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matthew wascovich
matthew wascovich is a cleveland-based poet and musician. some of his recent writing can by found in nexus, in my head, nuts, 3 am magazine, small spiral notebook, abisti, beat town, hootpage.com and poor mojo's almanac(k). for information regarding matthew's soon to be published book of poems, leo in a garbage can, contact slow toe publications at po box 6592 cleveland, ohio 44101 u.s.a. or slowtoepublic@yahoo.com.

Works on this page:
i have a circle around your waist
naked island cultural geography



Why do you suggest with your
synthetic body, your stride across the

room is oil change, dynamic sham
glittering in style. Everything written

is tough guy last, everything spoke is
good-bye future hello, everything

touched is diseased break-up,
everything pushed away, pulls circle,

everything tattooed, fades bright.
Tuesday 3 a.m., the light went off in

the bedroom, you tell me that Kafka
sold insurance, as assurance, as your

synthetic body settles into warm bath.
Props around, the sound is dynamic

style, money and ambition. I hear
your spending and see your debt.

This dance, a slow beat, in which she
is sweat soaked, flimsy knee, inside,

silent time hugging yet unable to
explain herself, her trance and

cathedral legs rule the middle class.
Newspaper ink underneath

fingernails, youth holding job in
U.S.A., a room of chapters

and your noisy mouth. Think of us
tied to a sinking anchor like a broken

briefcase handle holding things
together. Each time enters the flash of

a newfound chest shown by a slate
table, as surprised consumers react to

the voted election. Your affection is
joking stupid super bowl, a fan club

of trailer park homes, an annulment of


I have a circle around your waist

I told you about lacking inertia, a
pure punctuality that lacks finality. I

have a circle around your waist,
hand on my lap and jailed circumstance.

Pull back your hair like a gypsy and
tell me another story to distract us.

It does not have to be true. Are they
ever? Change the names and tell it

with confidence. Just stand me up,
please. I mean, if you do not, then I

will, and for this, I apologize in


Naked island cultural geography

In a hut your research is starch and
pathfinder, newspaper tallies the lead

off, click the close signature in her
personal typeset. She attends to

middle schools and bay leaves with
equal attention. Solar powered

envelopes eclipse marginal streets,
second hand handouts, while his

satire, tired of second solutions. Out
window, anthropology and apologies,

your drone hones, the new hip phone
fingertips, a dress of dreams. I am a

cheap bike, and you, a strange job. In
your cotton, a leg on the couch soft

and covered in olives. Sure, this
may be forgetful practice, but it is

deliverance among tickets and talk
shows. In the next episode, a moose

breaks photo shop, fatal the fraud,
circular the tape. Nora presses

together nickels and paints
destruction, mixing a haven of hollow

arteries, disrobing the shinguard
after two weeks of tranquil nights in

Cole Valley, her portfolio is limited to
cash advances among pictorials of

water. San Francisco has pulled me
into bed, she, an institute, as I wake

to eyes centered on an awkward
picture frame. Bending over a drain

to spit out last words, spitting out
blood and teeth and stained words of

a radical twerp, a fudament of hostile
thoughts, of closeness, a raw, bang-

bang hit and run.


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