Saturday at the Palisade Theatre

Saturday at the Palisade Theatre

Thank you for coming
entrevous
take your seats
we'll punch your ticket if we get to you.
If your overflow just take a seat on the floor
the walls are full of wallflowers
so try to avert your eyes they're shy.
The dancers are center floor in the hall,
they'll dance on their knees so you can see
they just have a zeal for life.

Welcome to the moment
to the show I've made for you.
Thank you for coming,
the curtains will raise in a moment,
if you would mind to listen to the soundtrack
we've prepared it to get you in the mood,
but take your hand off her knee
or his if you're "just friends" fellas.

Silence now the screen is up,
don't look back or you'll miss the show,
but if you do
you'll get a sight like no other,
you'll see emotion synchronized
on the faces of the crowd all looking forward.
Some will see you and break the illusion but look at the others
they'll show you more than you'll see.

If you're bold stand up
look back and forget the man telling you to sit down.
Start a jig and see the dancers applaud your wonder
and ascend the stairs to the screen and touch
silver splendor.
Feel and ripple
and rip right through
you'll make it if you try,

In black and white you can have it
you can have a million faces all on you
Thank you for coming
welcome to the show
forget the fourth wall and just be.
There's no cutting now
and perhaps others will make it to the show one day
just be happy you're here
others only will dream.

-Matthew Koutzun

Making a Home or Starting a Family, Such Things Start on Ones

Making a Home or Starting a Family, Such Things Start on Ones

Being obtuse
I held you acutely.
I held you in pinchers
pressured and pressed.

Mysteriously cloaked
I collected you
hidden from view
you dared to look in.

Open and daring
opened my jacket
wares on sale I said
but we know they're free for the the taking.

Heart up my sleeve
you had to reach in
not knowing
when the beast could strike.

(I'm sorry for such volition.)

Hungry and sore
I made my way for more
collecting the good
trying with effort to forget the rest.

Held and not seen
and holding not able to be
I shut doors
and barred all the windows.

But the house is all clean
and the dust has settled
and been swept
and I think I'll put up the room and board sign on the street.

(I forget the last offer, I think it was reasonable the last time I got it appraised.)

But vistors are welcome
but we all know they can't stand to stay
so I'll have a bed and breakfast
where people can remember the good times they had.

(I know I do.)

-Matthew Koutzun

We Once Raced Wild Horses

We Once Raced Wild Horses

Once,

when we were young,

we raced wild horses.

They ran in the sun

and their hair broke brilliant against it's rays.

In speed intense we would seize them.

Wrangle

and tear at their necks

with ropes

and harness.

Blood would break bonds

and we would chase after them again

into the forest.

Darting past trees

and brook

we drove on further,

the trample of hooves

and the silence of their heavy breath

and snorts.

We would follow tracks and marks of blood

on the backs of leaves from their hides.

Their mane sticky,

we would see them,

one licking the other,

the other retreating in pain

only to kick his sympathizer.

And the cracks of twigs

from our feet

would perk their ears

and cause them to almost retreat

in temptation fear.

They sway now,

half expectant,

but isn't that how they always were?

Waiting for capture.

And we'd sneak again,

half watching our feet

but always watching them.

Us reluctant to make a sound

but knowing if we held our breath

we'd only be louder when we gulped for air.

So we heaved shallowly

our feet heavy in the water
sliding them on the moss

rooted on the rocks.

We used to wade so quiet.

And we stood

feet from our prey.

Them licking themselves;

so selfish.

Doing nothing in dense space.

Branches concealing

never revealing

us

or them

but we stood feet apart,

our feet apart- braced

together
about to ambush.

And we roped them again

the twine cutting into fresh wounds

them bucking

legs kicking

knees bashed on tree

and heads bounding into rock

crazed and never feeling anything

but bonds.

You'd come behind me

your horse long gone,

never remembering his bond

only of capture.

And you'd grasp the rope behind me.

your hairs would brush mine

and I'd feel your strength

pulling

yanking on the line

the horse's neck held down.

You would take the reigns

and nudge me forward

telling me to get on

and ride.

Nervous I let go,

never quite sure if you could keep him down,

he would only get stronger as I approached.

You screamed, annoyed,

that your grip was getting looser

and you cussed
you should have rode yourself.

