Speak:Spoken

Speak:Spoken

I was urged today
by God.

I wait for the bus.
It does not come.
My shoe untied.
I see it.
Feel nothing.
Then everything.

I look to see if a bus is coming.
No.

My shoe is untied.
And everything is the urge to tie it.
Everything in me is telling to to tie it.
I don't want to.
But am compeld to.
So I test him.
God.

Internal:
If I tie this shoe let the bus come.

Tied.
The bus rounds the bend.

Internal:
Parlor trick.
But I'm still open.

So I test him again.

Internal:
Speak to me God.

I walk on the bus.
Removing my Glove.
The winter wind shoving me in.
I sit at the back.
A newspaper flaps at my ass.
Stunned.
I turn.
A black man.
He smiles.

Black man.
Smiling:
Going home?

I stare.
Scared.
Puzzled.

Internal:
Which home are we talking about?
Don't you dare.
I'm not ready for that yet.
I'm silent.
Black man still.
He turns around.
Silence.

I'm urged.
I should ask him.

Internal:
Are you god?

Nothing.
I should ask him out loud.

Internal:
Are you God?
Stop messing with me.
I told you I'd be open.
I never thought this wide.
Stop this.
Make it subtle.

Girl on the bus.
Unbundling the cold.
Scarf to the side.
Gloves to lap.
She sits.
Smiles direct.
At me.

Internal:
Oh God.
Stop.
I want coincidence to stop.
Right now.

She watches.
From corner of eye.
All the way home.

But more comes.

The lights out.
The street empty.
Snow frosts air.
Orange accompanied dark.
Empty Civilization.
Gridlocked empty streets.
Highlights slicing.
Beauty alone.
On a bus.
With God.

Off the bus.
I look back.
God in form.
Takes off.

I laugh.
I walk.
I know.

Internal:
It's over.
It's all over.
Come back God.
You scared me with coincidence.
Revived me with beauty.
And now it's gone.

The street out.
Lights out.
People in.
Lone orange light.
Dark empty.
Silent road.
Crunch under foot.
Snow sloshed.
Crisp breath.
Real night.
God gone.
He'll be back.
I hope.
Some day.

Internal.
God?
Are you there?
You've never answered me once offically.
God?
Am I supposed to just believe circumstance?
In splotchy moments?
I want to.
I need to.
I just want to get back on that ride.
I want to ask that man.
I want to make love to you as a woman.
Why is it so cold?
I never knew hands could be so cold.

Lifting.

-Matthew Koutzun

Diahrea Compromise

Diahrea Compromise

Here is when the gay man finds out
that watersports aren't played in a pool,
but in streams of golden showers.

When the lesbian wants to bury herself
in the carpet of another,
but finds it clean and can't stand the smell.

What to do when the straight man can't
find euphora in the hands of a woman
since she won't indulge his asshole?

Oh diahrea compromise,
you'll find a way to fulfil yourself,
if not in one-
then in another,
and then they'll be sorry,
and so will we.

-Matthew Koutzun

The War Ahead -or- Worth it?

The War Ahead
-or-
Worth it?

Contemplating adversity,
worth the effort or charm
to waste the time on unfruitful battle?

Oh, I've differentiated
his thoughts aren't mine,
is it not fair to let others have their say?

Give them say, I say,
and give them a pulpit,
give an inch and make them a ruler?

Censorship is not my way,
but he contradicts himself,
so when would the battle end with him?

Make leave of his inch,
take ultimately the mile-
look back and say you saw him when.

-Matthew Koutzun

Reverb: Nature and Machine

Reverb: Nature and Machine

Across the web in an instant-
tangled as we go,
one side to the other in an instant;
constant and variable tangled.

Enthralled, and exlierated
bondage in sticky strings,
information overload,
emansipating, and taken.

Spaces. Seen see-through,
almost walk through,
even birds are caught
in its binding strength.

Oh the venom, it sweet-
tangling the tounge
in spaces caught,
taken to overload .

-Matthew Koutzun

So You've Beaten Me -or- Into Submission

So You've Beaten Me
-or-
Into Submission

To the punch
To the line
To the ribbon
Left behind.

