Biography of Matt Mullins
Matt Mullins lives and writes in Kalamazoo, Michigan. A musician, poet, and fiction writer, he spends a considerable amount of time splitting firewood and driving around in the dark with his car stereo turned off. His work has appeared in Descant, The Birmingham Poetry Review, Born Magazine, The Grand Valley Review, The Detroit Metro Times, The Furnace, and elsewhere.
Matt Mullins Poems
The Neural Firings Of The Eternal Starle...
They love me this means I'm beautiful because they love me I'll always be beautiful
Father And Son In The Second Person
One day he will come into the bathroom to watch you use the blade. And at five or six or however old he still won't have the right words, but what he'll be looking for
Chinatown: a neon mantis. Hailstones tapping a Mandarin braille of love.
Forget if you will the flowers and gowns and suits of music; forget the priest or rabbi or judge and see only these
Visit To The Old Hockey Player's Home
They've all got busted noses and only a couple of teeth between them but still enough to tell the stories of the gloves thrown to the ice, the bare-knuckle fights
On The Birthday Of A.A. Miller's First S...
The week you were born eighty-some people died in Waco, Texas the wrong finale to a long stand-off between Branch Davidians and the ATF
When The Painters Come
You once told me poetry knocks on your door at 6 a.m. and that flags are killer when they fly
The Age Of Reason
You dream of naked skin against the water in us: How we turn our faces to the air
On Sunday Morning
We kiss to flamenco on your kitchen radio your eyes open
There Are Quarters In The Ashtray Next T...
She is twisted around me in the bedroom's green curtained shadow all is limbs, hair, skin. There are cars this morning, wheels, as always, sighing on pavement.
First, you die. Then I choose the place and time to brush away the dry leaves, rolling aside the note-heads of pill-bugs and curled centipede clefs testing the edge of your guitar with the calloused
Phone Call To Cousin Stacy
You are not Lady Godiva looking through her closet for something to wear out on the town with your lover on New Year's Eve, but the daughter
Luminous seconds falling before the alarm that always becomes The darkness tumbling to an edge set
Ode To The Sirens Of Our American Commut...
What is it about sitting inside our cars that puts an invisible shield around our sense of see and being seen? Of course, we're used to fat head in his uber SUV, his fat head ballooned
First, you die. Then I choose the place and time
to brush away the dry leaves, rolling aside
the note-heads of pill-bugs and curled centipede clefs
testing the edge of your guitar with the calloused
fingertips that will send the blade of its body down.
You once told me that a song could not exist unless
each note carried an acceptance of its own passing
in the same way that expectation serves the bridge's promise