by Matt Ronquillo
Sounds of the young and upset:
Twang-rang-pot-bang (tornado dance in the kitchen),
like roof shingles sky-flipping in the wake of my orange sneakers
I’m an amphetamine-snot-rocketing-
Aiming for purgatory,
yet perpetually older,
a flesh-bordered, fluxed enclosure,
speeding through myself, yet (.)
When you’re my age
time bends and leaves Speed
to fight against the rushing water’s pace,
while your newly creased, waving hands crash sloppily through the water
spiraling flustered green birds from the branches of trees
0 thoughts on “Fluxed”
amphetamine-snot-rocketing ewww matt, i so remember when i first read that line-being just as grossed out then as i am again. nothing grosses me out more than expelled snorted drugs. okaeyz anywayZ. perpetual tornado, likely alone. that’s flux, and that’s one of my favorite words, and this poem is your vision of the double edged delirium. which i love. you’re the best gaddamn guest writer to ever come across h&h. ; )
by vision i mean experience…but both make sense. i guess. to me
Thank you Stacey. I was pretty excited when you glued it to your wall. Want to thank Shawn Misener too. this was originally published at his publication, Clutching At Straws.
i’m sorry matt but it’s not on my wall anymore ; ( my walls are naked except a small dead moth congregation behind a poster that was up for like +5yrs. of marilyn monroe painted purple. i’m re-doing my whole room is why. but i want a new poem. oh &of course i saved fluxed. gimme a new poem to put up for my new room. write it with a purple crayon on construction paper with third grader handwriting. i’d love it. oh and read it like a third grader. that’d be soooo awesome i’m talking a lot today due to three 12oz redbulls and countless amounts of coffee well like 6 cups
I sense the vigor and vitality of youth coursing thru the cyber veins of this highly expressive piece. As an old man, i sometimes get spiritually tired and feel like i’m kicking a dead horse on the hampster wheel. One can easily lose sight of that life-affirming ‘eros’ and personal convictions of faith, love, hope which perpetually arise every day like a phoenix frozen waffle in the toaster. Yet sometimes we are bloodthirsty hunters tracking down happiness like a raw meat bitten into as an inglorious survival instinct and it loses its flavor…and we become a rock made of wood.
So that’s what i see and feel here when reading ‘Fluxed’–it’s a kickass pep talk to oneself to stay focused on positive energy surfing the yin yang waves crashing down as hellacious C-4 life happenstance and fearing nothing cause you’re hanging loose going with it and living the dream. (Though i suspect such usage of natural forces i.e. tornado and rushing water may be subliminal sexual innuendo which express a damned up torrent of erotic fantasia).
But ‘escape’ holds no sway upon your anthemic testimonial here. It too is one of the many buried mines in a field of sun-daisies that is intuitively skirted through the power of poetic perception and the gentle seduction of time and space itself. Yes, it may feel sloppy or clumsy, but nature is like that anyways and a seed’s fruition always seems to balance disaster head like a cherry blossom opening for the first time as a fresh water salmon journeys thru raging current upstream past the hungry claws of wild grizzlies.
Excellent read! Keep up the good work!
i mean…”to balance disaster head-on like a cherry blossom…”