Like a tripwire in the dark,

a minefield, a starfield.

Rife with diffuse opinions and grenades,

Rife with biology

and really willing it into existence,

willing you into existence.

Singing so loud that it drips down your chest,

placing the moon in the sky and letting go,

and letting it drip down your chest, as well.

Wounded I will limp away,

and thinking

“ my god my horse abandoned me before I abandoned it”

amethyst and abalone, its all the same.

These wounds,

These pearls.

Your wounds and my wounds too,

They stop bleeding but still they persist….as wounds, and as pearls.

as infections and as endings, and as pearls.

They are laughing from the bleachers, and in rafters and in the closets,

in the cheap seats too.

The section closest to that moon?

I’d rather not know.

The section closest to you?

I’d rather not know.

Howling, resplendent, I can climb back into the arena.

Straight into the badlands,

headlong into monuments,

so far way from your arms.

Through tolls,

through digital screens that stare back.

Without my eyes on the keyboard,

I can taste victory,

distracted by you, and distracted by anyone who wants to shake hands with me,

as they step out and step away.

Wading down here,

waiting for the floor to dry,

waiting for all of it to drip down my chest,

past my feet

past the barnacles,

only as pearls…

(Originally Published on Medium 11/3/2021 by Matthew Hopkins . Originally titled ” Barnacles” )

From memory, from nothing.

from patience, and from me,

as well.

To you and about you,

about your trip and where you went,

and about all of your gold medals.

About me, and my reliance on what’s beneath the lampshade,

about the spreadsheet, about that song.

Really about me though,

and my forgiveness,

and the spreadsheet.

The mess around the sink, that is not yet considered a fault line,

not quite considered a contingency plan

and not quite a chore either

just a mess…

in time.

and also, still regarding my forgiveness.

Still cold to the touch, and not quite the reveal we were hoping for.

Indeed, the door is still unlocked, and I am waiting for anyone to pass through,

I am waiting for the lights to go out, and I am waiting for the right moment to speak to you,

to anyone, 

in i t a l i c s

in r e t a l i a t i o n ,

in r e g a r d s

to my forgiveness, and also about the mess around the sink.

(Originally published on Medium by Matthew Hopkins 11/3/2021)

Buried in drafts, and in catacombs, honeycombs///

buried in valleys and utterly silent within a vacuum,

a sanctum//

staring up at the orbiting satellite,

lost in paraphrase,

we can hear it in one ear not the other,

Which takes away from the message, from the song.

Which takes away from the transmissions, the transitions ,

….from the song.

The surprises and the authenticities

and the vague behavior that passes for charm ( s) ,

and for the jewelry laying on top of the dresser.

The watches and the pendants

and loose antacids,

that are scattered like tombstones,

chalky pink and purple

that didn’t quite make it into the jewelry box the first time,

that didn’t quite make it into me the first time,

The things I didn’t get to the first time ,

I’ll come back around to it,

to them,

to the antacids,

to the antecedent,

Despite the protagonist.

Pressing keys that do nothing, furiously.

and it all comes spilling out, furiously.

Like with me,

Like it always seems to,

  furiously and

through me.

(Originally published by Matthew Hopkins on Medium 11/4/2021)

We have been here before,

we have bitten this before,

my neck has bled here before,

into the cushions.

I have felt the weight of fixation, and felt it blow so quickly through me,

and I have sunk into it,

into the cushions.

and into me…

as a result.

I’ve felt it obliterate me in the same breath,

catch me falling with those same arms.

That same heat that you can actually feel with your eyes,

and on your arms…

I am forgetting about the heat and the steam,

about heaven and earth,

all whilst still establishing a couch on which I will sleep,

All at once.

bathe

bathed

bathing.

I’ll just stick my feet in,

into the cushions,

into the water,

soak

soaked

soaking.

I’ll forget a towel, and walk across the tile with my wet feet,

and those footprints and the vowels will linger, until I can find a towel,

and a consonant,

and a ghost.

Trying so desperately to reach you, or anyone,

in an attempt to break parity and maybe a few bones too!

Trying to contort, to confront,

to wrestle all of this into a deep, dark submission,

into knots

into comfort,

and into sleep.

To bury it under the cushions,

Along with the unlit birthday candles, and the necklaces,

and the dried blood from my neck.

