Tag Archives: writing

Where is the edge of a poem?

And I’m just curious as so I might clarify
because these things sometimes aren’t clear
where is the edge of the poem?
where is the edge of the poem?
where is it’s start and where is its finish
and I must apologize, i’m referring to where your mind began to think of it
not where the words actually started of course!
because where did it start
because where did it start?
because where..did it..?
Did it begin at the end of the introduction
the last words of my letter?
did it begin at the conversation you didn’t have with your barista?
did it begin at the title of the email?
did it begin at the “check please?” at the café that morning?
where does the reading end and where does it begin?
endings seem to be more clarified than beginnings.


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Using Font In Your Favor

 by Matthew Kenneth Kosak


Front desk: I’m sorry we can’t publish something that’s already been published.

Me: Really?

Front desk: Yes truly sorry, they should have told you that before you showed it to the F’n WORLD.

Me: F’n?

Front desk: Excuse me?

You said F’n World

No I didn’t. I burped before I said world, it was an uhun sound, you know like a hiccup, you’re hearing shit.




Do you print in green or black?

Black of course. (odd look)

There you have it. Problem solved. I print all of my blogs in green. It’s never been printed in black before.


Well,… (chewing gum rapidly) we don’t accept unpublished authors.

But I thought you just said that I was already published? So which is it, am I published or not?


Ok, we’ll run it. But don’t think you’re one of THOSE authors. I imagined her looking past her desk toward the waiting room. It was mostly empty, but in its day.. I presumed it was full of THOSE authors.

How do I get to be one of them? (I walk into the trap)

You can’t be one of them. They are who they are and that’s all that they are ever going to be. If they weren’t who they are they wouldn’t be anybody, you see, they’d be unknowns, like you!

I think you might be mixing metaphors.  

Your father’s name wouldn’t be Minos by chance?

…his dame married a bull?

Excuse me?

Never mind.

Are you sayin’ I’m full of bull?

No, not exactly, but a DNA test would likely confirm it, just to be sure.



Copyright © 2013 by Matthew Kenneth Kosak

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Thoughts Driving To LA, Summer 2012

by Matthew Kenneth Kosak

I Took a moment from driving to peck out a few lines.
Sometimes I think when traveling.

It is fairly straightforward to set financial goals. Though not easy, at least these are finite.
But when it comes to so-called ‘achievements of the mind’, these goals are limitless. They are without bounds. It is something to aspire to, and the space of thought (whatever is out there to be discovered) are not limited or as set in stone, as many people so often think. I imagine it probably helps to be looking at the twinkling lights of a city fifty miles away, a hazy dusting of glitter, coming into view in the middle of the desert, as you pass a mountain.
I would like to at least inspire those to consider looking more carefully. At what I consider this limitless space. Hopefully writing can do that, take us out on empty highways at night.
So in regards to what I’m doing, and themes, (other than driving right now and keeping the car on the road at three in the morning), that would be an objective. To simply show that a new medium is possible and can be worked with. It is open to anyone, and is vast like this desert here…
Many things become clear in places like these. This was another thought, simply popping in for no reason, like a meteor. The ones who cannot possible comprehend how far you’ve come or gone ..will judge you as arrogant. That is the unit of distance they will use.

I’ve stopped for a moment. The road, normally a busy highway, is quiet. It is about eighty degrees. The night sky is bright.


Copyright © 2012 Matthew Kenneth Kosak


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Another Christmas Passes

 by Matthew Kenneth Kosak


Another Christmas passes, and it leaves me, in its wake, feeling as though I were a ghost in all of it. I can feel its vacancies, its vagrancies like a season changing, a coldness settling in on top of coldness, on top of itself. The strangeness of being here, but not being here, the transparency, in the unrequited tendencies, the bitter sweet favors of this season, not mine, but others’.

Noble lone wolf. Am I doomed to wander these halls, perhaps for the foreseeable future? This is where fiction and reality become muddled. They blur together like the grey fog that inches and creeps forth into the grounds from the marsh on cold winter nights.
I visit amongst them like Christmas Future.
The reality, navigated here, (if there is one) is the skill in maintaining the illusion. Am I that different from the rest?

