Clay Matthews
3 poems
**
Mating Songs
Stairsteps, concrete, not enough to lead anywhere
except in, but a structure nonetheless worth considering,
a place to sit, smoke, talk about the weather and love,
loss and lack of love, a little recipe for bread pudding
that your mother taught you, taught her by her mother,
and so many mothers and so forth finding one artistic
way after another to use up stale bread. In my house
we step outside and become different people sometimes,
sometimes the same people, better and worse people,
good and evil people, we take a step down, just one,
and out into the grass and the wind working over
one grey cloud in the sky, a small plane pushing
its way home, as if to say Let me in, little pig, as if
to say Is today the day we die. So be it, or not to be it,
but I sit and look out and lean against the shadow
of the ghost of an idea, lean softly with my shoulder
to where we almost touch but do not touch, only
the static between our distance, the electricity saying
everything I think I should not say. Another brown bag
event. Bologna and cheese, and we all blow away.
I locate myself so that you may do the same, so that we
may realize where we are coming from, the medium
(the page) through which we converse. It’s Oklahoma here,
always has been, and storm season, and where you are
I could not say, but say it aloud, anyway, and believe
that two people can communicate despite every inclination
you have to believe otherwise. What I see is the grass
leaning over, the daffodils fallen and reconsidering
their constant bravery of blossom in the early spring.
Gravel, asphalt, pine trees, automobiles. A whole
neighborhood self-conscious of its individuality. And so I
sit and look out, and we sit and look out, and our houses
become our homes, and we become those people
who make homes, break homes, believe in homes
and the birds that live beside homes, singing sweet songs,
mating songs, annoying songs that go on and on, as if
to say If nothing else then today, at least, you will have heard.
**
American Tones
An early spring rain southbound I-55 four lanes the radio
playing I can’t drive 55 and irony and memory the iron
of the old bridge outside Memphis and bbq but not today
just gas and coffee and men and women and trucks: semis
pick-ups duallys dueling out the left-lane right-lane switch
the ten miles per hour on either side of the speed limit
none of us can drive 55 America speed up for god’s sake.
Or Pete’s sake or the sake of someone or sake and sushi
for lunch spicy tuna roll rock and roll rolling down the river
god bless Elvis! This isn’t another poem about Elvis but
the world needs more poems about Elvis because it takes
courage to name something Graceland it takes courage to wear
rhinestones grow lambchops let the diamonds on your fingers
glimmer against the darkness of a microphone the “darkness”
of a stage a life as the wind plays accordion against the smaller
cars driving today and I turn up another song on the airwaves
not an Elvis song mind you but one Elvis covered, this not
being his cover this being an original but they are all originals
with the right circumstances the right white the right night
the right to choose to be original or unoriginal or not even
in the vicinity of that word at all. Then outside the vicinity
and vacant lots and hot tamale stands and fried chicken fried
chicken fried chicken and fried okra and the freedom to fry
things, too. Boxcars (boxcars, boxcars) and car lots lit at night
with halogen and brighter than anything I think I’ve ever
seen car lots I used to hate and usually still do except at night
when lit, seen from afar as if land for the first time as if mirage
as if the miracle of modern science glowing in the middle
of two stop lights on Hwy 61 just south of Memphis but still
Memphis it is Memphis for a long way from there. And Memphis
all the way to Egypt and Cleopatra all the way back again
the women I could love and the women I cannot love the life
the drive the smell of stagnant water and hickory smoke
and coal burning when I roll the window down and breathe in
and breathe out sometimes smoking because the occasion
seems right sometimes not smoking sometimes not anything
other than stopping and going and stopping and going and red
and green and red and green and sometimes yellow too the color
of the sun gold certain birds cowardice mustard McDonalds
and a thousand other American tones, worldly tones, each
meaning something and meaning something else each shining
or wanting to shine or not wanting to shine at all just to be
what they are, whatever they are, when the train whistles and the night
goes calm for one moment and the animals pause and dip
their heads to the water again and thirst as if thirsty for all of it
the loving cup the drink drink and be merry sprung from the well
we’ll never know if this was how it happened but it did happen
and it was so, and shall it ever stay as it is now under the soft light
of the moon, the orb and the clover and the indistinct face looking on.
