Slow Dance


More than putting another man on the moon, 
more than a New Year’s resolution of yogurt and yoga, 
we need the opportunity to dance 
with really exquisite strangers. A slow dance 
between the couch and dinning room table, at the end 
of the party, while the person we love has gone 
to bring the car around 
because it’s begun to rain and would break their heart 
if any part of us got wet. A slow dance 
to bring the evening home, to knock it out of the park. Two people 
rocking back and forth like a buoy. Nothing extravagant. 
A little music. An empty bottle of whiskey. 
It’s a little like cheating. Your head resting 
on his shoulder, your breath moving up his neck. 
Your hands along her spine. Her hips 
unfolding like a cotton napkin 
and you begin to think about how all the stars in the sky 
are dead. The my body 
is talking to your body slow dance. The Unchained Melody, 
Stairway to Heaven, power-cord slow dance. All my life 
I’ve made mistakes. Small 
and cruel. I made my plans. 
I never arrived. I ate my food. I drank my wine. 
The slow dance doesn’t care. It’s all kindness like children 
before they turn four. Like being held in the arms 
of my brother. The slow dance of siblings. 
Two men in the middle of the room. When I dance with him, 
one of my great loves, he is absolutely human, 
and when he turns to dip me 
or I step on his foot because we are both leading, 
I know that one of us will die first and the other will suffer. 
The slow dance of what’s to come 
and the slow dance of insomnia 
pouring across the floor like bath water. 
When the woman I’m sleeping with 
stands naked in the bathroom, 
brushing her teeth, the slow dance of ritual is being spit 
into the sink. There is no one to save us 
because there is no need to be saved. 
I’ve hurt you. I’ve loved you. I’ve mowed 
the front yard. When the stranger wearing a shear white dress 
covered in a million beads 
comes toward me like an over-sexed chandelier suddenly come to life, 
I take her hand in mine. I spin her out 
and bring her in. This is the almond grove 
in the dark slow dance. 
It is what we should be doing right now. Scrapping 
for joy. The haiku and honey. The orange and orangutang slow dance.

- Matthew Dickman



a boy breaks bones, he
wants to hear piano keys
smash again

where there was nothing before,
something came and stole that darkness;
then the nothing returned, and it left behind
this pool of blood in the shape of a boy, a man, a figure
glowing in a pastiche of god, glowing red in a teardrop womb

a boy tears pages, he
wants to read the words
aloud again

where there was everything before,
something came and filled that brightness,
then the everything returned, and with it came a flickering lamp in a blood-red room,
an empty bed and hands curled around a neck as tenderly as a child’s grip

a boy whispers, he
wants the other to hear
him again



i write a story. we get married. i die. you write hefty critical analysis on my story. you die. we leave it up to the students of the future. they turn everything upside down. there are too many revised editions of our biographies. (someone needs to make money.) everyone starts to remember us incorrectly. there will be a sign on our house in a small town that says that we lived there. the sign will fall off. all humans will die. and during this, we will turn about in our graves—at first, aggravated, and finally, indifferent.


It’s a comfortable kind of loneliness now. I’m settling into a year of creativity, into a year of introspection and I still want to cry my eyes out. I want to write love poems. I want to listen to Metric songs in the car with her. I’ve never been this happy and I don’t want to ruin it by thinking about the future. I’ve never been able to feel this much. 

“I remember your eyes: fifty attack dogs on a single leash.”

Black Snake, marble and limestone, William E. Nutt (2002) (via digital-future)


Black Snake, marble and limestone, William E. Nutt (2002) (via digital-future)


im not good enough for the internet


im not good enough for the internet


When that song came on the radio,
you turned it up and said, “Let this
be the anthem for our bad choices”
and I thought of Bad Choices as a place as in:
Bad Choices, Montana and I wondered
what it must feel like to be mayor there
and then I remembered that I am.

from “The Moon Is So Smart,” by Andrea Henchey


When I say “boys are dumb” what I really mean is “boys have been raised in a patriarchal society that forces them into an incorrect and problematic view of masculinity that not only forces them to strip away valuable virtues from themselves, like patience and gentleness, but also forces them them to view and treat women in unhealthy ways that devalues women as people and makes them into objects purely for a man’s benefit”

but it’s a lot faster to say “boys are dumb”


freak ouch, not free couch. there’s a freak ouch on the sidewalk. very weird and very painful. don’t go out on the sidewalk.