http://slow.writerscafe.org/mclough19 The original writings of author Matthew Clough en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776033733 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 It took less than twominutes for Angela to appear on my doorstep after I got home Saturday night. Ihadn’t even texted her to tell her I was back yet. Somehow she just knew. I’donly had time to drop my suitcase next to the kitchen table and read the noteNoah had left for me there.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1686911/ Someday,Not any day soon,We will sitAnd talkAmong the hydrangeasBlossomingOn the veranda, LaughingBecause it will beOur verandaAnd you had Wanted a balcony instead, A view for hypothesizingKingdoms: ImaginedValleys and pre.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1655482/ Some dayLate MayL.A. Soft roarSeashoreRain pour InsideWe hideTongue tied Glass wallDrops crawlSun fall Hold tightCrash, lightLove tonight RepriseSunriseYour eyes http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1590402/ One day, when Iwake alone in somecity untouched byyou, I will throwmy windows open andthink “this is it.”Sprawling below,a flooded street willpulse and beckon loud,calling words Inever knew how to speak:everything yours.And so it was -walking n.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1583923/ I’ve spent myentire life staring at walls. Age four: mynose pressed againsttwo blank onesbecause I slappedmy sister andrefused to say sorry. The turn of ten:I’d sprint downsunny slopestoward swing sets,just to find aslim brown fence.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1564498/ Atthe very least, you can't tell meIdidn't try. I put all of my beliefintoyour voice. Some nightsIworshipped the words I feltbetweenyour teeth even before youcould formulate a thought.Thatwas where I found solace,inthe moments of waiting.What.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1537586/ It’sbeen so long since I've fallen asleepwiththe warm thought of someonetuckedsafely under my pillow. Buttonight, as I hear the starsjustbeyond the bright wide windowmurmuringlike angels, yes yes, Ipull you out from underneathandpla.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1513317/ Themoment of intimacy is no differentthanthe drapes in the drawing room,thepulsating numerals on the dashboard,thelingering downpour in July. Thereare nows and there are beyonds - nottomorrows, not next weeks,butthe incalculable, the unassigned qua.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1497113/ Theyare temples of silence and memory,thin paper-walledsanctuaries.Secrets shelvethemselvesamong out-of-print booksanddusty manila envelopes. Whosetears have stained the pillowcaseajealous shade of yellow? Who’sf*****g who each Sund.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1464513/ Idwell in waves of grain.GoldenJulys. Summer,glory of the sun.Ibelieve in the godliness of moments. Howcould I not?Lookat this vast scape: billowingcloudslinedin silver, thetorch of sunsetablazein reds and bl.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1442290/ Youflow:Pulsing,like the lapping wavesbrushingcattails at the bank. Yousurprise meatevery twist, pulling me beneathyourglossy surface. I breathe bubbles. Drowningwasa terrifying notion to meuntilI kissed your lips and felt .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1441804/ Idon’t remember when I got involved with disengagement,ifthat’s even something one can become involved with.Yetit’s something I practice regularly now, tappingon the case of my butterfly collection.“Idon’t like being sober or being hap.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1435934/ Itwas during the silent car ride homefollowingyour death that I gazed throughthe window to find a wispycloudspiraled about itself in just sucha fashion so as to resemble a lotus bloomingtoward the heavens, reaching for  somethingjust beyond thi.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1428415/ Universally,it is human nature to dividethegreater wholes into bite-size unitsthatare friendlier, easier to swallow. Thisis what we have done with years,whichwe decided to divide into days,shrink-wrappedfor sale at the bakery. Theones which do .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1425459/ Ilove the sound of the sea,Pullingme to you, to me. Ithink of the months passing,likewaves tumbling upon themselves,collapsingon sand.Isthis my life?Watching,waiting. Allureenough to arrive,placemy toes at the kissing point,not.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1417884/ Ithink the problem was in you thinking this meant something.Ijust needed an outlet in which to satisfy my daddy kink. You’remore than twice my age, you haven’t shaved all month.Idon’t know your name, but mine is all that matters. I’ve.