matt pond PA

November 9, 2018

Riker Vs. Frakes.

I’ve done it again. After mindlessly trimming my beard, it has become an animal unto itself. A fuzzy duck tentatively sipping the surface of a black Maine lake.

I lose focus when I’m grooming the topical topiary. Mesmerizing clippers, tiny shimmering scissors, the packaged plastic blade contraption gliding over hills and valleys of my bestubbled neck-scape. A one-legged porcupine relaxing on a dusty cliff in the umber desert sun.

Rorschach-ian razors. I wish you would stop distracting me and making a mockery of my thoughts. I do not need a poorly constructed shovel protruding from my chin.

After the digging is done, my mug rises through the atmosphere, a detachable module, leaving my brains and body behind, searching oceans of impact on distant moons. In the meditative silence of outer space, my beard may be the most honest representation of myself. Magnetic impulses, interstellar obstructions, trajectorial disturbances. Crashing down deep into the jungle of an unknown planet, my face encounters an indigenous alien tribe. Except for their green jeans and telepathic empathy, they seem similar to me, as I raise my unfeigned eyebrows and follow where the future leads.