Tag Archives: Matt Comito

Season’s End

By Matt Comito

What is the new moon’s yield? Slender,
Quaint as a quill in its curves the dusty
Old thing just leaning there against our
Pull. All summer I watched the swings hold
Against the centrifuge on the old carnival
Ride, waiting bored for the likely carnage.
They should have shut that thing down long ago.
That is part of its appeal I guess. Picking up in
One town and making for the next before the law
Gets wise. A carny’s life for me it is.
Seasonal work though, you need to horde
Your seed and lay up for the bone cold
Months. In spring you step down from the
Rusted runner of your truck into some vacant
Lot and maybe a friendly face greets you
And beckons with a flask. And maybe
There is work enough.


Matt Comito is a bookseller who lives in Los Angeles. He has had a lot of time on his hands the last couple of years. Right now, he is curious as to why there is a mysterious noise coming from his walk-in closet. He hopes it is one of his cats.

Shorn

By Matt Comito

I have allowed, for far too long,
my beard and hair to grow without tempering
or order. The dead parts of me have taken
over and my face disappears beneath the weight
of my indifference; my face an ancient ruin the
hungering jungle chooses finally, to reclaim. 

I’ll tell you a story that I’ve just made up: 

A farmer buys a tract of land, acre
By acre dredges and digs at it. He hauls out
Stones and stumps. He drains and shapes the contours
Of his land. One day I decide, ‘enough’,
Stare myself down in the mirror, ‘enough’.
I pick up my razor and I begin.


Matt Comito is a bookseller who lives in Los Angeles. He has had a lot of time on his hands the last couple of years. Right now, he is curious as to why there is a mysterious noise coming from his walk-in closet. He hopes it is one of his cats.