No Bright Half or Big Full Sky Can Keep The Night From Happening

broke, yet damned near useable
enough so to be worth keeping
in the deep end
of an empty pocket

or at the back lot of a 40 acre plot
right before if not amongst where bramble and stone
overtake

where roots, never worn suits, and scraps from scraps of worked
in boots tangle in the dirt with threadbare tires and sunken
automotive junk

knowing where ghosts tango
that’s the place to go

the highway outlying
far off, headlights turning away
dogs will be silent

a fire sits and waits
for the end of a day
to kick awake a stumbling horizon

Wise Tales

do you have soup?
-heading back over to the table-
they say they don't have soup.

everybody wears hats here.
-I, however, am not wearing a hat nor do I
wear a hat-

how is the music?
its good.
-albeit this is subjective-

the sweet potato on the counter weighs 3.68 lbs.

-being a part of someone else's awkward moment-
are you back around?
just visiting for a few days,
I'll be around.

no reason to miss them, really,
an onslaught of others have taken their place.

funny, clamor astounding soliloquy

the doors are always closing
and often, more, open.
the heart cannot be your weakest muscle

The Do-Do Flies Again

over tree tops
the boiling sky
holds of the shining mid-afternoon

a temporary uprising
heads come from out of holes
moles run from hole to hole
across wet stones that are soon to still be wet

drunken bees of the drunken season
sunken in puddles
and at the bottom of bottles

under tree tops
a fool without a raincoat
is in no mood to haggle nor pray
leans in, holding off stupor
only asks for what there is to be had

Mat Gould has published four books of poems exclusively with Dog On A Chain Press. He lives up a gravel road on the other side of a big hill in Western North Carolina. He is currently whittling poems into a sharp point.