Magnificent Chaos

Magnificent Chaos

by Matthew Putman


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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781456743512
Publisher: AuthorHouse
Publication date: 02/21/2011
Pages: 64
Sales rank: 1,096,908
Product dimensions: 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.13(d)

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Copyright © 2011 Matthew Putman
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4567-4351-2

Chapter One



    Ok to tell the truth I didn't want to write in A minor
    As Alicia knows with no black keys
    I can close my eyes.

    A temporary adjustment to the system
    Failed for long cycles
    Of Mendelssohn and molestations

    In a tinder box of nitrogen, and water.

    Tomorrow I will row from the Seine to Staten Island
    Where on minimal blue dusk nights
    I can doze off without the sound

    Of pumping factories of minerals like mollusks.

    As I approach the keyboard, I invert the sound
    Reaching over entrails of ivory
    Towards the dark major

    Where an E flattens to infinity.


    On a distant planet where the Rockies crumble onto the plains
    They talk of Orion and grizzlies taken by dead presidents
    And pardonable lies, which are scooped up in the big dipper
    Where a virgin cries in English, holding a daydream of things to come.


    Onboard those of us salute
    of what is locked unconsciously beneath.
    A tiny morsel reflects quanta in the day or night.

    Undermined is the lapsed view
    of a mid age 30ish man.
    A fantasy too small to see,
    Too large to Comprehend.

    A dead genius limping past my window.
    Miles above the ground a planet I don't recognize.

    Pittering drops wiped away.
    Pattering footsteps I can't identify.

    If night comes again
    I won't reach up or bend down,
    But grasp the nearest star
    And run with her into my field.


    I hear the starlings singing in German
    and don't remember a word you
    said to me last night in my dream.
    A new dialect.
    Some grin I recognize
    having never seen.

    I hear a chirp again in Russian,
    How far you have traveled at
    An altitude just above the
    Japanese maple
    Or Seagram Tower.

    Some mulled cocktail of
    Gatorade, honey and tears.
    Sweeter than ever that voice.

    I want to sing and cry beside you
    at the fallen wood,
    beside the lodge.

            Shape From Shading

    A pattern can propagate in all continents, and at sea.
    Checked in for too many days doodling in board rooms and BMWs
    While another pianist zips through standards with the left hand while
    Something that changes color in the sun.
    These waves and dots disappear only at the edges where
    Infinities begin to tear apart bodies in the black hole of being.

    All Paris lights up with sustainability, in a now frostless climate
    North of Maine.

    Too opposed to putting my hat on the table I hold it in my lap.
    Flipping it invisibly up and down and wishing it were weighted for such
    I see the distance, where the pattern dissipates, there is only a child dancing
    like Cunningham
    To a vacant sound, which pushes her on a lyrical sail boat journey.

    How can I who cannot swim pull her back from the sea of paradise at the
    rim of knowledge
    To a table where food is served in courses and eaten with ancient utensils.
    The rhythms of the tides. The sounds in a vacuum and a last perfect leap
    will crash down,
    As we grasp tightly the corners of our chairs, and get lost in the

            Song of the Urban Thrush

    Sounding a tad tormented for nothing.
    I think.
    Nowhere is a café it, but on a street with a French name.
    Unfortunately trapped in Brooklyn, where wifi works better than the
    espresso machines.
    Timeless is the desire to remain anonymous and seen.
    Spiritually centered, but in control.
    Maximum roller riding coaster crazed, on smoothly re-asphalted side
    Punctuality for monotony keeps the stay short.
    Walking past countless fronts of old brick structures where
    martinis and Sam Adams are sold.
    Wanting a tumbler of house red, finding only a short stem growing tasteless
    Musically speaking, thirty years is too short and too long.
    Mind floats above boroughs to Burroughs where a racing mind can rest
    with sounds;
      A binge of imagination.

           Synaptic Melody

    Microscopic divisions bringing unity
    In mornings of strange serenity.
    Bitterness sweet, same of the cold
    As a warmness flows.
    A reassuring spa through veins, our soul?

