| matthew wascovich
matthew wascovich is a cleveland-based poet and musician. some of his recent writing can by found in nexus, in my head, nuts, 3 am magazine, small spiral notebook, abisti, beat town, hootpage.com and poor mojo's almanac(k). for information regarding matthew's soon to be published book of poems, leo in a garbage can, contact slow toe publications at po box 6592 cleveland, ohio 44101 u.s.a. or slowtoepublic@yahoo.com. Works on this page:
august
i have a circle around your waist
naked island cultural geography
August Why do you suggest with your
synthetic body, your stride across the
room is oil change, dynamic sham
glittering in style. Everything written is tough guy last, everything spoke is
good-bye future hello, everything
touched is diseased break-up,
everything pushed away, pulls circle,
everything tattooed, fades bright.
Tuesday 3 a.m., the light went off in
the bedroom, you tell me that Kafka
sold insurance, as assurance, as your
synthetic body settles into warm bath.
Props around, the sound is dynamic
style, money and ambition. I hear
your spending and see your debt.
This dance, a slow beat, in which she
is sweat soaked, flimsy knee, inside,
silent time hugging yet unable to
explain herself, her trance and
cathedral legs rule the middle class.
Newspaper ink underneath
fingernails, youth holding job in
U.S.A., a room of chapters
and your noisy mouth. Think of us
tied to a sinking anchor like a broken
briefcase handle holding things
together. Each time enters the flash of
a newfound chest shown by a slate
table, as surprised consumers react to
the voted election. Your affection is
joking stupid super bowl, a fan club
of trailer park homes, an annulment of
pharmaceuticals. I have a circle around your waist I told you about lacking inertia, a
pure punctuality that lacks finality. I
have a circle around your waist,
hand on my lap and jailed circumstance.
Pull back your hair like a gypsy and
tell me another story to distract us.
It does not have to be true. Are they
ever? Change the names and tell it
with confidence. Just stand me up,
please. I mean, if you do not, then I
will, and for this, I apologize in
advance. Naked island cultural geography In a hut your research is starch and
pathfinder, newspaper tallies the lead
off, click the close signature in her
personal typeset. She attends to
middle schools and bay leaves with
equal attention. Solar powered
envelopes eclipse marginal streets,
second hand handouts, while his
satire, tired of second solutions. Out
window, anthropology and apologies,
your drone hones, the new hip phone
fingertips, a dress of dreams. I am a
cheap bike, and you, a strange job. In
your cotton, a leg on the couch soft
and covered in olives. Sure, this
may be forgetful practice, but it is
deliverance among tickets and talk
shows. In the next episode, a moose
breaks photo shop, fatal the fraud,
circular the tape. Nora presses
together nickels and paints
destruction, mixing a haven of hollow
arteries, disrobing the shinguard
after two weeks of tranquil nights in
Cole Valley, her portfolio is limited to
cash advances among pictorials of
water. San Francisco has pulled me
into bed, she, an institute, as I wake
to eyes centered on an awkward
picture frame. Bending over a drain
to spit out last words, spitting out
blood and teeth and stained words of
a radical twerp, a fudament of hostile
thoughts, of closeness, a raw, bang-
bang hit and run. |