So I ran to the beast

wild with spit and saliva

dripping from his gums

eyes wide and wild

with streams of red racing through them

tired from strain.

I slid on
one leg over the other
too quick and hasty
you let go of the reign
and the animal
lifted me up
clutching at neck and hair
my eye staring into eye
our eyes both wild
embracing
I could feel as though our lashes touched.
And I held the beast for more-
because we don't get these chances often
you and I.

You bucked
and hucked me-
nearly shucked me
but I held on
and you, timid, never held the point.

But on the horse
I'm wild
was wild
and held on
its spit speckling my face
as it hunkered back and stood like man
rearing his feet to the sky
and I swung about his neck
and my soles struck his back
bringing him back down only to go up again
and drop me off below.

Now here is where it goes
fuzzy and unrecognizable.
After the hunt
and the game
we are left with spoils of pride
and fear
beneath the beast.
All pride defeated
as the heart beat of hooves crash around my head.

Dust entering my mouth,
making me dry.
My head moving back and forth
as I curled about myself
trying to dodge
although I remained
petrified-
still-
my limbs rock
and old stone
but soft enough
for the bone to crush
if the dancer above
took precision in their dance
of militia.

And in movement
graceful
and quick
in remembrance
and in haste
the beast made off
trampling around me
hind hooves
clashing
almost mashing me.

After he's gone,
I'm a
lone in the moment.
Huddled beside myself
everything quick
like leaves shaking
as water
precipitate and due
collect and skitter across
in lines and jagged straight cuts.
And the light, forest floor fog
is lifting
but it's dampness is still on my brow
mixing with sweet sweat
that come down my
cheek to my chin
my tongue darting out to catch it
I don't know why.

I still don't know how long it took you
to get to my side.
I don't remember if you coiled the rope,
or if you let it go with the horse;
it whipping the trees
and lashing my face.
Perhaps that's where the crescent
little scar came from,
the one that's just below the cheek bone
but nestled tightly to my ear.
I remember bleeding
but I don't know where.

My eyes were still closed
even though I remember seeing everything.
Perhaps I made it all up,
but in a letter you describe it the same.

I remember you beside me
after opening my eyes
you calmed me,
I nearly kicked you,
my sympathizer,
but got calm only when looking in your eyes.
They didn't bulge like the beasts
nor have the streams of red,
only white
and open
flecks of blue on black.

But we got up,
I helped myself,
and you laughed
which caused me to laugh
and you hugged me
which caused me to embrace harder
it was like holding onto an animal
I'd soon have to let go.

We walked home through the woods.
The fog lifted finally,
and the air humid gaining warmth.

We wondered at first
how we were going to explain my mud splattered back
and perhaps the blood on my shirt.
Perhaps it was the horses,
no,
it was mine,
wasn't it from my crescent scar?
I'll believe it-
perhaps it was from you:
bucking
and hucking
nearly shucking
as we talked about you going off
to make something of yourself.

We walked home silent
breaking the silence
only to talk of travel plans
and visits-
that as we know,
came less and less
through the years.

I remember that year
and I still remember your face
a mashed up version
of all the versions of you
over time.
I see you sometimes.
Once I just let you pass.
And I ache at times at your sight.

But I remember your name
and I remember the time
we raced wild horses
and won.

-Matthew Koutzun

On Missing Someone you Never Knew

On Missing Someone you Never Knew

Today was hard.
Hard to stand and cope.
Sit and cope as well.
How to cry for a man you hardly knew?
But tears aren't there for him-
mostly for those who did love him.
I don't cry for those who leave.
I do for those who love
and are left behind.
To stand,
to sit,
to cope.
These are the ones I weep for.
For remembering connections between them can be hard.
Imagining the time spent
and the bonds formed,
even if they were not my own.

-Matthew Koutzun

And Find Lost

And Find Lost

Spiraling upwards
Dwindling downwards
spy the eye
that sees.
Green trees
bare branches
brown bark
twisted wax.
Make nice
be kind
and settle in
to the soft soil.
Placid the water
and deep the shadows
swim in the shade
it'll conceal wounds.
The flowers are melting
sweet honey
evaporating
into nectar.
The clouds
now yellow
piss rain
and make pastel rainbows.
Make sense of their shapes
and create stories
of monster heads
and bunny tales.
Lying looking at sky
through branches
arms blocking
the movie of void.
Smell grass
and weed
and slumber into
oblivion.
Wake and catch yourself
in the moment
of being late
and flush and flustered running home.
Look back
smile
slow down
walk home.
Moments
won't come
in the future
like this.
Remember
forget
remember
and find lost.

