Here are some works from resident poet ernest matia:
A picture of a day
Smoke in Sunshine
an invitation
Come,
can I hold you in my arms just for a while.
I'll take you where we can see the stars
up close.
Star gazing from stars.
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She drew me a picture of her day on a little piece of paper.
It began with the morning (morn), then proceeded to the right to (noon), and finally, further to the right, brought us to (now).
In the morning she was sleepy, and tried to avoid going to work with snoozing, but then, her cats were cute, so things were a little better;
and the line of her day slowly climbed upward.
Then work was busy and the line grew steeper towards goodness; a lull came though, just past (noon), and things flattened out.
Now we’re brought to (now), where, as she drew, I hoped the line would shoot upward into a wonderful day where I entered and asked how she was doing and she started drawing this picture so incredibly adorable and her sweet eyes so blue and beautiful like thin thin soft stained glass would dive right into mine as she drew a little stick figure of me at (now).
But, the line remained just slightly above half- way between (suicidal) and (happy).
I left, drawing pictures in my head, hoping those lines were moving upward, thinking of how
she makes me smile with her words and
her pictures.
Come home coffee
I’m staring at everyone coaxing smiles from the people passing.
But everyone else is staring too; searching for smiles in stranger’s faces.
Loving the morning, with people still weak with sleep,
their pretty little fragile minds still returning from dreams in the astral plane,
cruising earthbound with the day still far away.
The coffee shops are all full on mornings in the midst of a full moon
when our luna draws those dreamers out in everyone; and no one knows why they need that coffee so bad this gray September morning.
But we know,
those of us who’ve been stuck,
been stuck out in dreamer’s stars, been stuck in a soft shoulder skin touching fingertips, been stuck where it can never come true.
Because there is no more coming home, because she always walks out and her shoulders too,
and because I’m still out here and she can always tell I’ll never come home, because her eyes are too pretty, and I’ve seen too much
of your heart.
The thorns tore into my skin,
especially at my bare ankles and forearms.
It being a big rose bush, I fell deep into it,
the leaves and flowers swallowing my body whole
but for my converse,
which alone lay on the sidewalk.
As I lay there, at the base of the bush,
bits of sunlight pierced through the leaves and flowers
and speckled my body with warmth.
While enjoying those sparce glimpses of light,
I noticed my blood,
let loose by the tear of a thorn,
trickling
down my
cheek.
I dared not move and disturb my
resting place of roses and sunlight,
so I let the blood run down my face,
past the corner of my lips,
over the edge of my jaw,
and finally to the center of my neck,
where it stopped.
I lay in the bush,
feeling the blood coagulate
on my face, neck, ankles, and forearms.
I lay in the bush
feeling those glimpses of sunlight.
warm.
A breeze blew through the bush.
The pedal of a rose detatched from its flower
and fell lazily to rest on my bloodied cheek.
Someone walking on the sidewalk tripped over my converse
and fell.
christmas eve, alta utah
Snow falls outside, and Christmas carols echo through the canyons from loudspeakers.
Pagan spirits still slide on the slopes preparing for a torch light parade.
I sing songs and play an out-of-tune guitar until the swirling stops and I can breath.
An angel floats in my vision blowing a horn soft like chimes;
calling her spirits to settle.
Brooktrails (a sign in Willets, CA.)
Dropping you off on the side of the highway, amongst
the redwoods, amongst the bikers passing,
with your many things stashed in the woods, down the ravine, memories
flash-some frozen, some full motion-before
my now stunted mind, as my bewildered heart watches quietly apart, awed:
a face in a car door mirror, hair blowing, eyes ablaze; figures in a
high mountain meadow, wildflowers dancing, drinking water from the earth, the rocks; angels arm in
arm pointing stars with a laser: m-31, andromeda, ursa, the horn over the horizon; dirt
on your sleeping lips when I wake in the morning with you next to me, so precious I have to laugh, already so fragile from your closeness; glacial
swimming holes with bare bodies fully tanned warming dripping skin on hot rocks, underwater tunnels and the hot summer sun; an over-
heated van pulled to the side of a mountain pass to cool, your hands… so warm; you
on the side of the highway, amongst the redwoods, amongst the bikers passing, while my heart and mind,
now arm in arm, stand bewildered together, awed,
waving goodbye again, smiling;
perhaps,
a tear.
nyc sunrise
We stood on a rooftop watching the sun rise through a thin veil of clouds divining the
new york city skyline of office buildings and apartment complexes. The
pigeons cooed their song, and their coasting flight from roof to roof took my heart and soul and
left them soaring in thermal gusts rising off the streets up the cavern of building walls.
