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

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

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 19^th 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