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1416628/ Whatmarvel of humanity,when,upon gazing at the frozen pond in the park,decidedto walk across to the other side? Howdid that thought ever come to surface?Whatchemical anomaly could triggersuchunusual behavior, such a risk? Doyou see what I&rsquo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1409246/ Ican remember counting the ceiling tiles.Seventy-two.Ihave a friend in the architecture programandshe said that figure sounded rational. Granted,it wasn’t a particularly large room.Enoughspace for things to matter, though.Enoughspace to really feel .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1408517/ Ihad never loved you more.Nevermore than the nightthatyour relationship endedoverthe phone in quick taps. Yousaid it was a mutual split,butI knew better as I watchedyourfingers trace pages of thecalculusbook on your desk, pencillimp.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1403671/ “Haveyou ever been in love?”“Once,a while ago.”“Whatwas that like?”“Likegliding through the sea.”“Doyou know how to swim?”“Ididn’t have to. She kept me afloat.”“Sowhere is she no.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1397912/ Itwas just one of those days.Findingyourself in the back boothatthe old corner café, readingthe weather reportina crumpled paper left behindbythe previous customer andeyeing the drippingblackumbrellas halfway unfurledinthe bi.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1397477/ Havingforgotten what it felt likeTofall in love, I thought it easierTorespond with a tiny “yes” thanTotear apart the flowers you wereTogive to your lover, when askedTowater them for the afternoon. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1394402/ SometimesI pull on stray cats’ tailsuntilthey get annoyed and either bite my wristsorflee around the corner drugstore, chirpingmaniacallyas they bobble into sewers. WhenI’m prowling the streets of Miamiona slow August afternoon, I can’t help.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1393862/ Ifell in love once, long ago,thinkingthat it was everything -Ihad one shot at this phenomenon,kissingher slowly on the forehead,andthat was enough for me. Sowhen that love fadedIwas surprised to find how easy it wastolove again, and how freely.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1393516/ WhenI fell asleep next to you,promisingto write you a poem about the stars,Idid not realize that the only thingsthatmight come to mind when I did sit downtowrite such a piece would be the gapsbetweenthose little shining lights,riftsin the fabric of a bright whit.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1392819/ Isthere nothing so sadasthe tears of a mother? Thewoman who, regardless,standsat the sinkwashingdinner dishes: thewoman whose husbandhasnot smiled in years,thewoman whose childrendonot love each other,thewoman whose mother.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1389333/ Glossy through your white lace drapesit ignites the tips of shadowy pines,candelabra on the narrow kitchen table. There’s only room for one in that space,but there’s two of us in bed, silky hairsliding against my arm, striking a match. I think it.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1387632/ Never, they say, and I concede,because no one ever botheredto put always in my vocabulary,and I couldn’t muster the strengthto find it buried in the ashtray.The shadow of my mother’s lampon the tarnished table in the cornerlooms larger than its frame, and I can’thelp but wonder how.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1382239/ Icame upon a bright white canvasinthe alley dumpster behind my house. Someonehad left it there to dissolveinthe rain, two black dots at its center. Idon’t know if it was the looming grays aboveorthose commanding voids in waste, but.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1377804/ An aging couple struggles with their deteriorating marriage in the face of loss and conflicting philosophies of grief while traveling through the outskirts of a faded Las Vegas. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1376396/ Whatlovely weather it is -toinvite you over,tomake a pot of coffee,toserve pastries in the parlor,andto discuss all the bookswefinally found the time to read. We’llcraft our own Romantic,anideal to rival the poets.Ialways dreamt in lyr.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1376047/ One of my biggest fears about writing is that I haven't experienced enough in my life to create anything worthwhile, so I wanted to express that frustration here. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1375532/ Irecall lust,andthose womeninlazy purple gardens,sleepinglike blue shadows.  Deathbut a springintheir sordid winter hearts,onthe verge of blossomingintobillowing cumulus pinks. Pictureit:Youand I, almostlovers,sippi.