#matthew hittinger

[yourdailyqueer]

Matthew Hittinger

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Gay

DOB: 1 June 1978

Ethnicity: White - American

Occupation: Poet, writer

[jshoulson]

Today’s Poem

I Am Not a Myth --Matthew Hittinger

Marlene Dietrich remembers the night of the Marilyn Monroe Productions press conference, New York City, January 1955

I wanted to be that trace of scarlet lipstick when you arrived, tipsy, a bit chartreuse a subdued platinum angel, a white mink

stole. I am at heart—Come up for a drink— a gentleman. You, a question here to seduce, a pink thought traced by scarlet lipstick

a deer drawn to a salt lick. I am the brick- back, brick-thrown widow of a caboose. I lift my black veil. I drop my black mink.

To the bird, flown—we toast with a clink. You created '‘the girl.’ “Their golden goose is now a scarlet smudge.” Your lips stick

to the wine glass and all I can do is wink out a song, the tricks of an aging chanteuse. You call a cab and grab your white mink

while I play my saw, and all I can think is I am not a myth a recluse who will recuse you to remain a trace of scarlet lipstick caught on the collar of a white mink.

[therumpus]

Daunted by disastrous consequences? Don’t be. Everyone—even you— delights in devil-scape. Do you rue more than revel?

“Desire Demands Its Own Attachment” excerpted from Manual For Living by Sharon Dolin, reviewed by Matthew Hittinger for The Rumpus.

[kellymcquain]

What's the big deal about The Queer South?

What’s the big deal about The Queer South?

This morning I learned that THE QUEER SOUTH anthology made the American Library Association’s top ten LGBT Over the Rainbow titles. I have two poems in that anthology, edited by Douglas Ray. (It features the likes of Dorothy Allison and Richard Blanco.)  In celebration, I think I’ll add those poems to my Monday Poets reading tonight at the Free Library with Amy Small-McKinney. Details here: https:…

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[bibliomancyoracle]

And the bus driver says, “Ma’am, we can’t stop the bus for every naked man having a yard sale.”

*

from “M DREAMS” by Matthew Hittinger

[bibliomancyoracle]

A horse comes to my white wolf form and says “Embrace the power of the double M. Embrace the twin insignia.”

*

from "M DREAMS" by Matthew Hittinger

[jaynehat]

I Am Not a Myth by Matthew Hittinger

I Am Not a Myth

Matthew Hittinger

Marlene Dietrich remembers the night of the Marilyn Monroe Productions press conference, New York City, January 1955 I wanted to be that trace of scarlet lipstick when you arrived, tipsy, a bit chartreuse a subdued platinum angel, a white mink stole. I am at heart—Come up for a drink— a gentleman. You, a question here to seduce, a pink thought traced by scarlet lipstick a deer drawn to a salt lick. I am the brick- back, brick-thrown widow of a caboose. I lift my black veil. I drop my black mink. To the bird, flown—we toast with a clink. You created ‘the girl.’ “Their golden goose is now a scarlet smudge.” Your lips stick to the wine glass and all I can do is wink out a song, the tricks of an aging chanteuse. You call a cab and grab your white mink while I play my saw, and all I can think is I am not a myth a recluse who will recuse you to remain a trace of scarlet lipstick caught on the collar of a white mink.

(via poets.org)

About This Poem

“According to Barbara Leaming’s biography of Marilyn, Dietrich invited Monroe up for a drink at her Park Avenue apartment that night and found the sight of a lipstick trace on the collar of Marilyn’s white fur ‘maddeningly erotic.’ Dietrich’s voice lent itself well to the villanelle, perhaps the most ‘maddeningly erotic’ of the poetic forms.”

—Matthew Hittinger

[griesly]

I Am Not a Myth

 Matthew Hittinger

Marlene Dietrich remembers the night of the Marilyn Monroe Productions press conference, New York City, January 1955 I wanted to be that trace of scarlet lipstick when you arrived, tipsy, a bit chartreuse a subdued platinum angel, a white mink stole. I am at heart—Come up for a drink— a gentleman. You, a question here to seduce, a pink thought traced by scarlet lipstick a deer drawn to a salt lick. I am the brick- back, brick-thrown widow of a caboose. I lift my black veil. I drop my black mink. To the bird, flown—we toast with a clink. You created ‘the girl.’ “Their golden goose is now a scarlet smudge.” Your lips stick to the wine glass and all I can do is wink out a song, the tricks of an aging chanteuse. You call a cab and grab your white mink while I play my saw, and all I can think is I am not a myth a recluse who will recuse you to remain a trace of scarlet lipstick caught on the collar of a white mink.