i eat poetry.

i
eat
poetry.
And it's socially considered a form of suicide, but
nobody seems to be or
let be or
leave me the hell alone. They
want to invade. And stain
over the words I've scribbled in my childhood closet, but
these words have leaked out of my mole skin poket and now
I vomit on the Donkey stage.
i
am
artsy.
So I disown the notion that I can't handle my emotions,
so I take this ink in this pen and set
its tip down into phonectic of poetic
asthetics.
And there is some
kinesthetic reaction happening-- where
I can't be apologetic to those that I use as
unsympathic bystanders.
i
will
succeed
But this is a matter
where I cant seem to shake the actor out of me.
So I bang and clatter and splatter my temper. Thinking
it's going to mean something when I get a degree
with three letters after my name.
i
want
to love
Because it doesn't matter that I was born from my mother and
crused with my fathers last name.
Because my claim to fame will
be the way I sign my name.
So live.
And be.
Just
be
just
be
and if it weren't for e e
cummings I would have never
eaten my first piece of
poetry.


-sonja lynn mata

& when I drove my car into the driveway I didn’t get out for a long while.

And I knew my father would hear my sputtering 95’ Subaru
breaking to a stop, because he sleeps on the couch,
and whenever something was happening outside
he would be that neighbor pulling back
the pillow case that covers the front door window and peer out.
But tonight he didn’t, so I sat there longer.

& I tapped on the steering wheel remembering
that it was during dinner that you threw your plate on the wall
because mother mentioned that it is winter and that our house is cold.

But our roof is shit and we have possums crashing in through the attic. And it is
funny because you are a roofer.
And after I refuse to leave in this weather, you slap me and force me through the door anyway.

But before I could leave, I have to shovel the driveway. And there you are—
watching through the pillow case.

& I took my time driving,
before ending on Dundee Road at Walgreens
where I purchased your Marlboro Menthol 100 Lights.
I told the cashier “For my brother.” But I have no brother anymore—
just his old room and just this singular overpriced item that is double bagged.

But here I am, inhaling your fumes, because my window is frozen
and the ash tray is full of your crushed filters.
I key the door, because the porch light is broken as well.
Now it’s past 3 am and you will be awake in an hour to go to work.

& when I enter
there you are, sleeping—
with the television on.
And because you’re my father and I love you
I take your glasses off
and place them next to your ashtray.


-sonja lynn mata

Written in the Fall of 2009