Marty Matz

PIPE DREAM #1
(FOR HERBERT HUNCKE)

THERE ARE SACRIFICIAL WHISPERS
                               TO THE NORTH
                    BEYOND THE RIVER PING
        WHERE ELEPHANT DREAMS
                               DRESS IN YELLOW LEAVES
                                   AND ANCIENT SPIRITS
                 WING DOWN THE BARREL OF MY PIPE
THE HILLS ARE DRENCHED
                                  WITH POPPY BLOOD
                       AND A RED MOON
                                                         DROWNS
                                 AT THE EDGE OF MY MOLTEN EYE
THIS IS THE LAND
                              OF THE RECLINING BUDDHA
                              THE LITTLE WHEEL
                    THE WATER BUFFALO'S LAST DANCE
THIS IS THE PLACE
                                       OF GREEN LEGENDS
                      OF SILK AND TEAK
           WHERE INCENSE MINGLES
                                              WITH A COBRA'S BREATH
           AND IN THESE HILLS ALONE
                                 THE CHEF
                                             WITH HIS LAMP
                                                                 IS KING

 

WHEN BLUES AND HEARTACHES PROSPER
(FOR GEORGE SCRIVANI)

LATE NIGHT CITY FACES GLOW
                       WITH UNREAL NEON COLORS
                               CARTOONS FROM A MADHOUSE
                       ON THE CUTTING EDGE
SHADOW TORSOS MOVE ON FEET
            GLUED TO TREADMILLS
                                    GOING NOWHERE
             TIP TAP CLICK
                        BOOT SOLES ON THE PAVEMENT
THE URBAN RHYTHM SECTION
                                            KEEPING TIME
            FOR DERANGED SOLOS
                         THAT SHUFFLE DOWN THE ENDLESS STREETS
                                              AND ANIMATE
                                     THE HOURS AFTER MIDNIGHT
            WHEN BLUES AND HEARTACHES PROSPER
WHEN AVENUES AND ALLEYWAYS
                        ARE BRUISED BY LIES
                                                            AND MUTTERED OATHS
            AND THE ONLY THINGS UP FOR SALE
                        ARE MEASURED BY THE SPOONFUL
OUR WORLD HAS SHRUNK MY FRIENDS
             BECOME HOMOGENIZED
      A TRANSITORY WAREHOUSE
                       WHERE POETRY ALONE
           CAN TELL THE TRUTH
               BUT ALL WE HEAR
                                          ON EVERY SIDE
                      IS GROANING KITCHENETTED SOULS
                                                            AND INCOHERENT BABBLE

 

WHERE THE JADE TREE SINGS
(FOR AL AND HELAINE GORDON)

NEAR THE TEMPLE ON HIGH
                   WHERE THE JADE TREE SINGS
           AND THE FLOWERING QUETZAL SPREADS ITS ROOTS
                STANDS A GRAVEYARD OF TOBACCO STAINED WHISPERS
                                               AND RUPTURED DREAMS
         WHERE MORIBUND CLOCKS
                                           DECOMPOSE
                              AS ECSTATIC EPIPHANIES
                                                       DANCE
                                         ABOVE VISIONS OF DAWN
                                   TO THE TANGO OF YEARS
                                         WHOSE LUMINOUS CHORDS
                        RESOUND THROUGH OBSIDIAN MIRRORS
                                          THAT OBSCURE
                                                               NOT REFLECT
                                                    THE THEN
                                                             THAT IS NOW
                        WHEN THE MOVEMENT STOPS
                                  TIME BECOMES SPACE
             ROCKS AND CRYSTALS SPEAK THE LANGUAGE OF ART
                                                            AND LIFE UNFOLDS
                                   UNDER A SHADOW OF STRANGLED ECLIPSES
                                                      AND MUMMIFIED STARS
                                            BENEATH THE DEEPEST UMBRA
                        CAST BY DEATH'S UNCHARTERED GEOMETRY
                                LIES THE WOMB
                                                   WHERE MAGIC IS BORN
                                           AND THE WINDS SILVER BONES
                                                             EMERGE
                                    TO CARRY THE RINGING VIBRATIONS
                                            THAT ANNOUNCE
                                                               TO THE GALAXY'S END
                                                    A NEW GENESIS
                                             OF COSMIC ILLUSIONS