Winner Circle
Laurel Wearer
Golden Child
Versimilitude.

Lights bright
Blinding suns
Cocking stare
Behind you still.

-Matthew Koutzun

That Middle

That Middle

It's always in the middle
that you find it's wrong for you.
And afterwards the Shakes come.
To your arms and hands.
It looks as if you are still in the mirror.
But you rest your hand on something:
THE COUNTER-HAND
your arm:
you shake,
your eyes were shaking with you.
That's why you looked so still.
But the middle, {takes deep breath}
that middle,
the one you pined for
meddled for
and coaxed over,
is wrong-
for you.
Maybe not another,
but for you
yes.
And the shakes
that shake you now
still can't shake you out of thought;
the ones you have now in the middle-
that middle.

-Matthew Koutzun

Vino Up

Vino Up

I drank Jesus,
red in the bottle,
and warm down my throat.
Bread as a body,
and soft on the tongue,
absorbing to the red vino.
But was he in me,
eminating from within
a deep desire of dreadful deed.
Oh, I am saved,
on the floor,
and the floor is saved on me.
I force him up on white,
and for once am empty,
and hungry for more.

-Matthew Koutzun

Verb Sintax Date

Verb Sintax Date

Pull
Hard
Move
Fast

-Matthew Koutzun

Given a Glass

Given a Glass

Oh,
stop thinking half empty
and realize half full-
or better yet
drink,
and be refreshed.

-Matthew Koutzun

Desert Tastes

Desert Tastes

It is a dry and dirty flem,
that sticks fills cracks to the back
to the once smooth roof of your mouth,
when you discovered the absence of taste.
You bring it forward with your tounge
and squeeze your neck to push it forward,
only to spit it out into the toilet or sink;
a yellow and clear fluid that sticks in cold water.
And you drink something sweet
which only reminds you of the absence
and brings back the thick muck to your throat
that you must travel again to expell.
And sour is only worse in this form
for it nutrilizes and commends the form stronger
enforcing the difference between such loss
and the reminder of there being more than this.
But what finds the horror gracious relief
is only one and the same to the cause,
a delicious demise of liquid emptiness
found everywhere around but one will not drink.

-Matthew Koutzun

The Urgency of Honesty

The Urgency of Honesty

In the urgency of honesty
jealousy rears a beautiful face
of fear and of anger
of not being the center of anothers.

In the temptation of fate
fear makes us calous
of what we have and know
of the center of another.

In the deftness of decision
indecisiveness balances driving time
of how long we are and could be
of the another being the center.

-Matthew Koutzun

A Concentrated Effort

A Concentrated Effort

Beatrice commended me on my efforts
and my terrible steed,
cause she'd seen a man twice the likes of me.

He had walked heaven and hell-
down to icy depths
and up.

But still she thinks him
half of me
because his chest he kept shut.

-Matthew Koutzun

a breath of end

a breath of end

A lifeline from the dead,
and from it a deadlife:
a body filled:empty-sorrow.
A message to one,
and no-one:
a non-entity:life and holy.
A moment spent
and vulenerable:
weakened hard:soft event.
A deadline mixed
and throaty:
raw lung:breath of end.

-Matthew Koutzun

In a Graveyard

In a Graveyard

I keep a tombstone
on my answering machine.
A verbal epitaph,
which you leave,
and that I save till you leave another.

It's a graveyard
of hope,
and of waining
untill there's another
to wain on.

In this graveyard,
you can hear howls,
and muffled tears,
of those still there
and those still gone.

In a message,
from the dead,
near dead,
or those dead;
in ways that should not be,
you can hear those sounds
and others
similar to a beat.

-Matthew Koutzun

Thinking in We

Thinking in We

I want to drop singular pronouns,
good perhaps for war, rungs on ladders, masterbation.
I want to leave them behind-
they hinder me and create deception; in tricking me that I am one soul.
I want to erase them from that book of words,
since they have no meaning in the hot world of love.
And I want to forget those years; they had in my mind,
and start thinking in we.

-Matthew Koutzun