    Cerebral efficiency with little electrical loss.
    Closer to sacrifice.
    100 or so degrees shouts still not registering
    Through cacophonous populous buzz.

    Maybe a few chords,
    A Whisper at 3 AM,
    An arm around the waste


    Sinusoidal silence of conditioning
    Impossible to hear or see,
    I feel.

    An unconscious ticking of desires,
    Cell divisions,

    Tunneling or hopping I reach
    A train, a field,
    A mirrored skyscraper.

    A knock or a twitch
    Reminds me of the never resting
    State of being.


    Wound tightly around the steering wheel,
    I lean over and touch her hand.
    Wound around my fingers
    Loops I cannot find either beginning or end.
    Wound up inside a cashmere scarf,
    I cannot see her pensive fear.
    Wound up in electric coils,
    I gently warm as my blood boils.
    Wound up gray matter
    Doesn't divide, move or clatter.
    Wound up strings and skin
    Inside homes of carpet and tin.

Chapter Two


            After Life

    Directly into a pin prick of a hole a liquid.
    Not as fast as light or even sound, I wonder when it will arrive.
    To heat the heart and cool the misfiring of neural panic.
    Still I don't find a light too common.

    Colors are all that I want.
    Going into the blues in the night become black, and burned out retinas
    Tragic films at first loved, are feared upon second viewing.
    A scene once provided a chuckle, now brings a chill.

    A dropper like a hammer
    Breaking down matter into molecules,
    Molecules into atoms,
    Atoms into an abyss.


    Before it crashed
    this party gathered dust
    on stoves and mantles
    pre-google books
    stacked feet high
    towards the elevated
    crackling of the second floor parlor.
    Pushing funny faced
    Dance divas,
    Poker player,
    Wall Street, Main Street Mavens
    Sat unconcerned that the reds of
    the Chagall were fading to pink
    even in a grayed version
    of that once white room.
    Where carpenters
    Drank unknown lager,
    And posing in Levi's fashion
    Painters with mice
    replace painters with oil
    and drink Brooklyn beer of five dollars.


    The dirt is underneath the Pansy print
    In the Hilton hallway.
    A must for a night mulling ideas.
    With groans from fucking,
    Scents of bourbon.

    My thoughts equidistant from the moon.
    A radius of an angstrom
    Or light year.
    Always on the tip of the tongue.

    The bud droops.
    Tastes dull.
    A punch annihilates the
    Somber panic
    Of another night

    Under a duvet in summer.

            Jump Drive

    Time to Flash memory
      Into mega pixels.
    Time to Capitulate
      Change Letters.
    Time to render obsolete
      Photos of bearded men
      Quilts of dead widows
      Houses with fake shutters.
    Time to sleep in for once.
      More water
      More crackers
      A comfortable pair of slippers.
    Time to break the fucking clock.
      The flickering lamp.
      The old vase.

           Memorial Day

    Crossing himself by the chapel
    he sipped an ale and panted
    as he passed days
    after Dartmouth lacrosse
    matches long ended
    and the last volunteer soldier fell
    from pneumonia that comes in the 80's.
    When last picked, once piled apples,
    rot by wagons
    of yellow, advertised taxis
    with swipe cards and
    piss stains reminder of
    the park for 20 summers.
    Heat hampers the block
    but he shivers as the
    light from Farrels
    goes out.
    Cars make way for street cleaning.


    A boxing car in my way on the road on May evenings.
    Clashing sickles into a normal mood
    Fresh, fantasy, frequency frantic.
    Pulling harder, making no progress.
    Reaching into a pit to find only dark air.
    Some strange crack in this rock seems to penetrate.
    Not recoil.
    Not revisit.
    A war it seems is only as far as the light coming through the wall.
    Bombs though are cold, and quiet when muted to hear
    Cars honking, dogs barking and my baby crying.
    Too often mumbling to myself a personal victory is only one drop,
    One pill, or one kiss away.
    Waiting for the fire to start up seems like hours in the moments,
    Thousands of ks per beat.
    Syncopated and flickering the chaos is kept at arms length.
    Away from the wall.
    The head,
    The heart.

