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)

Comments

Riley said…
This has always been one of my favorites. It says so much with so few words. All great details, very evocative.
April 6, 2011 at 3:35 PM
Zack said…
Every time I read this, I feel closer to it. Everything you describe has this existential, maybe even nihilistic, drone about it. I hate to over-intellectualize it because I think its purpose is to reveal insignificant beauty. But in its very exhibit, it opens the heart and mind to truth and existence.

Big fan, big fan.
April 13, 2011 at 9:21 AM
Matt Morris said…
Thanks, Andy. Thanks, Zack.
April 13, 2011 at 1:00 PM
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