A kingdom of clouds
Stencils a volatile
City sky and receives
Colors as a sacrament
From impending night.

The air is wounded
And laced with a
Fractured spirit.
The wind’s giving
Streets directions.

Sit in on an empty orchestra
playing ghosts invisible
songs that linger
Like spectacles of memory.  
Pass an artist forever
Painting self portraits
To understand his face.
I write an autobiography
About a mask and
An unknown shadow
Melting into a true
Self. 

It was only after I stopped
Caring about sense, 
Did I make any

(Besides, it’s only what we learned).

In these days,
We all want
Our piece of chaos
When, more than ever,
We accidently encounter
Our angels.
    I see halos around
Exit signs
I praise them holy

Eric Mattson was born in New Jersey and graduated from Rutgers-Camden. After school Eric took up working construction to focus on poetry and music. He has been accepted in drunken moneys, carnival literary magazine and red dashboard magazines. In the two and a half years since then he has lived in 5 different states and continues to chase a dream.