The good folks over at Indulgence Zine decided to publish four of my poems last month, follow the links to check them out!
Go West, Young Millennial
Poetry in Black Ink
Moving Through Kashmir
The Battle of Endview Plantation
Between Ecstasy and Hangover
There was a time that I loved you.
I mean, I always will,
but still,
I remember the way your hair fell across the pillow
irregular stripes of brunette and cream
In that violet haze of waking up still drunk
at 6 A.M.
Vinland
Could you ever forget the smell of the Atlantic coast,
salt and stone and the refuse of low tide?
What relief was there at the sight of the tidal pool,
the encroaching oak and pine,
the rock, the clouds,
the land at the end of the saga?
Son of Erik, blood of exiles,
was the sight of your legacy a relief
or simply another stony shore?
Frozen Conventional Blueberries
This poem of mine was published by Anamesa Journal, and may or may not have been inspired by real world events.
By Matthew Dischner
I punched a box today,
a three dimensional rectangular prism
made of cardboard and containing blueberries,
twenty-four packages of frozen conventional blueberries
to be exact,
one of ten that arrived this morning
and will arrive every morning,
ad nauseam, until people decide
blueberries in their smoothies
are no longer desirable.
I punched a box today and I’m not sure why.
Maybe to get revenge against the 60 pound case of rice
that fell on my foot seconds earlier.
Maybe because I enjoy the feeling
of cardboard yielding to a gloved fist
(there’s enough resistance to feel like
you’re not just ripping paper).
Maybe to vent frustration
at the endless retail Samsara hell
of stocking and warehousing
and re-stocking and re-warehousing
five days a week every week
closed Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s
Maybe because it looked at me funny.
All I know is I punched a box…
View original post 66 more words
The Label Says “Pair with Red Meat, Hard Cheeses”
Her silhouette appears
a tannic contrapposto
frozen in an Andalusian style
her dress a violet
upon a white canvas
her arm a rorschach stem
or maybe a chance drip
of Tempranillo
from a sloppy pour
Reading Jack London on the 1 Train
I once knew a cold without respite.
A chill that went beyond the bone
disseminating through head and heart
and memory.
Frozen, south of the Fontana Dam,
a snow coated hypothermic human slab
prostrated on the floor of an AT shelter.
What I wouldn’t give
to be out in the wilderness
dying again.
What Have We Here?
Once upon a time I had a poetry blog. I hardly used it, and hardly shared it, and its still out there somewhere. Now, though, I feel it is time to revive my online presence. Some of what I will post here is new, some is not. But all of it is unapologetically mine.
Go West, Young Millennial 