MY OLD SILVER STAR
she looks at me through the finger hole
of my grandfather's gold and diamond
John Deere retirement ring
I speak extemporaneously
like Robespierre a year before the blade
Her love born blind on the words that touch her I have not the love to reciprocate when our talk of gods slides to her young thoughts of marriage where her hopes are a desolate place
As a child I first saw the blue shimmer of a lake juxtaposed with moist shore sand of this I am reminded by the lightening-- shine across blue satin of her bra and panties against her craving dark brown skin
I slide the bra strap down slightly over her honey shoulder enough to glimpse breast and partial nipple I pull forward the elastic of her panties enough to see the gift waiting let it snap back against her skin enough for tingled anticipation
Cinder rose lips whetted by her own tongue a long, slow offering of tender saliva moans drilled into necks and mouths I slide my lips down to the equator I move soft obstacles to attend to the flesh of her lotus
I created this monument slick arch in her back and everything else that is wet unlike the Arch above us all steel straddling the city each a sanctified gateway to the Midwest
Our manufactured storm has a purity of joy including her trembling and tears butter and acid drops on bare skin and all of that teasing toward tranquility if these nights could only last for years
My courage in love disemboweled long ago my silver star that blinded young girls is rusting beneath my guts in the trenches sorrow and stung happiness have the same taste although it is seldom mentioned
She pythons her arms around me into the sky my Illinois eyes project white light she does not see as I trip on satin panties nor as I fall on my face on her blue bra when I should be constructing and tending to my bright balustrade of dreams in the nightKevin W. Mattingly © 2015
Kevin W. Mattingly is a man of Midwestern grit and tenaciousness. Mattingly's Illinois upbringing is evident in some of his writing yet it still conveys the universal. He is a consummate writer's writer and burns down the nights and days looking for the gold and sometimes slogging through the mud.
From one poem to the next his versatility with subjects and styles never ceases to shine through. When combined with his imagery and constant creativity, the beauty and the ugliness is filtered through a very unique prism. This makes for thoughtful and very entertaining reading.
He has been writing all of his life and will be until he's incinerated in the inevitable oven. Mr. Mattingly seeks to live forever through his words.
As a person he is much like his work. Very much shaped by the Midwest, he is also very interested in the universal but will not sacrifice his creative vision for mass appeal.
He is a humanist, fervent animal rights activist, and has his precious rescue beagle, Starla.
He loves reading, music, baseball, hiking, and the sounds from the city streets at night as well as the wind blowing through his beloved cornfields.
Mr. Mattingly has something for everyone. Be it soft and sweet or gruff and blunt. His work is always an exploration of experience and the subconscious. You may find him on Facebook: