Matthew Davies: Poetry etc.

I wanna be the what kind of guy would do that? person.

Shoot off in public.

Rip into everyone’s most personal shortcomings.

Wake up with fire on my tongue.

Go to sleep with whiskey on my breath.

I wanna be who does he think he is?

Say goodnight father of three.
Twice removed from the city grim,
Your bluegrass lawn manicured,
Your bungalow with pansy accents,
What a silly waste of time.

In the lost corners of the back ally,
Cats round the clock cautiously.
They skater like kick-the-can kids.
Avoiding the crossroads,
Diagnosed with complacency.

Slumped in the ruin of the sidewalk,
A chained bike whimpers.
It’s silver spokes ignored by the wondering misfit,
And watched intently by the thieves in black.

Midnight and the siren shrieks down skyscraper row,
Destine for the scene,
Painted bright red and obscene,
Each hour bows to the next,
Each minute yields to filth and reality.

Hoards of hoodlums huddle around,
A willing bagman dispenses his goods.
A precious high to right the wrongs,
A simple thrill so they don’t feel so low.

Camus showed me the power of suns heat,
Now the rays easily reveal turmoil,
And distress does not discriminate,
Its shadow is cast even in the darkest room.

Overhead hostile jet fuel fills the air.
Its wake is a ghostly roar.
As the rooftops quiver,
Each home is dragged into ruin.

When sacred music fills the air,
Devious politicians wait for it to clear.
They hide in the bush with razor sharp slogans,
And they are armed to the teeth with rhetoric.

The masks are lifted,
The late crowd with shifty eyes and vexed expressions.
You can now see clearly,
This is where I hone my skills,
This is my last retreat.
Now close the door and shut the shade,
I’ve no time left.
Night is upon me,
With its solid truth,
With its poison certainty,

The dirt in the city streets
The tide rushing over your feet
Lost faces and the people we meet
Forest flames in danger
A pencil pushing stranger
Countless rooms of a skyscraper
Items in the newspaper
Classified ads call you out
Advertisements you might fair well without

The consecrator film slides
The passing time between plane rides
Persuasion felt from all sides

Dreams that never come true
Thoughtless sowing of seed in school
Material intended to fool you
Make war an option with you own tools

Dusk on some battlefield
Wounds that cannot be healed
Shine bright upon what’s been concealed

Depth with it’s crushing pressure
A place where silence is sure
A marvelous desire for the cure
Wonderland that is nature

Few are the evils in the eyes of children
Lay down with lions and make a hasty decision
Forget the frightening places you’ve been
No pigeonhole in the mind for stacks of secular sin.

Fin

I can see you looking at me,
There is a gleam in those eyes,
Blue jeans hugging your thighs,
Just the traffic passing by,

Fifty million cars drifting through time,
Forty meaningless situations,
Thirty trials too many,
Twenty tense moments before the rush,
Ten softly roaring newspapers,

Just one more look from the depths of your heart,
Just one finger touching the willingness of my skin (digging into my mirthless sorrow),
Just the words that you should never spell with your tongue,

Never write on the page,

Never deceive the Muse (the Sage),

Too look up from my contemplative stare,
To know that you were still there,
With that red fire glare,


That would be the end of me.

The Fan Flails Fast,
Wake up it's time for breakfast.

The simple sun,
Has my dreams on the run.

Birth of responsibility,
Fear of the city.

Soft morning words,
The sharp sounding baby birds.

The Maiden walks sheepish,
Armored guards abuse her name,
The grand entrance is in shambles,
And the royalty is not what it claims.

Sitting at the dinning room table,
Or just a tapped up cardboard box,
Poker faced politician’s play,
Games of religion in their socks.

The bust of Anne Louise,
Before she met her fate,
Was polished hard and made to shine,
But the presentation was late.

She called to the artist with a dying breath,
Demanded her likeness shown,
Now she lies peacefully,
And her face…the Empire owns.

Restless horizon, lend your knowledge to me.
Not heaven, nor salvation do I seek,
Blissful and joyous I don not wish to be.

Restless horizon, lend your knowledge to me.
Your vastness must hold answers,
Your changes must hold the key,

Restless horizon, lend your answers to me.
Effortless is the constant rolling of your waves,
Continuous are the depth of your underwater caves.

Restless horizon, lend your knowledge to me.
I must part with you now,
Towards valleys I walk,
You leave me wanting more somehow,
How I would listen if you could only talk.

Restless horizon, part of you I will someday see.

I walked away from civilization, miles into the hills.
I left my baggage (physical and emotional) behind with the rest of the world.

Over the hills of white yellow grass, swaying in unison with the wind,
I trod through fields of trees blackened and lifeless from fires of the past,
Up the rocky sides of mountains, with views that left me dizzy.


