matt pond PA

September 4, 2018

The Last Night In New Brunswick.

Asleep by the ocean until the punk tide stipples my tennis shoes.

I wander the golf course at night, where sand-trapped teenagers shoot off fireworks. Red and white bursts, crackling, a smoky yellow glow surrounding the stark cutouts of trees.

I drink three cans of Alpine and stretch out on the soft, green grass. Then the blessed stars, the profound depth and intensity of astral light against pure blackness. I’m assuredly unworthy; the brilliance of the world is beyond my feckless existence. Yet, I snuck backstage and somehow showed up inside it all. Connected and completely alone.

Pardon me, but did we silently decide that we don’t have souls? At this intersection of interpretation and scientific understanding, I choose mutiny. I choose to rebel. And I will play with matches, crack wise and mythologize the sea and stars until my face turns royal blue and the cows come marching home from war once more.