A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON MY WAY TO ENLIGHTENMENT

I HAVE LOST MY SHADOW
                   IN A FIELD OF IMPROVISED WHISPERS
         FORGOTTEN MY NAME
                     IN THE FRAGRANCE OF POPPIES
             WHERE ORNAMENTAL SKULLS
                         ERRATICALLY ORBIT
                 LUMINOUS GARDENS
          OF FUGITIVE CLOCKS TICKING UMBER BLOSSOMS
              THROUGH SECRET WINTERS THAT BITE
THERE ARE UNSCHEDULED CHIMES ABOVE
          A MEADOW WHERE MALIGNANT TOADSTOOLS HIDE
                AMONG THE FALSE ECHOES OF ANCIENT INVOCATIONS
                       AND DISTORTED REFLECTIONS
                  FROM A RIVER STAINED BY TIME
I HAVE MARCHED DOWN STREETS
                                     OF EMBALMED MOONLIGHT
                HOWLING LIKE A MAD DOG
                               SEEKING SOME BONE OF TRUTH
                        SOME FINAL CURTAIN
                   SOME ULTIMATE DESTINATION
        FREE FROM THE SYNTHETIC OCTAVE OF DREAMS
AND I HAVE UNRAVELED THE KNITTED MASK OF YEARS
          SEARCHING FOR A WAY
                    TO RETURN TO MY GREEN DRENCHED CHILDHOOD
          YET ONLY CAUGHT OCCASIONAL GLIMPSES
                                     OF A PAST GILDED BY
                               IMAGINATION
                 IN A FOREST OF ELUSIVE TREES
THE CALENDAR HAS DEVOURED THE DECADES
          TURNED BY BEARD SILVER
                       IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE
     AS I PASSED MY LIFE SHOOTING CRAPS WITH DESTINY
                                     IN THE PURSUIT OF WORTHLESS THINGS
YET I HAVE NEVER HESITATED
                            TO THROW AWAY MY WALLET
           TO MAKE ROOM IN MY POCKETS FOR POEMS OR RAINBOWS
                   WHICH I CARRIED
                            TILL THE RAINBOWS TURNED
                                              TO TATTERED COLORS
                AND THE POEMS
                                      BECAME JUST DUST

I HAVE OPENED A WOUND ON THE SUN
(FOR HOWARD HART)

I HAVE OPENED A WOUND ON THE SUN
                       AND MY DAYS ARE FILLED WITH POLITE HANDSHAKES
                DRY SMILES AND STOPLIGHTS
                                      I AM NO LONGER DAZZLED BY THE DEW
                          AND THE RAINBOW HOLDS NO SURPRISES
       YESTERDAY'S PIRATES HAVE FLED ON THE WIND
             AND I HAVE FORGOTTEN HOW TO SPEAK
                           WITH THE SPOKEN GIRAFFE
                    WHO INHABITS THE UPPER REACHES
                                                       OF MY DREAMS
                                THE CLOCK OF MY LOVE
                                           IS IMPOSSIBLE TO WIND
                        YET STILL KEEPS BITTER TIME
                                   FOR THINGS THAT NO LONGER MATTER
              THE ROACHES IN MY ROOM
                                     REFUSE TO RECOGNIZE
                                  THE KINDNESS OF MY CRUMBS
                     AND THE UNFORGIVING STONES OF MY GARDEN
                                                        DON'T KNOW ME ANYMORE
     IF I COULD
                I WOULD LOSE MYSELF ON THE FAR SHORES
                          OF SOME UNCLAWED RIVER
                      FOR I AM DECOMPOSING IN A SUIT OF BLACK SATIN
                              AND I HAVE OPENED A WOUND ON THE SUN
            I HAVE FORGOTTEN HOW TO SPEAK WITH THE BROKEN GIRAFFE

© by Marty Matz

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The abstracts on this page are © by Jonathan Kane.

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