Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Toward a New Disambiguation

Because of the problem previously discussed here, as of now, I'm changing my name so that, from this moment forward, I will be known as Matmosphere. Not Matamorphosis. Not Matallica. Not Matronymic, Matomic, Matropolitan, Mativation, Matzvah--though I kinda like that one--or Mattitude.

Matmosphere--got it?

If you call me anything besides Matmosphere, I'll refuse to answer. If passing on the street, you address me by my former name or any of the aforementioned names, you may as well talk to the air, for I won't even turn my head to acknowledge you. 

I should note that I plan to continue to publish as Matt Morris, as I've done in both this century & the last, the past millennium as well as the present.  To change it at this juncture would prove nothing but confusing. Therefore, I'll still write under my established name, albeit with one crucial difference:  Matt's now the diminutive form of Matmosphere.

This change has become necessary because the same legislation that gave us the Baby Bells & broke up Microsoft, kaff-kaff, also allowed anyone & everyone to write poetry under my name, resulting in confusion as well as notable dilution of the poetry written under that name--as if any besides myself were actually Matt Morris!  Indeed, it should come as no surprise to anyone that these poetasters are wholly owned subsidiaries of Haliburton, those world-killing bastards, whereas I remain, like Walt Whitman, a kosmos. 

Yes, Matmosphere is everywhere at once, wherever you turn, like the penetrating rays of the sun or a deluxe tanning bed.  I'll also be around in the dark, so leave a key where I can find it, such as in the mailbox or under an unassuming garden gnome. I'll be there in the morning, reading in bed & lounging about in my bathrobe most of the afternoon too, but then I have to take off that evening due to a prior commitment.  For wherever there's a snooty snob blathering bad poetry, I'll be there, even though I'd rather not be.  I'll be there in the way folks stifle yawns, crack their knuckles & clear their throats when they're gawd almighty bored.  I'll be there when they stand & walk out in the pretentious midst of a reading by a wispy graduate of Brown into the dystopian night because they can't take any more & we'll all go out for dinner because we're hungry & we'll have drinks & everyone will be munching succulent morsels & raising their voices & clinking their glasses & laughing like the kids of satyrs.  I'll be there too, if it's at all possible, so scootch over a scootch or two, would you?

Monday, April 11, 2011

A Few Thoughts on National Poetry Month

It's not as if I suddenly decide to read it because of some artificial designation--poetry provides my very sustenance throughout the year--but if saying April is National Poetry Month encourages a few non-poetry readers (i.e., everybody else) to at least acknowledge its existence & maybe even read a poet who isn't dead or named Jewel, then yippee.

What's with its unpopularity?  You'd think with the general public's seemingly insatiable hunger for incredibly moronic crap, folks would gobble many of today's poets right up!  Oh, but I kid poetry & its self-congratulatory clique of smarmitude 1) because I love & 2) because it's true.

If boring inanity isn't going to move poetry off the shelves, you might think the Great Guardians at the Gates of Poetry would look for something different, perhaps even enlightening.  Sadly, unless you have copies of my books--if not, plenty remain available for purchase--you probably won't be reading me.  In the past few years, I've published maybe ten poems.  I can't seem to give my stuff away, which is, after all, what I do most of the time with poetry.  Especially irksome is the kind of tripe that gets published instead.  So fuck all y'all & you know who you are.

From this indignity, however, an obvious question springs to mind:  Is there a correlation between my near anonymity & poetry's lack of readership?

Naturally, I'm not saying--I'm just saying . . .

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Ars Poetica

A stranger with bad teeth asks for one can
only imagine what. Nobody recognizes

his guttural tongue. Shaking his head, the bar-
keep polishes a tumbler. The stranger babbles

insistently louder. Talk of politics
quiets at a table of locals. Talk

is useless. Tearing his rumpled shirt, the man
bares a map tattooed to his chest, thumps

his fist against a place unknown
miles away. The ceiling fan creaks. A fly

lights on the globe, casting a monstrous
shadow.


first appeared in DMQ, (Spring/Summer 2008)