            Night Fryer

    Pressing round noir midnight at midday
    Hops of bubbling froth hop from
    Point of longing to tastes lingering,
    Imports without much conditioning from vents,
    Air or otherwise.

    What unreasonable directions from pulpits
    Tarnished white crackled
    On sets above bars of malts.
    Sinking into uncomfortable relaxation.
    Ponder dreary dreams, destroyed only.

    Snippets of grease strained trust
    On pages not fitting to print
    To pour the warm finish
    Over the tender crisp skin
    Remains glued.

            Old Man Ebbits

    It whistled like the pine needle and cone,
    In mid spring, on some back corner, of my amygdale.
    When I saw through my closed eyes an old
    Church, which someone seemed new, with
    The houses and children stinking and crackling
    By the walks of neat life episodes.
    In pale blues, not yet able to fade to grey
    And knowing that a colorful rainbow of
    Prosperity was yesterday's ball game
    And today's racing form, lies marked and
    Crumbled on the bathroom floor of Farrells.
    The drugstore glasses scratched.
    The watch face ruined, like nails and
    Tails where serpents exist alongside rats
    On subways where the road to a park was
    Long since bulldozed.

            Speed Bump

    Into a hole on Seventh, I penetrate too deep.
    Illusions of a bottom that I can't make out.
    Geometric in format.
    Algebraic in symmetry with the far horizon of the sea somewhere.
    An Allegory. A hypothesis, a lost sentence.
    Musical in skies, but buried underneath the sticky stale asphalt.
    Human animal kind, not nice.
    Starvation in classes, of class not distinguishing.
    Too many yellow lines painted to close to see from here.
    Too many mysteries too far to solve.
    I look again inside the hole and realize that it must never be filled.

            The Excuse

    Blame it on the pen,
    The paper
    The room
    The car.

    Blame it on the dark cloud
    Bright again
    Too loud.

    Blame girls no girl.
    A blank page
    Too full to tear
    Too empty to fill.

    Blame my ear sight
    Nose bleed
    Nerve endings in my toes.

    Blame the keys
    The reeds
    The picks
    The hole.

    Blame a cursed fish stew
    Blackened battered
    Crumbling cold.

    Blame the States Scotch
    The Belgian beer
    The French vodka
    The valium
    The joint.

    Blame the absence of Absinthe.

          Vanilla Coffee

             A Portrait Of Ronnie

    Sidewalk sense, from prospect to fifth
    He always walks with a Brooklyn cowboy stride.
    Speaking of horses, he has rode from the Crown Heights corner to
    To Grand Army plaza, and back to Pritchett square.
    Where yuppies roller blade, and homeless men grunt good morning.
    Where girls dark and light wave hello, and smile.
    "The one over there polished my knob in 78, in the parking lot
    Of a disco on 87th."
    He drinks a vanilla coffee for 2 hours each morning.
    He collects plastic, sanitized utensils.
    He has pockets full of napkins.
    He solves the Daily News puzzle like rain man calculates birthdays.
    He wipes my little girl's face, and sings her Britney.
    He plans to fish from the peer, and float all day on a boat.
    He heads to the Off Track betting.
    Gripping a funny cigarette between giant callused fingers.
    Without speaking an r, his tongue slides through
    A hole left empty where two stained teeth used to be.
    He stops by an old, new brownstone
    Greets the Jewish millionaire, and offers his services.
    Painting, roofing, or any fucking thing you need.
    A dollar, or two hundred will get him back to breakfast.
    Out of the one room closet where
    He tunes his antenna to watch alligators and the Mets.
    Ten calls a day to Dulce, and Laura,
    Family stuck an ocean of broken down subways, and potholed streets away
    in Williamsburg.
    Looking toward the Brooklyn Bridge, a better day is coming.
    To share a two bedroom home, and bring in Barbeque.
    To wake up together, and both of our families sip
    Vanilla Coffee for two hours.


