Tornado for Two

by Mathew Richard Carter

We lay
shrouded underneath the kitchen table,
darkened by the power failure, only
illuminated during
dramatic sheets
of lightning,
blanketing
our anxious faces
as a flat crack
of thunder
follows.
We lay
cowered under the scent of our own fear, only
one more hour, we thought it would never end.
Suddenly, down came
the rain like the sound
of trains growing
louder, closer
as a monster’s
hand sweeps
the land.
We lay
frozen under panes of pressure. Our immobile
bodies sliding in and out of consciousness,
the sheer horror of
finding ourselves
less fortunate
the next day
was very near.
Silence became
our long, lost
friend.
We lay
pensive under sturdy roofs, the broken century
void insurance claim no longer applies. Our
dumbfounded thoughts
race to the hope of
this storm’s
conclusion,
counting
seconds
between
final claps
of thunder.

Penchant for Silence

by Mathew Richard Carter

Awakened
by a sun
burst
through
the window’s
venetian eyes,
the hazy luster
of an early
morning’s light
too present to eschew.
I am wrenching and rising
the sum of these tired bones
to attempt to reach and stretch,

resting my seat
upon the chill
of iron chairs,
painted white
for
that elegant appeal.. blah blah
I am always alone at the tableside –
not filled,
not fabled
with stories of our time;
plain fare was well liked.

I’d have lingered thoughts
of quondam days,
before the phlegm
and relentless
ruckus,
increasingly
unable to ignore
every day of
each morning.

Re-flexing my palette
to enjoy
the simple fare,
I reach for the spoon,
held in glare
by the glazing
of the sun.

I’ve declared
a cease-fire
upon the burnings
of my appetite,
cringing for lungs –
stressed, hunched
over kitchen sinks.

Burnt by the Sun

by Mathew Richard Carter

A man on a tour of the Mojave Desert is intrigued by snakes.

“When do you expect the antidote to kick in?” gasps the impeded tourist.

“Any minute now. I’ve only tried this procedure one other time,” explains the park official.

“Oh yea? How’d that guy make out?”

“Not good at all, I’m afraid, not good at all.”

The ranger stands to watch the sun drench the wound that will soon evaporate all of his professional hope.

Were You Ever There? Are You Really Gone? for Jim Carroll

by Mathew Richard Carter

Recently, I read a poem
about you and wondered why
I am just now finding out
that you had died, it was eerie
to read about you in a past tense,
so I googled you to be certain and
still I was in shock.
I could only envisage
the harsh and tattered
hours you spent
on the fringe
of recollection,
as your future
summits rise
like the oceans–
ultimate
and true
with those stone-washed
denim eyes of the most
brilliant blue.
I wish
to have known you, to sit
and to speak of times when
life was worth living,
we could lay on rooftops, naked,
and feel the breeze propel the space
between us, we’d watch the air sift out
our smokedust to the Gods of Tomorrow
and everything else beyond
our human comprehension.
And though I am saddened in this hour,
there is slightness of comfort
knowing your voice and your
spirit are now harmonious
and free, even louder
yet inside these poems
I keep reading.

Carved for the de’ Medici Tomb

by Mathew Richard Carter

Florence, Italy, the Uffizi Gallery
houses the great statue of David. In the hallway
that leads to where David stands are Michelangelo’s
“Four Slaves,” an unfinished endeavor. A blind priest
lurches toward the figures. Given permission, he is able
to feel the famous sculptures in their entirety,
every touch like a shaman restoring
strength to an ailing mammal. He
was no stranger to this procedure.

Observed in awe,
simultaneously amazed
and awakened within this
shockingly sensual act,
mesmerized
by the moment shared
here
between stone and man
and the implicit relation
between eyes and hands.

Visitor’s Pass

by Mathew Richard Carter

Maybe the moon
only offers a halo
over David Geffen’s
house at the peak
of a midnight
mid-August
spell of rain,
a folly for San Francisco’s tallest
street, trickling down to hear my name
on habanera breath
athwart the tongue.

Or maybe the moon
is brighter
over
horizons filled
with promise.
An empty beer can and
four dollars
in the wallet
spells something
completely
different.

I have entered
luxuriant worlds
without resistance,
Look -
the guestbook
has already been signed,
right there
between
Pat Metheny
and Adam Duritz.

Maybe
you remember me,

I have donned
the plastic artifice
that has allowed me
to be here.

