[don't be disoriented by the perspective
So… Yesterday, a friend of mine mentioned that she'd been attempting to pen a breakup letter to poetry. And I thought: Yeah, that sounds about right. I think that's what I've been trying to do, too. And I have, in my own fashion: one not nearly as articulate and fantastic as hers, but succinct. Yeah. If nothing else, I'm succinct. Only, maybe I've not been so honest about my intentions. Maybe I keep thinking I've got one last great gift to give to the relationship, one last grand statement to make on its behalf. But that's not true. Really. That's not true at all. All I'VE got to say are things like:
as a cigarette quickens the distance between
happenstance and satisfaction (and effort)
the conscience slips into proportion with hindsight
or
and I have not seen the moon its bump sunsets
nor have I had the opportunity to lurk
in its patterned midnights (this is entrapment)
And these blurbs, these stanzas, certainly aren't of any consequence. (I mean, maybe that last bit about entrapment, sure, but who wants to hear anything about my feelings, or the ways in which I become paralyzed by them. This is fucking postmodern space, right? Who has time for the close reading anymore?) Truth be told, revealed right here and now to all of you: I'm tired. Tired of all THIS and its attendant godlings: Coffee, Cigarettes, Alcoholic Beverages, Hallucinogenics, Ass-Chasing, the Maxed-Out Credit Card and Bankruptcy… the Typewriter and True Love. And THIS, this art, if you will, just doesn't want to come out as words anymore, propped up by these pugnacious enablers, or not; it doesn't want to manifest in fancy twists of syntax, or spasmodic contrivances of lingual dots and dashes.
but the illusion of occupation heightens
as one muddles through bumbles the evidence
smokes injustice down to its veritable dusk
It wants to be music, pure music, and not some desperate, clumsy stand-in for it.
one half of all languages are misconstrued as
lamps or torches when in actuality
they are simply currents in a shining circuit
And it wants to be wholly other, or, at the very least, a different color. But, to be completely honest, I haven't figured out exactly how I'm supposed to make this music thing happen. (Stop. Let's take a moment to recall where we've been. Started singing at age 7, studying classical trumpet at age 12. Whooo. What a nightmare that was, let me tell you. Taught myself guitar, bass, banjo and a few other things I've since forgotten. Ran a recording studio. Played in a semi-major touring and recording band. Dropped out. Dropped back in. Studied doumbek and congas with Larry Fratangelo. Found myself knee-deep in the family mental illness and… Poetry?) I've been working with closed-circuit electronics, essentially analogue feedback loops, attempting to introduce elements of CHANCE and SURPRISE into my current compositional methods. And the process has provided some intriguing results, but really though, how chancey and surprising can the shit be after 15 years of on-again / off-again work, right? I tell you what: why don't you take a listen to a little sample while I get myself something to drink? Cool? This is called "Paradise Limp".
[…musical interlude...]
wondering is expectable and malignant
and the syllable is mother to all things and
winning is what they do as they usurp limping
Or something like that. Really. I'm still trying to find my way with the music. Working under the name Visceralum. Made the word up, by the way. And I've got a SoundCloud, too. Doesn't have a god-damned thing to do with poetry. It's independent as hell. Well… Or… Or these black-and-white photo treatments I've been working on; trying to reduce my understanding of things, my ever-broadening perspective, to some fucking base elements. This is the TRUE shit right here. This is me getting close, like the music is. Yeah. Check this out. [Hand out the photo treatments] But, I guess maybe I chickened out a little on these, though, because I resorted to captioning them. [ P O E T R Y ] Still, I think they're making for a pretty effective non-poetry outlet. And they're funny, too, right? RIGHT? HEY!!! Are you even paying attention to me?
do not let them look through your eyes be blinded
to the wonders and the numbers of their skyline
and don't let them weather you or make you moist
Yeah. I said moist. But anyway… The music, the photo thingies… These are how I see myself expressing my artistic concerns, now, and in the future. Probably not so much the fucking poetry, but, I guess you should never say "die", right? Who knows. So, I guess this is me saying goodbye to you, goodbye to poetry, goodbye to The Ugly Mug and Madhouse Poetry Night:
from here to here is kindling and a remembrance
and I AM the moon (a mirroring vision)
articulate me as you question your daybreak
Umm...
[this is the way around the things you cannot do
Dear Poetry,
Meh.
Sincerely,
Matt
P.S. — "die"?
Photo by Danielle Amí Étienne.
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