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Matt Rotando

The Auroch And The E

Upon moving into my new apartment I discovered under the floorboards the remains of a perfectly preserved auroch, which had died suddenly but not violently, some forty thousand years ago. It still had its pair of piercing horns and a musky leather smell emanating from its impressive hide. I ran my hand across the body, marveling at what was once a great musculature, the kind that inspired earlier persons to paint its likeness upon the walls of their caves, in and out of trance. I found myself riveted by the large gaping holes where its eyes had been, and the hooves seemed as if they had just come from some magnificent thundering plain, bits of rock and ancient brown moss clung to the shaggy hair at the end of the forelegs.

I felt that the correct and most effective way to do this marvel justice would be to turn it into a piano-forte or harpsichord and invite all my old friends and lovers to come and appreciate this beast as well as my own appetite for curiosity and endless innovation. Besides, it is not every day that you have an auroch with which to theorize over a glass of soda with fresh lime.

I began my preparations in earnest, wringing my hands daily, deliberating over whether to have the creature embalmed straightaway and then install a keyboard over the top of the form of the great animal; or, to carefully cut into its hide, open its prehistoric innards and coat the ribs with several layers of a fine shellac, and then build my instrument within its dried guts. This seemed to me a grand question: Should I support an art that forces itself beyond the boundaries of occasion and setting, or should it complement and accompany the unfoldings of its immediate environs?

I was at an impasse.

To this end, I took particular note of the gorgeous "e" at the end of the perfectly plausible and temporarily comforting word "impasse." The letter spun endlessly through mental space, now pulsing hugely and with crackling potential at the start of a word like "erogenous," now playing a supportive role, yet not imposing its will or ineluctable identity too harshly beyond the boundaries of the scene, as in its second appearance in the word "cathected."

To be sure, I was caught in a pleasant conundrum. One sunny afternoon, after days of indoor contemplation of "e" while sitting over the carcass of my auroch, I came to an illuminating realization. I decided that I should, for inspiration, wedge the heel of my bare foot into the eye socket of the great auroch, and with my hands build a great "e" out of lucite and place within it a coiled string of blue Christmas lights. I did so, and upon entering homes of friends and old flames, I would plug my creation into the nearest wall socket and proclaim it a momentary bridge between thought and deed, object and action.

Take It All Off

Stash the robot in a major drawer. Stand alone in the rain cabin. Find a human in your mumble. This is to be shown, to be exploited in the first place you find. You shave your face free of your body, point at the moon, find a way to crow. Look at the signature across the cold hand, the knee that answers. It's downright lyrical, this hallowed humane coat. Both of us nattered and palsied. Hey, you know how we used to go up on the roof and get down to our underwear and fancy ourselves important? Yeah, the fish tank has only gotten smaller.

Induction into the Society of Epic Wanderers: Cancelled due to non-attendance. We got high marks in vision, mysticism, high school. We fancied and felt admired. Something came down from a cave. A figurine and a bat had a message: Watch your tender head. Nobody talks like this, seriously. Except this freaking page. We have that, at least.

Textually, there are no seasons. Only Summer and Winter, Sandwich and Fall.

Traveling Outside

Truth is eight times old

And this car goes three minutes per hour.

I can't write a poem called "Man Alone."

Bright city lights won't let me,

And my craft is headed back to earth.

My shields are deeper within

Than they are wide

On the outside.

I'm widening my search,

And I haven't found anything of which

A Time Traveler wouldn't approve.

So I go back to the past

And wear my best clothes.

Shifts in space

Make my corpse full of surprises.

I step into it

And make everything happen.

 

Sahara By A Nile

Make mistakes and get kicked,

make something good

to keep the cubicle.

Cook everything,

cook a freaking duck head

or a man's big hand.

Cook a recurring nightmare.

Cook a story out

from under your bed.

A green man comes

from in his head

to meet you up

the street.

You can laugh

or cook

or kiss him.

Whichever you choose,

there are two good things in it.