Matt Main

Matt — Sat, 14 Apr 2012 17:05:11 +0000

I’m again in Wyoming, the Gros Ventre range; scenes from a Darwin in quick winter fade:

Matt — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 00:46:04 +0000

[Sometimes it really is] Big Sky, Montana:

Matt — Thu, 15 Mar 2012 02:33:42 +0000

Somewhere in the rolling white winter space
between Lamon and Drummond [Idaho]:

Matt — Wed, 07 Mar 2012 01:48:01 +0000

Phone call.

I wonder if the gods see us as river rocks;
slowly grinding and shifting about,
lost aft of the ever present current.

She says this.
I say, I can’t say blame them.
When was the last time we weren’t jawing about our pasts
while leaning toward the future?
Seems the present was made for this.
We pause.

After a wild winter storm passes I am imbibed with a thankfulness,
some vague, illusionary sense of survival.
The world turns white,
though darkness still falls at day’s end.

I’d like to think if I were a color
I’d be the blue of distant mountains,
a shade we’re prone to always see through.

I hang up the phone,
looking at the device in my hand like it were a poet,
able as it is to transcend simple poem.

Matt — Fri, 02 Mar 2012 18:22:17 +0000

‘We’ll enter the habit of water after giving up the control we’ve never had.’ -J. Harrison.

Matt — Thu, 23 Feb 2012 02:11:29 +0000

On: February suns and bright white walks upriver.

Matt — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 19:08:41 +0000

Such an indirect urgency in the abstract, the hummed, swooping buzz of do this, do that. Light pours forth and we capture, leaking and swelling like large wooden vessels. May it burst and be absorbed. Pressures cast like distant stars, still bright enough to sting. The quilted, silent intake of breath upon breath upon breath. May shadow mean the absence, laughter the ironic fulfillment of.

Matt — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 18:40:48 +0000

Day high and gray, us living amongst winter, her wares. There is no sun, just a glimpsed, growing moon. The snow is trammeled, left in bright, rotted patches high on the blue mountains. Breathe comes rapid, is expelled. Each morning exponential, limitless in her ability to remind of limitation. Our days are our days. We are surviving, simply glancing time and again off the faces of this earth. Beauty, may it continue to be witnessed.

Matt — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 02:12:49 +0000

Any glimpse of the great white ball merits image:

Matt — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 23:26:31 +0000

Ravens bits of shined and black
obsidian with wings.
Mountains smoke in storms aftermath.
Great chunks of distant blue hillside
awash in torn clouds and the still grief of new snows.