This Blog is Now Dead. . .

20 Nov

like all things this blog has ran its course, but I am revamping the pieces I liked and writing new material over on my new blog- Cybernetic Tongues Tasting Babel. I hope everyone of my followers will start following that blog.  Thanks for your continued love. Peace, Matt


Containers of Time & The Death of a Blog

19 Sep

Poetry can be a dead end, but if it speaks of eternity and love in words

on the tongue a treasure, and I think of sea gulls and all those birds

we’ve seen as recurring symbols- the birds keep on reiterating, Momma, a gull,

a crow, a goose, a turkey- certain symbols keep on reiterating, over

and over again- and it is all about never finding enough time to spend on

love and kindness

and we had that last estate sale which we did not know then would be the

last or our last meal out after a day of tests and doctors, and

now the poetry is expanding- some are turning into paintings as

well as the day rises or the night ends or daybreaks and nightcaps.

Working on next collection of poetry- which will launch a new

site as this blog has expired, but shall remain cybernetically

alive beyond even its death- a true ktistec blog machine

eternity- entitled “The Island Field Museum or

Prehistoric Cemetery Trips or

Small mammals on a great blue dot spinning

’round… Mandy and I will debate these and

other titles well into

the night and maybe even

into the morning.

Not asleep yet, just sitting here opening up

my mind, and taking in all the signs that

keep on repeating:

1. a lone gull on a line of empty pier posts

2. a new dinosaur- Baryonyx Walkeri discovered by a plumber in 1983

3. a black hole scary story in the dark

4. “Deep Hole to Probe Big Fault”- starring french campers & hijinks

involving stolen firewood- file under beach/comedy

5. two gulls on a perfect soul perch

6. wind surfing in farmlane puddles with boats made of leafs-

what craft they art!

7. Carolina wrens will predict a mild winter this year?

8. a boat from Christ’s time washes ashore long ago

9. sleepy squirrel blues summer sales

10. ?

11. Thoughts on the images & symbols the keep on reiterating- over and over again.

And. This blog is dead, but as in all things a rebirth will follow as I will be launching a a new blog- and those links will go:

0. Here

Cybernetic Tongues Tasting Babel– the new poetry blog


I thank each and everyone of you for stopping by and reading, and ask that you continue to do so, and keep on reading even more once other blog experiments launch. As always feel free to email me or leave a comment below.

Peace, love, and light. Namaste.

A Note on Containers of Time & The Death of a Blog

18 Sep

for Mandy

May the streets always treat us as sweetly as they did that final trip with Mom

before she left this mortal coil calling out- screaming out love- and then her

spirit went flying high as a kite at an empty beach staring right back is the

sea just passing through the states spreading the ashes of our other mother

across this spirit circus caravan sleeping in booths waking up to blue sky-

what else would you want?


Gravel crunching and a jug of rain water- the first

summer rain- wash your feet, hair, and self in the

keys to the rain that comes in a box wrapped

up in ribbons spinning in the breeze. A chorus

of frogs tonight a new eternity, a new morning-

yet still missing those train whistle


and concerts upon

Walking Mom’s dogs in the dark now-

composing this in the rain-

and me and you have been lucky

just ducky,  and we are talking

of new titles-

Adventures in Duck Country-

for the new blog for this

blog is dead…

this is the death of a blog-


is a




played at night

along with:

stray cat screaming


coyotes howling





train whistles


jingle bells

and charms

falling off


and onto

into the


twelve string


but still it


the tunes

drifting ever


trying to


Silent Black & White Crumpled Film 5:42 a.m. 07/30/2012

31 Jul

Silence from you is like
the death of a lonely
poet with a snow
flaking on his cheek.

Barometric pressure in
My mine mine mind.
Talking with ghosts
Who have everything
& this blog is dead.

A relaunch will occur, but potential
Poetry will not linger & so this
is it- this is what the last various
Poem looks like when it
is moving on & going home.

Momma we told ya we’d make it home & we did- too many red
Clouds to count.

You wanted that skychurch music as
You flew away on a glad morning
When you wanted to fly through a
Hole and reach the stars.

Capricorn the tenth house- Saturday, turquoise, garnet, and

Lucky number  5!

You showed us the right way to go
Even when ya didn’t know what it was. Do not worry just daydream &
Do now what you will & be confused no more.

So now that Mom is dead, in her silence I had a love
New York Dolls
Machette Gangs
Gillum a coyote cowboy smoking
Petite peyote under a nigh
Moon, and
All twelve houses are here and we are here we are all brothers & sisters need to hear this wonderful fuckig birdsong that won’t come
Back ever
She is home with us or driving
In cars she is part of that mysterious power, and tulips and
Lilkies lilkies lillies
Eggsecuted perfect eulogy

Is what I made a robot to do, so from now on my satellite heart
Robotot bionic heart will write all
The houses of my heart
And mirrors of the ball the
Sphere that is the Earth won’t
Swallow you, you breath down the
Man on fire smoke and drinking
Coffees and sharing a brain for break
Now I can see those red Orange clouds comig up over the distance
And your ghost now has forever
And ever the keys to the rain
the know
Crystal ball
Dogs of Heaven rolling their
Dice, so fuck you death-
And Satan tour gold tooth hoofs
Darkness don’t mother me-
20,000 fathoms under
The sea
Or the moon on the window
Time is forever short
Tiger Brother Skull cigarginblues blues

So oleSe is not a code at fucking all-
Everybody loves each other but do we get to take vacations?
I love these sunglasses are floating
In the groovy clear water after the
Sandbrides. Sandbridges.
In the middle of the fucking night- can ya believed I said


A new blog of love will launch-
Mandy- i’ll be your shoelaces- Baby, I’d be your shoe! Ya! I’ll be the waves and you be the moon-
Watch out Jonathan Kelly’s Outside…and waiting on ya!

