Poetry

There's No Reason to Panic, My Blog Hasn't Been Subpoenaed.



There's no reason to panic,


my Blog hasn't been subpoenaed,


to testify before a Congressional Subcomittee,


and made to tell the truth,


about the whole sordid affair,


my keystrokes into that electronic air,


and I err if I say that my accuracy in fact,


sir,


in fact did lack,


prosaicly,


a remark or three that would suffice to be called fiction,


all for diction.




The events I've described in my mind,


may have had their faces changed,


protecting their identities,


and their names,


so they can stay unpaid,


and thus the Blog is laid,


like stepping stones between truth and lie,


barely submerged in a mist of barely attentive minds,


and only time.


The Floating Laughter of the Harlequin's Anti-Gravity Brain

being an examination of the fruitfulness of letting go.


Taking time to not skip the cracks


the midnight gone and into the kaleidoscopic dawn


finding the alluring of the stacks of books awry


the skies themselves cannot embrace her in their serious moods


the time comes with it's own freedom


to laugh the meaning away from the words


The House Of The Fallen Usher


Theatre is silent and boarded up

By still planks of sorrow lonely unseated crowd

Loitering misdirected remembers bullets

Striking these halls and their attendant's marrow ripe

Flesh carving criticism red usher dismembered slowly

Sinking in the tarnished rows of bloody seats

Reviewing miles of unusable footage for the framed

Celebration of carnage captured by experts

Completes this prosecution against fleshy minimum wage

Famed for murderous indentation a blur of shrapnel

And nasty notices doing more to close down

The house than trees of shuttering planks

The reviewer gives no thanks to vastly talented

Actors plumb wrong for roles with no meat in them

An author of poetry for over 25 years, Matthew delights in the fluidity of language's shoals and backwaters, currents of words as pictures, a music of verbage.