Matt Proctor is a writer from Columbus, Ohio. He lives in an art performance house called the Sloodge in Brooklyn, NY
touched by an angel
it was the summer
of resting bitchface
I was live-tweeting
my inner-monologue
tucked my head
pictured antarctica
oh good, now life can
begin, this day just out
of the package, first
in a whole series
everything’s under
stood through silver
halide, even the throbbing
membrane of my own
heart, set decorated
in green slime and lit
from within, a softbox,
the sun’s hairlight fring-
ing the green jewfros
of the trees. We learned
to want the hardest thing
to want, to be fanatics
for the unattainable
we learned to dance with
the flame, that the leaping
heat was our partner, one
we could never touch but
which lifted us higher towards the
cold blue dome of the stars.
joe rogan podcast
the landlord wants
what the landlord wants
defied the horizon
and breached heaven
don’t know what I’ll do
now probably
hit the beach probably
make the park probably
forget how to turn
my life into
art and just turn it
into more life
instead
bend you over
my gown of leaves
a blonde door laughing
a small library of trash
in my back pocket
elon musk said
the probability is
100% we’re living in a screen
saver the sky is wearing
a dark blue t-shirt the grass
purrs loneliness and
boredom things I used to be
friends with but haven’t
visited in a while
I like to squirm
out of the house
a resolute vista
between the roommates
the streets an open stage
where nobody knows
your name and you’re allowed
to look without touching
the wind parade
the paved gray sky
a curious bird chirps
small as punctuation
rain is coming
so I am going
another notched day
in the park
MATT PROCTOR
