Spontaneous Writings of Matt Brand 707

For muse known in numbered years of poor remembering


fucking apocolyptic, in the gorgeous way that only a man would be able to tell you about.
black tea eyes with the long-await
open devastating rains
best known to only those who've rested
in the great wisdom of the tropical islands
with names unpronounceable or in tongues dying out in funny youth.
always
unfolding like the fields of sunflowers
in the Southern Italy summer I stole child's curious looks at through train window less than a year ago.
and to each time, I turn her
shoulder around—great shock and amaze-
(the blackness of summer sky, stars appearing in new places)
as the time I did so to the girl at the Jr. High dance to show my buddies
that I could go
up to any girl in the room and get her to dance;
she will be every woman and little girl in the room. And everything will dance—
commend the city trees in hallucinatory rumbas,
the moon into her ceaseless waltz over the hills and trees anywhere,
our eyes into familiar foxtrots,
ceaseless death freedom and beauty to the cha cha, the laughing dance macabre
intoxicated on the wine of our years— now but sweet jet-streams and inside jokes.