Aught, no. 3 (1999)

Matthew Herper

Boston's cold
(A page torn from my journal)

turn on the tv look at me singing along with the teletubbies and crying in
the static sound with thunder pulsing and cosmic rays every hundreth pixel
i'm feeling tired have you seen the wind today it is clear and caught up in
the dying leaves which watching make me feel today tomorrow and yesterday
all wrapped up in a coma and served cooked in newspaper like salmon killed
on its swim home

its pilgrimage to spawn and the memory of the sound of oceans and upstream
swimming crying in every flake of pink clitoris-colored flesh which could
be a photograph of an autumn sunrise on a cloudless day over the city across
the river which I can barely see except for the wind rippling its surface
indenting the flat white-gold sunlight and blowing old newspapers over the
sidewalk and past the concrete bunkerbuildings colored like saturday morning
cartoons by sunrise

there is so much to do -- mornings like this i want to dissolve into the
beginning chill and taste the fresh water dew on my tongue and hide from
these loveless days and their drudgery and impossible openness as the winter
chills our hopes and frightens me tightening every throat to quiet
we cannot scream kiss lover only choke on the remnants of eviscerated dreams
splashing like otters in the empty echoes of television memories.



morning star open mouthed drunken shown more forewarned sing he sadness
open madness cold and drunken cold and more. For the ever sing forever
love is just a gypsies hymn. Sick and never cold forever shown pauper's
bag of gin. Don't you know that love is precious for the living sadwithin.

Copyright 1999, by the author. All rights reserved.
Return to Aught, no. 3, contents