Matt Steiner

 

I lived in southwest Pennsylvania in an area where poverty and derision has finally taken hold of the souls of all those surrounding me. A lot of what I write and what I think stems from the interactions of what I see going on at my miscellaneous jobs in restaurants, steel fabrications shops, and truck-stops. I'm 19 going on 20. People look at me to have answers to questions that I may never have. Writing isn't something I do as a hobby or as fun. It's necessary. It lets the thoughts, the anxieties, the questions out onto paper or onto the internet where they belong. It gives me more time to sit back with Hoegaarden with some buddies and shoot the shit. I have great intentions, but mostly come off as self-absorbed and dramatic to people who first meet me. Which doesn't fair well in job interviews, so hopefully I'll be published one day. I haven't really taken well to welding or waiting tables just yet.

 

Matt Steiner's Blog: barrenrun.blogspot.com

 

and the dead whisper tales of sorrow

our lives are just novels written by a tired, old man

he tirelessly types away on his typewriter

beethoven playing his piano, and the old man drinking his wine

the ink dries, and we waste away

 

i met a man who told me about his life

his great job, his great pay

his great son, and his great wife

i nodded through the mask

and felt sorry for the poor soul

 

he died in a car accident

and he no longer had this job, or pay

a son, or wife

 

as the ink dried, so did the tears

the world moved on, and the man was forgotten

beethoven still played the moonlight sonata, in the darkened room

the wine still flowed freely

the tired, old man pulled the paper from the typewriter

 

and in the darkness, and smoke

he filed the paper

and went to bed

chopin opened the soul of the tired, old man

who had much writing to do the next day

for soon, we will all be filed.

---

one last cup

life has been a battle

of questions and answers

 

its such a shame

when a person lost everything he was

and with just a little hope

he has to begin with nothing again

 

after a long night of soul searching, hiking, and wondering

i pulled into the parking lot of a pizza shop around 10pm

i sat on the porch, lit a cigar, and ordered a pizza

life seemed beautiful, in such disarray and without structure

a man sat down next to me

 

"i got laid off today, and i could use a cold beer and some pizza"

 

i offered him a smoke and one of mine

when the pizza came i also gave him some

and we sat

and talked

 

life is beautiful, i thought

when you can just give up on it all

when you have the talents

you have the money

and you have the peace

but we all know life turns on a dime

 

a life torn and tattered

jobless, lifeless, asking for a piece of pizza and a good cigar in a

parking lot

these are all the notions

of a man whose future is much better

than the television leads us all on

to believe

 

so we sat and finished our cigars

in quiet

i wished him well

got in my car

and drove off

 

looking

for

the

other

side

 

---

 

the winged edge

i suppose, in the end,

the women stop calling,

the money stops coming in,

the friends find new friends.

 

in a bar along that desolate highway

there is this strange sense of relief and hope

a strange sense of community and love.

"you've got to love life, no matter where you are"

dale had told me.

"see the world outside of your vest pocket"

 

moving on to tomorrow was never as hard, in retrospect,

as it seemed to be that long night

"many a good man

has been put under the bridge by a woman".

 

indeed, that night i was close.

 

---

oh, the injustice

if it doesn't get you now,

it will surely get you later,

no man or woman is safe.

for in all of time,

we all aspire to become something,

the lover, the rich, the famous, the envied, the forgotten.

and in time,

we all become something much greater,

dust.

fertilizing the dandilions in the meadow,

lie thousands of the rich and the famous,

fertilizing my turnips are the envied,

and if i am correct,

the forgotten are for the worms.

i, of course, know my own realities,

see my future downfalls,

uphold injustices of the world,

and seize the day, if it's convienient.

 

the girls used to say to me, "you're so negative."

the phrase almost illuminated within a dark contrast of derision and

suffering.

but as time passes and the girls become women,

i find that they have become negative, and i, all the more positive.

 

so as they enthrall themselves with self-gratification,

more and more make-up, girl talks and deriding their male counterparts,

i've found myself basking in the beauty of the earth.

 

not necessarily the people on it,

let's just go one step at a time now.

 

---

one last cup

 

it began as a mistake

sitting in this bar

looking at people going insane

looking at people who were already there.

they're everywhere.

 

poor men lurching in dark city streets

hoping for the day life becomes easier.

waitresses counting their tips at the end of the night

wishing to have enough to put food on the table for her two girls by

herself.

accountants waiting for the day

their bosses dont work them to death for a pay good enough to almost

cover their italian suits and swiss wristwatches.

wives crying themselves to sleep

in hope that things could be like the once were.

mothers crying at the kitchen table at 2am,

in fear she is losing her daughter to a stranger.

doctors calling for one last shot of whisky

in an attempt to alleviate the pain.

 

i enjoy my seat here

forgetting my own pain

for through my window

i see a cold, heartless, lustful, dirty, despicable, yet beautiful world

at our feet.