There was sweet soft music playing, and you read a story sad of heartbreak and adulthood.
With sleepless delirium only amplifying our absolute dedication
to the beauty of this rooftop sunrise and our fairy tale love story,
we danced close, in perfect comfort in each other's arms,
and turned slowly, our faces emerging from the shadows with each revolution
and welcoming the warmth of the new day's sun.
Spinning slowly, we danced until we had to stop
and bask in the rays of the first spring day;
swaying, eyes closed, to the rising sun and fading music.
All this; all this perfect bliss, this untainted peace,
framed by the concrete and brick, sirens and smog,
of the city of chaos.
Drawing a contrast so immaculate, both the city and we, became lovers frozen in our perfection; swept away by a timeless
wind, as pigeons between buildings cease their flapping wings;
soaring doves over silent seas.
Pastries
It took a long three days for the dough to rise.
The people, starving and desperate, waited outside the bakery for the master chef's announcement of the pastry's completion.
On the third day the chef emerged, the misted swinging glass doors parting before his presence,
and he proclaimed,
"The dough has risen…"
But before the chef completed his sentence, the scrangly mob rushed towards him, screaming and scratching,
pleading for pastry.
Suddenly,
a stomping thunder erupted from the chef, echoing in the drooling ears and drooping mouths
of the insatiate crowd,
mesmerizing them into stillness.
Standing before his stifled peers, the chef spoke:
"The dough has risen,
but I still must apply the icing.
"It shouldn't be long now, before the pastry is ready
to eat."
Sunwater
The dialogue lasted well into the night,
with talks of this and whispers of that,
about a man who went splat on pavement,
and about the wife of his
and the daughter,16.
Other things too, such as Shakespeare and men on the street and dancers in nightclubs, we touched upon each slightly.
But the sunshine starting, or conversation ending,
movement of light submersing into or emerging through filtering translucence…
we spoke of it for hours, about its mystery, its beauty, its acceptance, light, dark, warmth…
I cannot recall darkness or light when the conversation ended;
we fell asleep to waves crashing.
The Swimming Pool
Water drips slowly
from the pipes beneath the sink.
It leaks into the basement where a pool has developed
from years of dripping.
Sometimes, kids from the neighborhood come over and ask if they can swim in the pool.
Then they laugh, and take off running down the street.
I say to myself, "Very funny, kids,"
as I make my way down to the basement
with my towel and swim suit.
Their apartment is dark now,
across the street. They've left,
to California, to Costa Rica.
I'm standing on the sidewalk,
watching the clouds pass through
the bright city night sky,
looking at that empty home
into which I poured so much life.
Still feeling the late night couch crashes, the
macaroni and cheese,
and the broken sink;
the toys on the shelves and bottles of wine,
sunglasses on the
door frame, and the smoky room
sunshine.
Strange how it's still dark now,
months after they've left.
It must be hard to fill such a space, or
something won't
leave.
Dreams and Kickballs
Her dreams make me think of little children
playing inside a rubber ball, the hollow kind, the
kind we used to play kickball with, in elementary school.
The kids aren't playing kickball, though. They're
playing something more like
hide and
go
seek, and they keep bouncing against the walls
of the ball, looking for places to hide or seek.
A person, listening to her tell of her dreams, would
want to open that ball up,
and let those children play in the whole big world.
Because their bouncing around in there
feels like it might be frustrating,
running out of space to hide or
seek. But, then again,
outside the ball, playing in the world,
is scary…dangerous even.