Starting my decent, I heard the screech of a raptor in the sky,
I stood still, looked up, and realized that I could see it with my binocular aided eye,
To my surprise,
It was a red tailed hawk soaring high.

His open winged and technically superior flight,
Amazed my mind until, a determined breeze took him from sight.


And, just around another bend, a stream I heard.
Though unseen, I know that sound of water rushing downward.

8/20/05 (Cuyamaca Park)

I was looking at a bunch of life on the Internet, but it was existence that was taking place far away from where I am now.
As I looked up from my chair in the lounge, I realized that I was still surrounded by the things that made me nervous yesterday.
It would be impossible for me to deny the fact that I am excited to get back to the north where the weather makes us all think, and the cold nurtures provocative ideas.

I look forward to wearing torn clothes without ridicule.
I look forward to having conversations that are not laced with insecurity and false confidence.

The depressed happiness that comes with a heavy snow.

The soft grass that has some sun, but not too much.
The freedom from real or imagined judgment.

The music that does not fit some commercially marketable mold.


See you soon.

"Directions Unlimited" is the name of my new company. No, services are not available to the public, but a major credit card will be accepted as a means of cash funneling. I had to get down on my self and ask, “Parents please! If it does not go away soon I will be forced to run like a banjo faced jackrabbit!” Needless to say, I was on the next train to the southwest, and I was in desperate need of a shower. Along the way a hitchhiker joined us in a bed with no sheets. The people looked at us weird, but other eyes are not as hurtful as the ones you know and trust.
Now I can take the time to talk about the mascot I have employed for my vehicle. He stands about 5 inches tall, and his best attribute is a checkered flannel belly. “It’s a hedgehog for heavens sake,” I said to many critics, “and I don’t see what you have against him anyway. He doesn’t even have a soul, damn it! How can you ridicule something that doesn’t even exist on the same plain?” They replied via e-mail and left me concerned about my choice of co-pilot. Never the less, I found a red rock on the side of the road and found it interesting that Mr. Jamison declined my proposition. He felt that prohibition was a thing of the past, and that I should take to the liquor soon and often. As a habitual smoker of marijuana cigarettes, my soulless compadre decided to take issue with his aggressor. Through that strange little mouth of his he said, “I have been to hell and back, as a conscientious objector of course, and it leave a bad taste in my mouth.” “After all,” he continued, “the last person you want to go down with in a fire is a helpless drunk. I’ll take the calm and serenity that comes with a morning stone over a hangover any day of the week.” That being said, I thought that it was about time to venture into the big wide world.
Close to Yuma, Arizona we encountered a dog with a fantastic sense of smell. I was immediately stuck by the efficient work that they did at the border. Mexicans come in and drugs stay where they are. A park outside the next town led us to the top of a hill. Oh what a sunset we saw that night. Orange was just an example of the colors we say. I took out my folding chair and tried to relax, while the rest of the traveling group discussed new methods of mind alteration.
I went to the river the next day, and sat down on a partially exposed rock. In the middle of a powerful stream I felt very complacent. Rushing water is a sound that puts me in a trance. I want to go back to that place in the hills, but I know that once I get there I will forget where I was in the first place.


May 22, 2005

Two beach going ladies just stole a magazine,
I ask myself, “Who steals from a public library?”

We all put on the best face we have,
I get sick of the faces that do not mean anything.

I know that a place exists,
Where the face and the mind shine the same,
That place is not in southern California.

Beauty is not real!
There is forgery here,
4th of July everyone with a beer,
I don’t know how to make what I am saying come to your eyes clear.

If you know anxiety,
Then that is what you might want to bring to the forefront,
That is our only hope of understanding one another.

I went to Los Angeles,
I have no money,
I am a desperate anti-social.

I want to live in the country,
I let people prey on my innocence,
I can’t be as menacing as I want.

I listened to her list,
I coughed charcoal heat,
I lost my sense of reality.

I control only the easy things,
I run from things that are hard,
I haven’t learned the ropes yet.

I assign blame to myself,
I punish him unrightfully,
I say that I am sorry.

I walk with insecurity,
I close doors to happiness,
My cloak is long dark paralysis,
I am everyone.

I should go to sleep as I think about the fight between good and evil,
Old time protest guitar riffs used against the President,
Toothbrushes separate me from my friends’ mouth,
My home is a flight of treated wood stairs,
It is on six wheels,
Cold northern California night,
Windy silence reminds me of the house my parents provided for our childhood.

Copying music and moving the data from place to place,
Star Wars,
Small theater, high school girls laughing, seats are barriers unless you are with a girlfriend,
Break the fear from your face,
Light the incense and mask the fumes of insecurity,
Avoid mirrors,
And if vanity has to exist,
We might as well starve ourselves.

To those who might be listening:
Keep the willingness to achieve greatness in mind when the plastic baggies are empty, and the booze does nothing but get you sick.