I recall the party earlier that evening. The banker, sympathetic in the warm light of assured earnings, preserved sweets of the land. That ripen at the touch. The other assorted careerists. Like an assortment of chocolates, some coconut some are caramel, in their neat boxes. All have their place. We bumped around clumsily, my drink and I, uttering strategic platitudes- but we couldn’t find our place amongst them.
And it is your fault! Unheeding, stubbornly, that rumbling they warned you of. Now becoming the stern look on a face you recall in school- was there a glint of sardonic lighting in her smile? You’ve taken a turn, and here you are…
This writer, this Über creator and leader of minutiae, the bits that will march forth into the proud anarchical cacophony and beat these nebulized incognita into some order. Some semblance of the proper order of things in the mind, so will be done, and will they come? Of course they will! There is no choice we leave to a character. He must appear. (And be judged).

And in the story I conjured, the one that followed me that night like a lost dog, I was blamed for all of the bad, the waste, the scarcity, the jilted, tête-à-tête (the woman I should have met, but didn’t,) the lost home, we’d lost a home too? Of course, and all wreckage strewn along some unseen path I’d never measured up to, and tried, in vain, to turn into something good. Or at least to salvage.

It is at some level what comes down to what the pen writes, the lines are all that remain after everything is reduced. All the bullshit and half-truths drift away, evaporate into thin air. It is motive, choice in the elemental firm.
I did not stay here. I wrote it. that’s what I wrote. That was true.

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The Laundry Cycle

by Matthew Kenneth Kosak


He watches the red tumble into white-

The ancient man waits inside the laundry room of an ancient city.

There is a nagging doubt that creeps into his face. I can see this in how he holds his shoulders,

They are nor sharp but rounded by the ages.

He leans forward in his chair towards the maelstrom of churning water,  churning panic, silent alarm,

Something lingers in the thick air above the machines. Mildewed old paint and
pulpy metallic,  newsprint ink. Cheap perfumes and ‘The Clean’, that can’t, even in its permenance,  return the soils of the past weighing
heavily. Do stains have gravity to them? (If they are not removed in time?)

The day of yore will not be freed in all this churning. All these circles that
must be completed,  circumspect in the
wandering. Those loose hands in the plastic ring,  we obey

The circle of life

The spinning confusion

The returning questions

Dirty clean dirty clean

The laundry cycle

Breath in breathe out

And watch the yellow crescent slide along the prickly slope of a pine- come parallel with the road, outside the glass door.

Something catches in his eye,

A spec of unresolved dirt lodging itself upon the orb, biting in.  A whiff of cheap perfume seems to drift in a
world in itself. The door chimes, a paper rises to greet the wind like an eager pet.

The tumbling continues.



Copyright © 2012 Matthew Kenneth Kosak


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It Should Not Give Me Much Concern

by Matthew Kenneth Kosak


It should not give me much concern
To watch the time drain away
Like so much indifference
Would I not expect it any other way?
A usurer cannot own such rights!

A usurer cannot own such nights!
It melts and covers over my body, the great green screen like green chlorophyll taken from a million leaves of trees that dot the hill.
And I lean forward into the space, 

A password prods at my elbow
like an eager bichon poodle pup.

Where should we go today?
Where should we go tomorrow?

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A Person Unwinds Like A Top

by Matthew Kenneth Kosak


These are nothing’s really

Just visions, the carbons of reality

How simple they are


A person unwinds like a top

along a rope

Taught between two trees

His motion flickering to and fro, like the ends of

The last bits of the flame

That reach (balance) across the autumn plane

Forth through time, extending

Between the existences

The times of yesterday jumps and hops

The backwards’ and forwards’ from today’s, and tomorrow’s,

Hot on these steely pages, fresh, crackling (with vivid real)

 snow in the receiver, a sparkle in the eye

See the motion in everything, as a heated thing vibrates, in heat,

Translated its motion, from a collection of the infinitesimal the invisible hands

From time culminating, from purpose converging, from the tiny vibrations

Moving as one inside, her body now in a kind of dance

I wonder if she knows it

How simple it really is

This response

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