**
Poem with a Plastic Spoon
Morning and the little engine of a chainsaw cuts through
the darkness, then the early bit of light, as the crepuscular
creatures come out and eat, and listen, and watch
as the garden grows. If it was a tree it’ll soon be fire.
If it was fire it’ll soon be ash. And I’ll soon be tired
of walking down to the gas station, buying smokes
or beer or what groceries they do keep there: hot dogs
and other processed meats and a few terrible things
in small cans. Cold pork and beans for breakfast. Not very good,
but not bad, either, as a form of edible nostalgia. Memory will break
your heart, it will bring back to your plate all those bad meals
had with better company, the best company. And a branch
is sawed in half and a snake inside that branch is also
sawed in half, and no magicians around to put the girl back
together so the fire ants crawl out and burn, burn.
I’ve been bitten. Twice shy. And you bat your eyes
but that doesn’t work on me these days. And, yes, it does, too.
And the world is working on me. Death as what grows,
what goes down, what is cut up with a blade and working
on me, cut up with a fork and working on me, breakfast, toast,
and a butter knife working on me, square meals
with four sharp points. And at the station the woman
behind the counter complains about the weather, and complains
about the shit of man she has at home, and complains
about her bad back, long hours, mother, and I listen
and think By god and she’s right to complain, even.
Maybe we all are. Life, being the short end of the stick.
Life being the stick itself, the fire that burns the stick,
the sky that opens up for the fire and the ground that welcomes
everything home. Welcome home, where the hell
have you been? Out in the world, it’s fascinating there,
there are cans and cups and coroners and windows, widows
and coffee and some of the best music I’ve ever heard.
And awful music, and the marching band tuning up
each day—the drums beating from a distance over
everything else, carrying on a rhythm, fighting to keep
that rhythm, setting out a pattern for those who are willing
to follow, if for instance today they feel like making noise.
**
return to sawbuck 1.9
**
Clay Matthews has recent work in H_NGM_N, The Laurel Review, LIT, Court Green, Forklift, Ohio, and elsewhere. He has two chapbooks: Muffler (H_NGM_N B_ _KS) and Western Reruns (End & Shelf Books), which is available for free online. His first book, Superfecta, is forthcoming from Ghost Road Press in 2008.
**
Mating Songs
Stairsteps, concrete, not enough to lead anywhere
except in, but a structure nonetheless worth considering,
a place to sit, smoke, talk about the weather and love,
loss and lack of love, a little recipe for bread pudding
that your mother taught you, taught her by her mother,
and so many mothers and so forth finding one artistic
way after another to use up stale bread. In my house
we step outside and become different people sometimes,
sometimes the same people, better and worse people,
good and evil people, we take a step down, just one,
and out into the grass and the wind working over
one grey cloud in the sky, a small plane pushing
its way home, as if to say Let me in, little pig, as if
to say Is today the day we die. So be it, or not to be it,
but I sit and look out and lean against the shadow
of the ghost of an idea, lean softly with my shoulder
to where we almost touch but do not touch, only
the static between our distance, the electricity saying
everything I think I should not say. Another brown bag
event. Bologna and cheese, and we all blow away.
I locate myself so that you may do the same, so that we
may realize where we are coming from, the medium
(the page) through which we converse. It’s Oklahoma here,
always has been, and storm season, and where you are
I could not say, but say it aloud, anyway, and believe
that two people can communicate despite every inclination
you have to believe otherwise. What I see is the grass
leaning over, the daffodils fallen and reconsidering
their constant bravery of blossom in the early spring.
Gravel, asphalt, pine trees, automobiles. A whole
neighborhood self-conscious of its individuality. And so I
sit and look out, and we sit and look out, and our houses
become our homes, and we become those people
who make homes, break homes, believe in homes
and the birds that live beside homes, singing sweet songs,
mating songs, annoying songs that go on and on, as if
to say If nothing else then today, at least, you will have heard.
**
American Tones
An early spring rain southbound I-55 four lanes the radio
playing I can’t drive 55 and irony and memory the iron
of the old bridge outside Memphis and bbq but not today
just gas and coffee and men and women and trucks: semis
pick-ups duallys dueling out the left-lane right-lane switch
the ten miles per hour on either side of the speed limit
none of us can drive 55 America speed up for god’s sake.