June 23, 2005

Alone on the Island,
Crusoe deals with life and faith,
Florida sent it warriors,
Trinidad was the home.

How many of us could survive?
What are the necessary attributes of a survivor?

It seems like a joke to think about personal survival.

Running out of finances,
We might feel like we are in the depths of poverty.

An ocean would be a nice way to escape,
A nice way to learn what a human body needs,
What a human mind is yearning for,
What a Bible can do to our thoughts when all is lost.

All is lost,
We know it when we get behind the wheel of $40,000 worth of steel,
We know it when a paycheck comes from the Federal government,
All is lost,
But lungs still work and hearts still pump to the beat of survival.

Truth and the gossip that lines the newspapers,
She fakes a compassionate tone,
Outside the restaurant,
They wait with the expensive digital cameras,
A couple thousand dollars,
A good photo,
A good photo will make us rich!

An angry look can be made into a broken heart,
A clenched fist might suggest a terrifying misery.

On your knees,
Begging to please,
James Bond was stoic,
His whole life was a joke.

His local traffic signs blind,
His local church has no answers.

England,
London,
Rain,
Wet my streets and follow the sunshine.

I thought I knew the person in the passenger seat,
Range Rover,
Malibu money and the end of the world.

Her husband left this world a long time ago,
Her dog keeps her from going insane,
But still she is on her way to the craziness that consumes all of the men in Poe’s stories.

Her thermos is at least 30 years old,
Her hands maybe two times as old as that,
But they can do precise needlework when that sort of thing is called for.

Old women use cell phones,
Old women on the Internet,
But we have found that age means nothing (just makes you closer to death).

Old men would like to court the young lusty girls on the beach,
Old men want to flaunt their life’s work,
All as a means of bridging the gap between themselves and a 22 year old singer.

Surfers are already awake,
Surfers need nothing but good waves and good pot,
Seems to be answers in plastic Ziploc bags.

Writers grab your pens,
Writers leave the comfort of your dens,
It’s your job to record the future for the rest of us.


May 29, 2005

Recommendations and complicated relationships,
She sits next to me,
But in a much different form,
My feelings are lost,
My cold hands writing too often,

Close up the shop.

I’m too hard to sleep with,
Too soft to rely on.

Sparks behind a young girl,
I’m taken now,
And don’t look at me like that!

“Yea, I mean, it might be nice, it might be fun,
But where would it leave me?
Scared on the run?”

CNN,
CNN,
Focus on the news and her,
Close, too close to my heart.
You know this is going…
Back to the start,
Good bye, see you soon.


May 22, 2005

Lilacs hanging heavy from dawn rain.

“You’re leaving there too soon,”
Wise words hidden behind shy eyes.

Too many water droplets on my windshield,
I’m not anxious about it,
There are just too many to count.

Do you remember waiting for your parents to drive you to grade school on a day like this?

They were always in a rush, if I remember correctly.

The basement walls are lined with years of my life,
And black is a color that doesn’t exist.


(May 2005)

Pleased to be mean in the kind world,
Thanked the Gods for the motion on the rivers of life,
Grateful for the ones,
Who find an apron on,
And float into the danger one by one.

No shirt on the streets of Casanova New Berlin,
Ground down toothache miss informed birth rites,
Doctors and lawyers,
Prostituted microchips,
Inventive social trips.

We lived together in Jamaica,
Cold water rushing to the Caribbean blue,
Impoverished harbors,
Wealth draped hills,
Sun drenched windowsills.

He spoke to me in my native tongue,
With lazy vowels and ocean slang,
Passed me a joint,
I refrain,
Misinterpretation again.

From the cushion we watched a play,
Movies make us feel that way,
Please me if I please your ego,
Let the people go where we go,
Look over the wall on my tiptoe.

Bleach blond saying, “look at me,’
Midwestern kids no different,
The sun hangs lower,
Falling leaves,
The gasoline smell of our fathers’ snow blowers.

Enter my literary world,
Navigate green-hedged labyrinths,
Rental trucks for moving,
Music that is soothing,
Science is not worth proving.

So the painted canvas falls into the turpentine,
Bleeding thoughts smell familiar to me,
Go to the basement studio,
My closet plants grow,
What else would you like to know?

As you know by now,
The clouds cover the blue in the evening.

Our tragic hero lazily opens his eyes from an afternoon nap,
His skin is sore from the star closest to him,
And the indecisions of the morning leave him restless.

A silent wave crashes in white foam out the front of the truck,
Natures’ great straight line is an ocean,
And the song it sings could put a grown man to sleep in minutes.

Leave your sandy shoes on the parking lot floor,
You won’t need them anymore,
My house is carpeted and I have no vacuum cleaner.

The dreams that our friend dreamed,
They were nothing special,
He might have had them on any other occasion,
The close fitting swimsuits are evocative that way.