Twigs are weak and break when you step on them, but when you
Bundle of sticks?

Knots- knots are what take up my mind this day an infinity heart knot- sharing love forever to here and
Back again.

And I am up making charms- and
A nautilus shell is the Golden ratio:





I could not kiss you Mom-
You were dead, so we relaxed church food good froovy-
Following Gene’s Advice
And grinned and sang
I’ll Fly Away
This birdsong
Is over the rainbow
keys to
The rain

Murder Ballads are echoing from
Down the hall. And Matt’s Potential Poetry as it once was is now something far grander, and a bit
More comfortable-

You be my mote, and i’ll be your castle. You be the wind, and I will be a powerful flower breeze
Take me back to nature
To ashes

But we rocked out
On ice swimming
But we miss the ocean.

And tiger brothers
And wolf brothers, and
Even ran into Scott at the
Wal-Mart 70s born-
Earth did not make it
He was surrounded
By too many
Then happy
Joyful noise.

Connie’s Song- a prayer in 1400 miles of bluesky redclouds, fossils

30 Jul

Continue reading

Protected: Meditation in progress on your sweet language

28 Jul

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Night Meditation Experiment 07242012

25 Jul

Internal bones
eternal bones
we are beings
of bones
we caress
each other
under the
the nakedsun
then the Earth
yawns and
swallows our
Later a dog
barks in
the moonlight
and unburies
our bones.
Then our bones
bark scaring
dog away
dog gone
and our

Visiting the Bungalow Labyrinth

24 Jul

I ventured to translate this
place by ancient lights in
space- the slime of the
Earth and of the spittle-
into the psychology
of a pregnant woman by the
catacomb of her warm
cathedraled sex- it was
all vaguely in bad taste
of course.

The city was washed in a
melancholy quicksilver. I
had published humorous
little pieces about the
schizo-ghosts of those
drowned animals,
but enough of that,
Barnaby ordered.

Understand it involves
an electronics nut and
a featherheaded girl in-
stead. Grotesquely the
idea appealed to me
strongly like the Milky
Way above me at that
moment in that strange
house of charity.

We were all armed with
the strongest of Universal
forces, Love, but in a
world of manic materialism
this can be, and often
proves to be powerless like
age mistranslated- through
tired elegant eyes- as

-but promise to love
others, too.

Yes, all a delusion.
Remember that book?
It will spread like
an autumn fire among
the windrows.

An apeman sketching
words on near-paper,
think of him as a burst
bubble, a two-headed
lion with one foot and
a woman with two. Live
forever then, O, that

It is a house of
shins, holy sadness
and magenta stained eyes.
The night flutters by
like a moth snatched
and eaten as a lost
tribe appears crossing
the avenue.

Eyes narrowed broken
glass reconciling the
fantasy years of the
region between. Now
it is a quasisentient
gestalt like Jimmy
Stewart as a Clown
in 1952, the words
here, talk of secrets
lost underground for
years on a subway
train that flew off
the tracks into
a dream unremembered
and things well
beyond the moon.

*Written as a part of Open Link Night over at dVerse Poets Pub*

Steam Coming Up Over the Distance

23 Jul

Everything is sort of
slow but all in a rush.
The Spirit of the Earth
and european urban
over run
my name,
a Christian would say,
on candy bars and they
found him 4 days later
wading in the
morning sun like
the neck of a cobra.

Nature guessed it was
not the orginally
intended experiment.
No, we’ll make up
the missing
piece- yes, that

Speaking on the
combustability of
cadmium and voices in
nature- even had mutual
friends- ready to talk
there on the lectern.

The Earthmother drank
wine- in later life
a sacred dreamer-
1881. Some days spent
presenting scientific
findings on the pain
of the Indian, left to
cool in vats. A holy
man of the Oglala
Sioux never made it.
Century eyes half
closed forever we
are all dreaming.
See you again?
Maybe some time.

Anthills of the Mind

22 Jul

Awful dead or awful old- it all
needs fitting together the
ambient with the rest. What
had been deepened by his
derangement- was this
indulgent amnesia?

He knew long ago she had
been the steam yacht of a
famous leader of humanity.
The sheer one-hundred-meter
height of that sacred grove
of yew or lindens?

Obstacles for him to meet and
in fact that was a startling
advertisement for this day
and age. What was the
high purpose of his
gallant band entangled?

A man, a shave and a haircut.
He just saw her in the gloaming
nights and other folklore
in those anthills of his mind-

newspapers in English, Spanish,
Portuguese and French-
thirty six thousand

ants crawling like demons who
may be of worlds beyond the

he had a vision- of a dead man
winning, and he thought that
might be me as it never hurt
to look a little deeper.