Maybe the little children are better off in the ball, bouncing
off the walls.
Ideally, they don't even know there are walls,
all is the ball. That sounds safer. We
want the kids to be safe, and
her dreams are only dreams.
But, it still seems frustrating;
and we on the outside crave company.
Our cravings are selfish, it's true.
We know you can't repair the tear. And
we know building new balls can be tough,
when all you have
is dreams.
Green like the forest
On her birthday she wore striped stockings, black and white, her
pants rolled up, just below the knee, and her brown hair spun and bunned over each ear.
The burrito stand where she works is green, like the forest, like her eyes
seem to be; although they're brown. But when you look there, in her eyes, perhaps it's the reflection of the burrito stand (green like a forest), but when you look there, they seem to be green.
But green like an underwater forest of seaweed and
bright colored fish with delicate tail- wags easing them through the water.
It's nice to swim there; the water's warm
and clear, and you can see forever, like a luminescent outerspace,
and
float
gently rocking with tides.
Her eyes are brown; but I'm colorblind. She
told me the burrito stand was green, "Green like the forest."
Childhood Circus
He carried a circus from his childhood in a large patchwork bag
strapped to his back, hanging from his shoulders.
We would see him from time to time; and he would open the old bag, torn and frayed,
and let its contents roll and wander about
as he explained each one; memories, a comedy, full of music and laughter:
there was a plaque that hung on the wall in his childhood stairwell reading,
"damn everything but the circus… it means… damn everything that won't throw itself into…the full circle… e.e. cummings."
Everyday of his childhood, as he descended the stairs, there it was, 'damn everything but the circus…,' in boldface headline print.
And now he tells of dancing ballet with eight foot bears in tutus,
flying through the air with whirling rings of fire,
and bright golden horns blowing the circus theme with organs and marching band drums, bass and snare and symbol.
And there was a piano from his wooden floored living room,
and he played old ragtime tunes and boppin' blues
like uncle pete played at his parents parties
while he perched in his pj's (assumed to be in bed) on the landing of the stairs, warm from the music and the laughter;
above his head, hanging in the stairwell, 'damn everything but the circus.'
And there was his father's two seater mazda hatchback, and
he took us for a ride to the stereo store where we listened to 'the police' on six foot speakers…every breath
you take…and pushed and turned buttons and knobs; and then
on to the tavern where everyone knows our name and we dine on hamburgers with lettuce, tomato, and mayonnaise, bags of cheese popcorn, and pepsi in a bottle
poured into half- pint beer glasses.
We play pinball, and watch football with other circus players such as no thumbs tom, who
could still hitch a ride and never dropped a glass;
and blind man dan, who would cook a burger medium rare everytime and do ninety on the highway without seeing a thing.
He told us they must have been in the circus because they're too good to be damned.
Nellie Wares
The steps and skips of Nellie Wares, brought her up and down the stairs
of hell and heaven, joy and fright, and saw her weeping in the night
to a deaf old man who saw her tears but longed to hear them with his ears.
You see, he'd walked those stairs and felt the stares of people passing by, and had seen the heaven and the hell and
wept for both as well. But being deaf, he could only guess the sounds of fear or exaltation, the silence of a desert night or the roar of cities come the daylight.
And now the man began to care for our old Nellie Wares, and swore he heard old Nellie's weeping, like a dream as he lay sleeping, not of joy nor of sadness, but the song of waking goodness.
And he felt he heard soft chimes and a fluttering of wings, and he says ol' Nellie brought these things just to light the times. To let him hear
just one more tear that seeps from souls that care, from the steps and skips and countless stairs of our old Nellie Wares.
Who'll do too?
If it comes down to too much coffee and too
much time on the hands, and too many dreams, and too
many worries, where does one go? What does one do?
It seems there's plenty to do and plenty to say and plenty to play,
but who'll do too and who'll listen and who'll let the play play? There's room enough
for all the madness in this world,
in this world of working man and johnny earn-a-buck,
of suffer and suck, of infidelity and viagrity, of
fragile fucking beauty going away faster than wind by the ear
and leaving behind a dusty trail of light and tears.