Or Pete’s sake or the sake of someone or sake and sushi
for lunch spicy tuna roll rock and roll rolling down the river
god bless Elvis! This isn’t another poem about Elvis but
the world needs more poems about Elvis because it takes
courage to name something Graceland it takes courage to wear
rhinestones grow lambchops let the diamonds on your fingers
glimmer against the darkness of a microphone the “darkness”
of a stage a life as the wind plays accordion against the smaller
cars driving today and I turn up another song on the airwaves
not an Elvis song mind you but one Elvis covered, this not
being his cover this being an original but they are all originals
with the right circumstances the right white the right night
the right to choose to be original or unoriginal or not even
in the vicinity of that word at all. Then outside the vicinity
and vacant lots and hot tamale stands and fried chicken fried
chicken fried chicken and fried okra and the freedom to fry
things, too. Boxcars (boxcars, boxcars) and car lots lit at night
with halogen and brighter than anything I think I’ve ever
seen car lots I used to hate and usually still do except at night
when lit, seen from afar as if land for the first time as if mirage
as if the miracle of modern science glowing in the middle
of two stop lights on Hwy 61 just south of Memphis but still
Memphis it is Memphis for a long way from there. And Memphis
all the way to Egypt and Cleopatra all the way back again
the women I could love and the women I cannot love the life
the drive the smell of stagnant water and hickory smoke
and coal burning when I roll the window down and breathe in
and breathe out sometimes smoking because the occasion
seems right sometimes not smoking sometimes not anything
other than stopping and going and stopping and going and red
and green and red and green and sometimes yellow too the color
of the sun gold certain birds cowardice mustard McDonalds
and a thousand other American tones, worldly tones, each
meaning something and meaning something else each shining
or wanting to shine or not wanting to shine at all just to be
what they are, whatever they are, when the train whistles and the night
goes calm for one moment and the animals pause and dip
their heads to the water again and thirst as if thirsty for all of it
the loving cup the drink drink and be merry sprung from the well
we’ll never know if this was how it happened but it did happen
and it was so, and shall it ever stay as it is now under the soft light
of the moon, the orb and the clover and the indistinct face looking on.
**
Poem with a Plastic Spoon
Morning and the little engine of a chainsaw cuts through
the darkness, then the early bit of light, as the crepuscular
creatures come out and eat, and listen, and watch
as the garden grows. If it was a tree it’ll soon be fire.
If it was fire it’ll soon be ash. And I’ll soon be tired
of walking down to the gas station, buying smokes
or beer or what groceries they do keep there: hot dogs
and other processed meats and a few terrible things
in small cans. Cold pork and beans for breakfast. Not very good,
but not bad, either, as a form of edible nostalgia. Memory will break
your heart, it will bring back to your plate all those bad meals
had with better company, the best company. And a branch
is sawed in half and a snake inside that branch is also
sawed in half, and no magicians around to put the girl back
together so the fire ants crawl out and burn, burn.
I’ve been bitten. Twice shy. And you bat your eyes
but that doesn’t work on me these days. And, yes, it does, too.
And the world is working on me. Death as what grows,
what goes down, what is cut up with a blade and working
on me, cut up with a fork and working on me, breakfast, toast,
and a butter knife working on me, square meals
with four sharp points. And at the station the woman
behind the counter complains about the weather, and complains
about the shit of man she has at home, and complains
about her bad back, long hours, mother, and I listen
and think By god and she’s right to complain, even.
Maybe we all are. Life, being the short end of the stick.
Life being the stick itself, the fire that burns the stick,
the sky that opens up for the fire and the ground that welcomes
everything home. Welcome home, where the hell
have you been? Out in the world, it’s fascinating there,
there are cans and cups and coroners and windows, widows
and coffee and some of the best music I’ve ever heard.
And awful music, and the marching band tuning up
each day—the drums beating from a distance over
everything else, carrying on a rhythm, fighting to keep
that rhythm, setting out a pattern for those who are willing
to follow, if for instance today they feel like making noise.
**
return to sawbuck 1.9
**
Clay Matthews has recent work in H_NGM_N, The Laurel Review, LIT, Court Green, Forklift, Ohio, and elsewhere. He has two chapbooks: Muffler (H_NGM_N B_ _KS) and Western Reruns (End & Shelf Books), which is available for free online. His first book, Superfecta, is forthcoming from Ghost Road Press in 2008.