-Matthew Koutzun

How do you move me?

How do you move me?

When the nudging has become tiresome-
how do you move me?
I've sat here for some time
waiting and listening to the music that drew me back to a time and place that was empty dead long ago for me.
Staring out windows in your house's general direction
thinking I should go for a walk and chance meeting you on the sidewalk that joined our after school walks together.

How do you move me
when the music brings me to more time and space than need be?
How do you move me
when I want nothing more than to leave?
How do you move me
while I'm sitting and praying to the lord that memory sound will leave.
Dry
voice and Jesus Mary Chain hearts.
and Keen on Boys in the background sounding just as dry and mellow paced.
If it were drugs this is how I would imagine them if I were to try.

Long paced words
this isn't an ode to you.
It's an ode to the feelings I had by the window
by the deadening tones
and solitude delight in loving feeling hurt
and feeling just as richieous.
Oh that sweet ole' misery love.

I want to go back to that moment,
when the song first started
and it was me asking how do you move me
why do you move me
where have you moved me
what have you moved in me
and when will I be moved again.

I think about that a lot these days.

When will I be moved again?
When will I be moved again?
When will I be moved again?

When will I be moved again?


When will I be moved again?


When will it be that I feel like that again?
Or am I searching for teenage dreams in an adult world
is it gone
or is love all in how it's in our heads?

Because I'll forget
loves pain
and bring back loves first pain
and I'll forget sight
so I can see again
and I'll forget spite
and living in sweet ignorance for you
and of you
and with you and your flaws that I'll forget too if you let me.

How do you move me?
How did you move me?
Did I move you, how?
How I move, did you?
How you did, I move.
Move you how, I did:
Now.

-Matthew Koutzun

Ready When You Are

Ready When You Are

I have your things.
They're lying on the floor.

I laundered them
and kept them folded
out of sight.

I forgot about them recently
till reminded of you.


Things launched so quickly
after you left,
I had no time to breathe.

I talked about what happened
gaining new respect for myself in the process.

My days suddenly filled with
fast forward motion
and new opportunities to catch.

I feel like things are happening
like a part of my life is just starting.

Long after I thought it would ever start at all.

But long overdue things are finishing
and new beginnings are beginning.
Things I never thought would start are starting
and the things I never thought would end just are.

-Matthew Koutzun

When she asked me if there could be a "perfect" stranger

When she asked me if there could be a "perfect" stranger

Perfect stranger,
my present danger,
looking so good as you do.

Perfect stranger,
that's what you are,
and the idea to have and not know
sounds too good.

Because with knowing comes feeling
and no feeling has the sour taste of ignorance
the kind I'd have to have when we're done.


Oh perfect stranger,
my clear and present danger,
Come, and then clean, and then leave.
Because once we're all done,
we'll of had our fun,
and continue just on just the same.

-Matthew Koutzun

On my way to the Pointless Climax

On my way to the Pointless Climax

Nothing to write
right now.
Feel empty
and the tight sensation at the point
where head touches neck
hasn't come in days.
That's inspiration, that spasm.
That coy tension that
pinches
my lobe.

I feel it now as I write this
right now.
It's feigning muse
and strangely
calling this art
even though It only lies
to try and make me
feel better.

I shouldn't being writing
right now.
I feel no idea to climax on
to churn
and butter out.
But if I keep writing
right now
maybe
I'll find it anyway.

-Matthew Koutzun

In the corner of a club

In the corner of a club

Beautiful people
doing beautiful things.
Up turn wrists
and delicate handling,
with heads held high
and tight stern brow.

Beautiful people doing beautiful things:
smiling,
sweet conversation,
and leaning in when just right.

Light catching eye
and shadow dance on cheek;
lifting
and separating
angle acute
and cute obtuse.

Beautiful people
doing beautiful things.
Nothing more or less to say
only to observe.

-Matthew Koutzun