the horror spared you
in the lyric sheet
Lines compelled to cross,
inverted

Despite all sacred text, best laid
inversions stare back oblivious
to righteous origins
In brooding emaciation, the years affixed,
ungrateful and unknowing
lacking comfort and dignity
in your generations’ passing


Matt Mauldin
11/2017
Santa Barbara, CA

Sunday, November 5, 2017

Summer Camp



We drove long treks- indifference and back,
from the armpit of Florida’s Panhandle
to higher grounds in Tallahassee
He told me the day before, they’d met way back
in the early 19th Century
halfway between Pensacola and St. Augustine
breaking ground on a capital city

Peeling off miles over marshy rivers,
with docks penetrating an easing flow,
past random houses on pilings
embedded within pine trees, solitary
across vacant lots, unsold

Solemn ritual, stopping to shed light on the mileage,
biscuits and gravy at a Hardee’s with senior coffee
and a flimsy plastic cup of water for the road,
exacting timing of the chemo pill 45 minutes before
the radiation treatment,
despite the fact we’d arrive an hour early

The waiting room of the cancer center
sitting watching the space before him dissolve with time,
somehow without a screen to burn his eyes,
before the calling back, before the mask directing
waves to the tumor shrouding the right side of his brain
to slow the malignancy
You asked me in hushed tones if I’d noticed anything unusual
in his movements, his quiet dignity

Pleasing October sun, the way home with tiny breezes drying air,
hints of autumn away from the Southern California heatwave
Unaware of my state’s impending secession,
you brought it to my attention after I mentioned
my civic pride to drive a hybrid
The personal connection to the lens
degrading my livelihood and passion,
much less the world around me

Stopping for lunch in a ramshackle building
nestled in whispering pines near water,
dirt in the parking lot, dusting up and stirring
the remains of the drive
Blackened gulf oysters on a bun with Louisiana hot sauce and iced tea
His glass of wine you didn’t want him to finish
Settling the differences between us when the check came


Matt Mauldin
11/2017
Santa Barbara, CA

First appearing in Event Horizon Magazine
https://eventhorizonmagazine.com/

Issue 3