New Poem by Kevin Martin

by Kevin Martin


department of corrections
number when pushing plunger
driver license number
when cashing pay

we can watch
pray to Jesus momentarily
look into mirror and see stars
lately answered blood flowing

middle of the body where
everyone sleeps at night after prayers
tithes paid to change the pockets
of preachers

politicians drop bombs in
the middle east
to be taken seriously

christ cannot see without glasses
doesn’t see the soul right in
front of him

Keep on soldiering through a
poke in side accidentally
letting the wine seep out
overdose slow so he could
reach heaven

wait for the rest
of us
with him in

Heroin by Kevin Martin

by Kevin Martin


never could
hit between
used to
dwell in
other sacred places

dreams gaunt after stars
in veins i think of you

live like i might be a
good man
with thunder in my ear
smooth as ever
she never wanted
to be bad
neither did i

kissed her squarely
on the mouth

both accustomed
to consumption

devour each other
every chance we get
don’t fuck around
as the sun
shines overhead

there is a star on her halo

by Kevin Martin


isn’t me i trust my lady
looks out for good intentions
tonight near railroad tracks
and good music drank
cider and IPAs
wicked weed
this year very little snowfall
complimentary coffee
last time i took two
hits of acid danced around
nightfall fires that
feed dreams cathartic eyes
which force you to be yourself
stylish all the time got a scar
on my calf one above my
left eye neither afraid or sad
empires that are miles apart
from each other since you no longer
get the real thing as discreet
as it used to be catch a
bolt of lightning be alone
with my head spinning sometimes
you gotta go slow never deny
heart wishes that she never leaves
me again as the mosquitoes bit
twice behind the knee which might
be okay with modern psychology
my pen is drunk eyes tiny slants
that see you in the dark with
open arms

High Point


by Kevin Martin


was in NC
High Point jail
six floors up
right below the women’s
floor and at night

could talk to them through
air ducts as everyone promises

i was waiting for my transfer to
the neuce which was the next step
an introduction to honor grade
prison camps

i was not waiting there for bond
knowing your time is better than
not knowing

for two weeks i was there

always saved up
milk cartons
to make a deck
of cards

after they were dry
an old crackhead named
tight shirt

would make you the nicest
deck of cards you’ve ever
seen for some canteen

you could shuffle them
like you would a regular deck

stay up all night
playing cards and talking shit
i would listen to their lies as
we all would laugh at each other


by Matthew Wilson


I’ve seen so many places and heard so many tongues. I’ve marked my adventures on this map and have seemed to run out of pins. But I’m not done. I haven’t seen the world. I’ve only seen what’s close to me. But that’s not enough for me. That couldn’t be enough for anyone. Who could or would be satisfied with exploring only their own backyard? I won’t be one of those people.

I want to walk where giants once stood. In my dreams, I’ve followed the paths of Alexander and Caesar. I’ve grazed the fields where Romans camped while preparing for their conquests. I want to see the world. Every grain of sand and every blade of grass. I envision freezing my ass off atop the cliffs of Mt. Everest. To sit where the Greeks believed their Gods would rest. I’ll walk atop Mount Olympus and yell for Zeus to chase me down.

I’ll see the world and hear all tongues, I’ll be Matthew of the Path and retrace all routes. Maybe. But I’ll tell you where I won’t go. And it’s not on any map. It’s nowhere. I’ll not go nowhere. I’ll take these feet and both of these lungs and breathe the air of old Pompeii. I’ll pay respects for all the dead and traverse Vesuvius. And my legends and stories of my adventures will rain like fire from above. You’ll see.

You’ll read about me. Matthew of the Path, that’s who I’ll be. You’ll see.


by Matthew Wilson


I read about this once. A chemical reaction inside of my brain. The clashing of compounds and the physical response inside my core. But there’s more to this. There’s so much more to love than that of science. I know this to be my personal truth. Because I’ve felt your touch sending lightning through my flesh. I’ve smelled your scent lingering on my sweatshirts through the dead of winter.

We’ve got a connection here, you know it too. We have a metaphysical melding of mortal coils. You were meant for me, and I was meant for you. Your soul’s heat has melted the cascading casket of encircling ice. You’ve fueled a fire white hot to experience all this chemical concoction has to offer. Love, a gift you’ve granted me.

Your voice sends chills from skull to ankles. My pupils dilate and those around believe I’ve done more cocaine than Tony Montana. I’m purely addicted to your body’s effects on mine. I’ve trembled at the thought of you walking away. I fear the day you grow bored of me. You’ve sparked this reaction and I’ll let it consume me for as long as I live.

Love. Life’s true killer.


by Matthew Wilson


This was my time,
as much as it was yours.
You held my hand
as I held your waist.

We danced among an hourglass.
Time has carried us away.
You created inspiration.
I created because of you.

Yet now you’ve vanished,
and I am broken.
I am longing
and I am needing.

Your touch of faith
was my saving grace.
You were the architect
of my heart’s desires.

Yet I’ve saved the best for last.
As you once did with my hands.
You kissed my knuckles
and from your lipstick
a universe was born.

My creations are now immortal.
Ink bound to page.
Living thoughts in hearts and minds.
Living as your memory.

But never forgotten.
My inspiration.
I am an imitation.