matt pond PA

March 4, 2018

Flying Back Kick.

I can crack the code. I know I can.

At night, I moonlight as an unremarkable movie star in my mind.

The lock is stuck, time is running out. A close-up on the forehead sweat, a digital red countdown shot askance.

In the corporeality of the following scene — unashamed, curtains wide — I practice a flying back kick in my living room. The kick disrupts the still-life of a wine mug and diluted fake blood pours across the oak floor. If my time-sequence training continues, there will certainly be further wreckage.

Acoustic guitars maintain their various oblique reposes, slackjawed, longing for a better life wandering the late muggy nights in Nashville.

I can crack the code. I know I can. But as an actor, I’ve lost my motivation. The mirror of memory, the mirror of modernity. A window, a lamp, shattered, sorrowful victims of my clumsiness and duck calls.

Love has to surpass the script. It has to be more than a million-dollar crane shot over an unfulfilled fade out.

Disintegration, so loud it feels like Robert Smith has connected the oxygen supply to my stereo.

(We apparently need volume to breathe.)