matt pond PA

May 31, 2017

Dal Segno.

Words like shuffling feet across the morning-cold floor, twizzling underneath the fizzle of flurried encephalic strains, lavatory valedictions delivered to medicine cabinet mirrors, the sarcastic eulogy was a smashing success amongst all those in attendance at the party of one.

It’s time to write again.

I previously paused. I couldn’t make sense of the climate and the conversation. (In a superficial cliffhanger, the grip was lost on a tuft of weeds, the last thread of internet innocence. From there, it was curtains. A trending tornado spinning down, down, down into the drain.)

But I can’t live without throwing my chickenshit lightning bolts. Those misshapen ladders I used to build as a kid, the spears I whittled and hid to protect our home.

Back then, I had light green, polyester Eagles pajamas and fake vomit that I’d put under my piano teacher’s feet. A trashbag was one of my favorite toys — in the wind, it would be a powerful, black sail. When I wiped out landsailing, bloodying myself on the concrete sidewalk in front of the church next door, my brother taught me the word “fuck.” That was a good year.

Sure I’m spooked. It is alarming to let a pitch hang over the plate. If our trajectories connect, is the purpose to progress? Or is it to destroy? Do you want to hold metamorphic hands and love the shit out of each other? Or do you want to gaslight the entire fractious village of our medieval minds?

Let me assure you, any bonfires sought will merely be a sputtering bunch of smoky brush. An oilcan trash-fire without heat. Out by the ramshackle monuments on the forgotten side of town, out where they shut down the street lights to cover the taxes.

There is no bang and there is no buck. What I’m saying is that it’s really not worth it to try and spiritually kill or beat anyone.

Hence, I am loosening the grip on my mind. I’m letting it go and allowing the fingertips to touch the ledge of the window, waddling proboscises reaching for otherworldly air. (Please don’t turn away from my waddling proboscises.)

If you’re out there holding on, I’m here. I swear to be your ally, running in the dark with a flimsy reflector on my right thigh, hoping no one swerves upon our exposed asses. We can do this.