Leave it to be blown out like the candles that never were.

Leave to be suffocated,

Leave it to be implied,

Leave it to be iridescent,

Leave it on

repeat

repeated

repeating.

I am sure he’ll return,

the slender milkman from a dream,

who I encountered in a place I cant remember,

…..but I did this time.

Even with my pockets full of sand,

or milk.

I saw him walk across the street,

but not as my sister.

His posture was soft and slightly curled, like a dogs ear,

wispy, like a leaf blowing behind passing cars.

but still not as my sister.

Behind all those cars,

behind all my thoughts,

behind my ears, even.

Headlong into the guardrail, headlight’s off so to not disturb the insects,

with the sun on my shoulders,

barely peeking over the trees,

so not to disturb the insects.

I can feel it staring at me still, and I’m left treading water,

or milk.

The sun devoured the headlights and next it will devour me, and the milkman,

and the insects,

and my sister, notwithstanding,

….and I am still sorry.

Those same trees, from so long ago,

from when we were kids,

from when we were clouds,

nearly ablaze now //

are leaning to the point of almost falling.

They probably wont, though,

nearly falling stars now //

even if that milkman said he’d return eventually,

he probably wont.

The forest floor is our ceiling, and and an excellent one at that.

Canonically,

The only obstacles in our way are towering canopies and roadblocks,

panoplies and peacocks, gripping me in headlocks, and

the plumage is beautiful but deafening, and the mornings are beautiful but deafening as well.

and they are still somehow squeezing me all these years later,

all these mornings later.

Those weren’t falcons,

those weren’t even anything beautiful.

At least you always wiped your feet,

we remembered that, and where the birds of prey ended up,

and the foul balls too…

I still forget my fair share of lines, despite the answering machine and so many messages

and having been in so many headlocks,

and if we’ll ever find your missing tooth in the cool, blue water,

I’ll return that windbreaker and

I’ll let you out of that headlock, friend.

Cryptic pictures

lining the walls, like climbing cracks,

or perhaps just lines, without overthinking it.

Pictures of you,

pictures of climbing cracks,

like expanding vines,

breathing but somehow suspended,

I can explain….

Alive and standing,

Alive and suspended,

like you

breathing…. but without overthinking it.

like you

Unlike most pictures, hanging in most places and holding it’s breath(s)

more similar to sculpture in that sense ,

You are missing from the wall,

but holding onto me,

Your breath is missing from this room too, especially when its cold,

especially when I am cold,

I can explain…

A sound , a setting, without overthinking it;

Definitely discerning but paramount to the clever climbing vines eventual atrophy,

clinging eventually, to me and to you , too.

and haunting us, more than a few times.

The lot lines mean what they mean,

they divide what they divide,

they breathe the same way we breathe,

the way they breathe

and after all, it is quite loud.

The buzzing, really is quite loud.,

Seeing if those are wires I’m really seeing,

and if those really are wires,

I’m

falling,

I am probably already gone.

The downed transformer or electric box

or whatever it is I am looking at,

looks a lot like a peacock, I think,

If I reach out to touch it,

I AM SURE it will make the make the same sound an elevator button makes when pushed,

….I think.

Or it might bite me, probably.

I look to the cocoon for support,

visible only from my sideview mirror.

I watched it glow grow

like headlights, approaching or not approaching,

clinging to me,

or not clinging to me , in other cases.

Nothing ever emerged though,

…in me either, thank god

Just time passed on the highway, sliding under overpasses,

and the constant dread that comes with

hoping the deer move away from the road,

empty,

hanging,

thrashing,

passing,

and still so attached, as a blur,

a mirage,

an ornament, eventually.

no one ever underestimated our complacency, that’s for sure.

no one ever underestimated our trajectory, that’s for sure.

all that rhythm and that tension,

all that synthesis,

that’s for me,

the cocoon can have the rest,

even all the fucking recollections,

especially the fucking recollections.

It’s all pink behind me,

all pink beneath me,

all right to suffocate me.

I still have managed to avoid all the oil slicks,

somehow.

I know that some people still cherish their parking lots,

for some reason.

I kneel down, and all I get is a knee on my own throat ,

as well as my initials in some wet cement, eventually..