Just because you haven’t seen any snakes, doesn’t mean there aren’t any snakes out and

about in the new heat of

the new years.

Within the crests of new waves that we will save for the light of the the new day,

for the new cracks in the new armor,

is mostly flooded with brand new floodlights,

programs, brochures

silver, and new.

Out in droves,

the same as you.

Shining light on the empty orchards,

and the backyards.

and all that the starlight leftover on the ground,

that broken glass that is fucking everywhere now,

that broken glass we all gave up on, and all those fucking endings.

Smiles as new stars

and I can smell the sweet fucking smell of sawdust ,

sleeping above the canopy,

loving about the panoply

moving as a statue,

or not

slouching, or

not.

I left the original windows behind.

saving the music,

salvaging the ordinances.

Wrap up the leftovers,

and when the light catches the nails that nothing hangs from ,

yet.

I’ll be there,

There I am operating both machines

with both hands

,,,,,,,and there I am

opening the leftovers,

in silence,

yet.

…..in cold,

A lot to do with fire,,,,

draped around my neck,

like your hair,

like a necklace,

like a sunburn

A towering inferno.

Strings like a violin,

striking a chord,

a vein, so loud

so taught

and so violent.

On it’s side,

so far away from the sky,

far away from up,

furthest from up, actually.

Where the ladder belongs, actually.

On it’s side

On my side

belabored , bewildered,

afraid of heights, actually,

playing dead, actually.

I can see the steam rising from the ground,

even though there is none.

No ground, and certainly no steam.

Certainly not.

I am starting to pay more attention to to the cracks and the crevices,

and the tectonic plates,

and to the proclamations and lamentations, as well.

Whatever is written on the sidewalk, in the stars.

now I am starting to think of skeletons, and now that’s all I will think of from here on out.

That, and how the cats eyes catch the sunlight that peeks just past the curtains,

Our curtains.

Your fountain.

You’ll catch that same streak of light, like a ball of yarn,

and I’ll help you

catch it

bury it

maintain it

Wash your face and hands with it,

even though its strictly decorative and belongs with the other decorations,

and isn’t to be used for your hands or face,

Tell me if anything strikes you as odd about it.

About it not being in the attic with the rest of the holidays.

…about that.

Bury it amongst the snakes, and the scorpions( which by the way, I am seeing less and less of)

still my blood is cold

and the light escapes me,

escapes us entirely ,

That same streak of light,

The best we can do is wet footprints on a hot afternoon,

The best we can do, is pay more attention to the cracks and crevices,,

and the commas;

Pay more mind to the seam on which we rest,

to the breaking plates, which we’ll watch from a distance.

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)