Squeezed out; squeezed out by necessity and hurry and self- fulfillment. Dreams…dreams through
closed doors no dream catchers can open. Only
hope opens doors. Hope into the void…into the thoughtless abyss
black and immense. No questions asked. Answers come when they're needed. Dumb hope. Where does it go? It seems so easy when it's here.
Everything rolling as it should. Devoured by the immense sea, the rolling bliss, the crashing froth. Smell it, feel it, god it's good and
it's here, and we're making it, and we're working for it, but man is it coming like trains out of a black
night into waiting stations one after another after another after another, rolling into station for a stop, for a passenger, for a dream
catcher; next stop dream maker, holder, molder. We can stay…there…
a…while…
as i drive away
i'm loving you as i drive away through a cold ocean breeze,
with waves crashing against the rocks and waves crashing through me- tears devouring the highway.
i'm loving you in the redwood trees as i hang in my hammock
snug but lonely, wondering where the curves of your body lay, not next to mine.
i'm loving you in the California desert, as i keep company with the Joshua Trees who mutter slow moving secrets
in a language too old for me to decipher, and i cry in convulsions
unable to understand why the trees and myriad stars are my only companions
in the cold desert night. i'm loving you in a smoky Santa Fe bar through muted
conversation and too loud karaoke; my thoughts continually
returning to your breath, the feel of your cheek beneath my grease- stained thumb, and
the sparkle in your eyes i wish so painfully to see before me, brighter than any starlit night.
i'm loving you as i soak in sun-bathed hot pools of unknown towns like Kaiser, Arizona
and Las Vegas, New Mexico, unable to keep my mind from dipping into your
naked flesh, both soft and strong, breasts and hips, my body growing
embarrassingly wanton. i'm loving you as i dine with your father (his eyes shimmering too, though buried beneath spectacles and years of unknown pain), and i long to see you
wink the wink he taught you as a girl. i'm loving you in a New York City restaurant where
my company leaves me all the more alone, and can never compare
to your conversation, to your moaning joy in food and wine, and all i can think of
is returning to your embrace, even just to hear your voice only inches from my ear.
i'm loving you all the way across this lonely country, through wind swept deserts and strip-mall
suburbs, through over- crowded cities, and endless highways, and in these very words
whose inadequacy stifles my already choking heart, unable to bring you closer,
though it seems that's all i've wanted
since i left.
figit
(an intoduction to the wine words of figs) For the fig, to peruse or perjure per the liking of the fig;
to study with the critical eye of a female enemy caressing in the corner a pen that once wrote well;
to mark in the margins or soil between the letters with words legible but not intelligible;
or to burn in a dining room table ritual amidst spilled wine, cigarette butts, and the ash of the herb.
Turns into Dreams
When you left this time, it was sad, but
different. I looked at you, as you dressed in the morning, and
I could feel my face sagging. With emotions overwhelmed,
all that would react was my face.
Each article of clothing you donned seemed to draw my face deeper into drooping, but
my heart stood still, assuming its now practiced placidity, agog in a mire of adoration.
Feelings sometimes become restricted to the moment, where action is, where
bodies can reflect love and give it substance. Because it’s
left so many times, it’s hard to remember it’s real,
it’s not a dream. Those kisses were really soft, and
your hair really did keep me warm, and your eyes
really are that blue and honest, and when you were wet from
that cold shower, and you lay on me, I
was shivering, but so happy, lost in your closeness
and your warmth through the water. I don’t
know if happiness has ever struck me so strangely
as a cold new body upon me in the midst of a sweaty post-party summer morning.
My smile could have tore my cheeks, and those lips
could not have been more sweet. And finally, days after you’d left, with the
memories fading and melting into dreams, I saw your glass of water balanced squarely by the bed
upon my book of Plato, Aristotle, and Lucretius, so as not
to be unstable on the thick shag carpet. That glass
of water is still there. I don’t want to touch it, because these dreams are
so strong and
far
away.