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1368232/ 1. Take a midnight walk with tired feet and an even more tired soul. Feel the warm pavement, it's June. Find solace in streetlamp floods; a beacon brighter than all calling, maybe your only one.2. Seek them out, those sparks of yellow heaven. It may be the closest you get. Trace the gaps between th.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1363465/ Lastsummer when I shreddedababy rabbit in the hurricane bladesofmy lawn mower, I spent a weekconsumedby screams and blood rivers inmy dreams. I watched it flailthroughthe bright sky, shootingredlike a fireworks display,soclose to flight as its hea.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1361813/ IfI learned anything from my lit theory class,andI can’t say for certain that I did, itwas the deconstructive theory of dichotomies,thatblack and white system of opposites, andI learned that humans can’t fit into it.Wecannot be forged to .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1357817/ Lethargy,my love, quick to leaveandsooner still to forget,sheplays the piano in a series of staccatos. Istopped to smell the lilacs once,dazzlinggleams of pollenfrostedin glassy emerald spheres, dewdrops. Andit was spring, season of gold,th.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1348337/ Whenyou first left meIbegan a new relationshipwiththe phosphorescent pullofliquor store displays.Soit was no surprise really whenI woke up one Thursdayattwo in the afternoon with twelvebottlescrammed in my deskdrawersand a pounding headache... http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1343180/ Ispent all my money on alcohol. Ishook hands with your new loverwhenI wanted to spit in his face. Idraped myself in cardigansandsipped martinis in the darkwhileI let faceless men feel me. AndI couldn’t say no, so I saidnothin.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1341951/ Ourancestors were here once,ridingatop camels and caravanswithbeady necklaces of ivoryandbulky sacks of potatoes,theburden of future thousands. Nowwe find ourselves among them,trekkingup dark, wooden mountainsandthrough thick vodka rivers,our.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1338385/ Iglimpsed my futurewhenthe fog rolled inandI killed myself ontheconcrete divider,doing117 in the rain. Therewere June eveswithred wines andItaliandishes I couldn’tpronounce,savored withmelodiousstring quartets. There.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1331012/ Iwatch my mother through the sliding glass door.            She’s standing at the chippedkitchen counter            in her flour-speckled red checkeredapron, &nb.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1329980/ Youare an artist,orat least you were once,inthe high school days.Youbent thin wire into lions,sketchedan eye draped in shadow,evendid a portrait of me:myarms hugging my kneestuckedagainst my chestanda lopsided grin below my ears,naturaland rela.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1329572/ I’mas bitter as the coffee I drink at sunrise,asbegrudging as the stars vanishing in flame,asdesperate as the moon to remain in blue skies,asfragile as the wiry clouds shattered by storm,ashopeless as humans in the face of galaxies. Yetit spills from me.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1319684/ You’redescending the stairs in a simple black dress, your right hand gliding alongthe wooden bannister.“I’mleaving now, babe,” you call across the room, as you slip into a cream coloredjacket. I walk toward you from the kitchen, smiling and stroking the top edge.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1317839/ See also: Cat's Cradle, Chapter 110 http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1315200/ There’sa man in a turban on the corner.Heis juggling three bowling pins,allstriped like peppermint candy canes.AndI pause for a moment to watch theseacrobatics,the trapeze between calloused palms. Hecame to America in 1983 with his sister,agirl wh.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1311649/ whatif flowers were made of petalsandin them were infinite loopsoffractal mathematics we can’t comprehendbecausewe all majored in Englishsowe could write poems like thissowe could talk about world beautysowe could miss the point entirely but.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1310627/ Ithink in poetry, each notion a linefroman unknown poem,oneI haven’t written,oneI never will. Myheart does what it cantopiece them together,butthe task is impossible.Eachfragment is jagged and broken,drawingblood between caresses.&.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1305661/ F**k,she mutters,asthe green burns out,andthe sun starts to rise,blindingthe eyes of the weary. S**t,she murmurs,asthe setting sun fades,abold red twilight explodes,andher foot fumbles for the brake. Tomorrow,she sighs,watching.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/mclough19/1300650/