Woke,  
    To the past pounding
On the door
Demanding reprimand. 
Reach into a pocket
Pay with the present,
            (Leaves a photo)

One that can look at you
Why not you, it?
Forced to absorb that memory
With age,
Where does the pain go?
…Anger doesn’t like to
Be reminded of itself…

Casually raid the repressed

Don’t miss your golden youth
My mother says
                    As I expand past these walls,
Spilling into the streets
Of asphalt lullabies and
Lamp post nightlights
Guiding me to the
Comfort of twilight
On Ravenswood Way.

You can start over,
But nothings undone.

So I,
Transform deformed scenes
With colors of creation
Outlining the myth.
Transmuting me past flesh
These words that refuse death.

As I look back
A thousand years past.

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.