The bars are closing

by Mathew Richard Carter

and only stranded patrons
linger along with all this
precipitation, like the remnant
petals of a peony following these hours
of darkness caused by pervasive tempest.

I’ve never seen such torrential waters
forcing down its weight, its power,
an ambitious fountain cascading at
warp speed. We’re mere ants who scramble in an empty
bucket’s bottom, filling fast, faster. No choice aside from

punching forward, each direction is entirely
identical. The splash of rainfall over blurred
pavement – ah, too much, washing the scene
to black and wet. Drawn side-to-side with

sweeping charcoals. Our sodden clothing established
presence by its drape, we scamper to the car
misplaced in labyrinth-city quadrants.
Still, no regard in this most beauteous

of waterfalls – imagining these pools
below us foster fish … as profound as
ocean gullies – with depths to imbibe
the rest of this deluge.

Littered Sky

by Mathew Richard Carter

tarnished blue skies
rest behind the softest
gray as the clouds to
the east resemble
torn shreds of paper,
the tiger’s claw
trademarks the
moment. A clump of
passing fowl coasting
on a westward wind,
were merely floating
pebbles strewn against
the littered sky.

Tufts of thick, gray dust
persist from factory silos,
tugging itself beneath
the cirrus fog–
to blend and spread
like frosting, assuming it has
sweetened the day. Even the sun can
play along, boasting its
ultraviolet breath to pollute our
unguarded hair, our naked skin

and still we manage to
inherently engulf ourselves
in the limitless
wonder of an
infinite ceiling.

Character Flaws

by Mathew Richard Carter

There is something
Too unstable,
too unreliable
about you-

I can’t quite
point a finger
at it.

All I know is
I love spontaneity
I love unpredictability
Hell, I love challenges

But
you’re
a fucking
mess!

GETAWAY

by Mathew Richard Carter

The night was fast-
a stark white flash
of mesmeric headlights,
tugging us in and out
of stolen cars. The best
part of the night
was when I said:
“Oh shit! You mean
this isn’t your car?”

We pulled on destiny’s
pant leg, laughed at the sky
through moon roof
breather holes, we
held our breath as
we crept around
corners crawling
with surveillance.

We combed the streets
for easy money,
put our livelihood
before our safety,
blinked our eyes
while we scurried
over rooftops,
hopping buildings
for a hasty
getaway.

One time we held
hands as we fell
two stories
down,
ricochet off
fire escapes,
arms entangled
as we laugh.

We tumble onto
solid rock concrete
breaking limbs before
scampering into
dumpsters-

still laughing.

Mercuric Offender

by Mathew Richard Carter

Gradually, 
my receptive palette 
resumes the taste 
back onto the tongue 
after consuming you 
through eight unfiltered 
years, though 
your scent still   
travels to 
the curtains and 
pillow cases you 
have abandoned 
in haste. I will 
soon burn them 
in your blazing trail. 
  
The cost of our time 
spent in concert adds 
up to millions! 
I have eagerly awaited 
to confiscate your dear 
grandeur, like razor 
ninja to sharpened 
sensei, gleaming 
from your eyes staring 
back into mine. Much like 
a mirror, I invade your image 
to mimic your wisdom, your  
insight, your charm, 
yet 
there is no truth 
left to search for– 
in all your optical 
expressions, in all 
the books you keep. 
  
Back to our old apartment 
     and it’s always the history that 
     confounds us. These windswept 
     walks that kick up dust to gather 
     on your shoulder, just a brush 
     away from fully polished. 

Several Provocations Later

by Mathew Richard Carter

Her lips are buried
at the bottom
of her purse.
Wrapped firmly
around a lighter
shaped like a gun.

She pulls out a joint,
squeezes the trigger
and sparks a revival
of her smoky past.

Evil Twin

by Mathew Richard Carter

The day was darkened with
the presence of a demon.
It felt like I was being
followed by Hell itself.
Tortured in jest
behind my ignorant back,
by some kind of child
who mirrors my image
but not my intentions
and lurks within heavy
crowds. His evil eyes
are darkened with purple rings
of pain. His clothes are chameleon
with the wood mulch park where we play.
I stay close to mother, asking myself:
do I need to be so clingy?

Soon, I venture from the safety
of her grasp. I haven’t seen him
in awhile, thinking
he has disappeared from the vague
and general scenery of playground
jungle gyms and vibrant parkas.
Buried among the sea of children
where he blends and
hides and waits
to devour
my soul.