    The dense wood beams
    Firmly sway and slowly burn
    Keeping lives in tiny third floor flats
    Where windows work better than pipes.
    Cable brings the world of 2009.
    Beside certain particular, particulier
    Where status stood, in luxury
    Where the shit from the street
    Is hidden by clay,
    And rose vases of mint.
    The song of pigeons and stews stirs
    The sort of pensive hours
    Of waiting for sunlight to pass
    Into a perfusion of sonic whispers.
    Stones still harboring perversions of eternity
    While all slowly erode
    Into pieces of next year.

Chapter Three



    When the rumble stops
      Cells cool.

    When motion accelerates
      Flora bleed.

    When time is short
      Humans panic.

    When clothes don't protect,
      Air strikes comfort.

    When chromatics startle
      Arpeggios console

    When colorless tones confuse
      Blue diverts.

           Happy Hour

    Is there chatter of the stupid man
    who vomits three times?
    One the remaining wine.
    Two the squats and curls.
    Three the day long shaking of
    life less meaningful than expected.


    Unattached and Swaying,
    I took a shot and
    Waited for the
    Storm after the calm.

    Where a flip of a pancake
    Or a comment
    Lands somewhere between
    The lips and the bowels.

    Where plastic chairs
    Melt rather than fade
    Rather than tarnish
    Under a shrinking star

    In an expanding universe.

    Where a child can only taste
    An acid drop.
    Not the clear snow
    On a mountain of springs
    And winters

    Of scalding indifference.


    Designer vodka by the gallon.
    Gigabyte Strayhorn melodies
    Shuffled and woven
    Through southern suffering
    And old world comfort.

    Stark chaise
    Memory foam
    Holding solitary untouching forms
    In King Size fashion.

    Rips in an aura and sewn together.
    Pretension and power pills.

    Taxis scented with mideastern spice.
    Guarded by plastic,
    Rear seat chatter and IPOD drone.

    A patch of hair fallen
    From poison and inertia.
    Covered by cashmere and
    The dream of growth.


    I missed the chance to shower
    and now feel a creep up my back
    when clowns pass me.
I regret the moments of endless

Wanting more to dwell in a deep bunker.
Bombs dropping, but not bursting my gaze.
Downward onto a yellowed dust covered page.
Where words blend more than pop.
Expressions are muted.
Sounds unseen.

Still not blind, hypersensitive
To shades of contempt from those above.
Buried neighbors.
Shy cousins climbing trees
To look down at the
Mutation of our souls.

           Night Light

A Cramp in the right foot toes,
A truck passes.
An Owl moans.
A Cricket chirps

My Baby Laughs.

A Trip Trek ticking
A mile per second
As bio rhythms pattern
Victorious song.

The sun gets edges that
The mountain loses.
Moon mysteries for
Her Young processes
Of a heart not slowed by cynicism.

            On the First Day of Christmas

Of the shopping Christmas dad
Skeptics learn multitudes from pigeon songs
Cooing over the Trash bin, and forcing our eyes,
Towards ellipses of gold and red, which
Firing through the optical nerve and landing in the void
Where the esophagus and heart flutter together
In a cushion of snowflakes that life is real.
So with a scarf, cashmere, the orchestral triangular
Bellowing the ping under the coat, and hiding the pulse
Of a detracted science teacher, remembering his Grandmas
Experiment of love.
Resting alone on the stool, the chatter turned to clamor up
A bill that list a debt too large to compile, as summations fail
To infinity, instead existing in a theoretical haze.
To rise now, with high pulse, low anxiety, and arms raised
To the North Pole.


Excerpted from MAGNIFICENT CHAOS by MATTHEW PUTMAN Copyright © 2011 by Matthew Putman. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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