Driving beside me,

driving me mad,

changing lanes,

changing choruses,

changeling lines,

changing.

I never thought a new pair of sunglasses would affect me as much as they did

and  here we are

changing lives.

Competing with cunning, biting rhetoric,

tap tap tapping against the cold windows,

and drawing on them with your finger,

competing with that, too.

Those original windows.

In the beginning it was only spoken word,

The framework was a disaster, but at least the the original windows were still intact

The frozen ice still is still intact, too .

Cracking with each careful step.

Breaking apart further with each wail of the approaching siren,

the impending, hurdling meteor.

Brings about the impending ice age.

Brings about the impending you.

The leftover knives stab at nothing, and the same song is playing over and over again,

and you enjoy it just like you enjoy the rest,

like you enjoy the cracking of those original windows

Like you enjoy drawing on them, too.

It just gets better and better and better, because you love every last bit of it.

You enjoy it like you enjoy the knives and the sound the windows make when they rattle.

Now for the crescendo, so beautiful, so played- out,

entirely instrumental at this point,

infinitely distressed, at this point.

Undoubtedly undressed, at this point.

These desert flowers never bloom,

they crumble in on themselves,

like old faded receipts under the passengers side seat,

like a dying star,

like that impending meteor,

which has since come to rest,

Laid to waste across the windshield,

Idling at a red-light, at this point,

with the very best version of the impending you.

(Originally published on Medium 10/1/2021 by Matthew Hopkins)

When the gargoyles and the crows look down on you,

plotting from the tops of stormy buildings,

lightning at their backs,

lightning across their faces,

and don’t smile, even for a minute.

You’ll need more magnets,

despite this backdrop.

more jazz,

more superpower,

to equalize, to subsidize, to oxidize.

If not only to divide,

that backdrop…

those angels,

You’ll need to unsubscribe from all your other email lists,

To cash the check and forget about the relentless guitar solos..

to even come close to matching the colors that make up the horizon and then some,,,

This is a no spare change situation.

This is what maximum velocity feels like.

Admit to yourself,

that you did indeed lose the board game and all then pieces to it.

You’ll need more magnetism for that.

You’ll head to the gallows for that.

You’ll need more silver than I currently have available, for that .

You’ll also need extra game pieces which I do not possess.

You’ll need more magnets , but that’s you’re cross to bear.

Ships passing relentlessly in the night, and for what?

Bullet proof vests on before you get out , and for what?

To storm the castle?

Be brave enough to be a magician, and be brave enough to brace yourself for the impact,

our impact.

Be brave enough to become a phantasm, instead.

The audience will tell you if you need to stay on the stage, from the tops of their stormy buildings ,

their backdrops,

their angels.

Just like the black crows and those gray gargoyles from before ,

they’ll tell you if you can be a successful magician, and what to do with your cape, too.

And what to do with the rest of your magnets, too.

Where to store them and how to label them so they don’t end up lost.

But not if your already a phantasm they cant,

not with the lighting already streaking across your face, they can’t ,

Not without cobalt , and the incoming sun at your back , they can’t

Not if you bleed magenta, they can’t.

(Originally published on Medium on 10/02/2021 by Matthew Hopkins)

The way the sun hits your eyes,

the way the sun shines over the overpass, and your smile.

Punctuated,

perforated,

interrupted by moments of beauty and only visible from from the tops of hills,

or overpasses.

The lights flicker and breathe,

like on a birthday.

You flicker and breathe.

like on a birthday.

Sometimes its too cold in the car, and sometimes its cold only because you rolled the window down.

This place is devoid anything,

devoid of spirits even.

I can struggle to pull weight that isn’t my own.

I can manage to engage in sleep that is not my own,

well be a bit warmer with the windows up.

you’ll be a bit warmer, next to me,

like on a birthday.

(Originally published on Medium 10/21/2021 by Matthew Hopkins)

To give it time,

to sink in ,

is to let it grow.

Like a bouquet, like a silent “t”

evident, but still no (t).

An open ocean, an open wound,

in the shape a of a vase.

I’ll have to get stitched up, just thinking about it.

I’ll decay with song and still be bulletproof,

just thinking about it….

I’ll decay with them…

Just thinking about it…

The waves will break will break with me,

and into me.

My stiches and my levees will break,

I’ll break, atrophied and still awake the entire time,

up to my neck in saltwater now.

Sinking with all the other non-ferrous metals,

and the non- ferrous everything else,

rusting,

climbing,

breathing,

reaping..

I am all of them.

(Originally published 10/23/2021 on Medium by Matthew Hopkins)

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.