The Astronaut Review

Matthew Lee: 23. Artist. Writer. Teacher. Coach. Dreamer........ www.theastronautreview.com

[theastronautreview]

A Boy/An Album/A Bug

Soon we will hear the return of the cicadas/ they have been buried beneath the dirt for 17 years /orchestrating a symphony of buzzing to fill the night up to the stars with the electric airwaves of their song

We are 26 years old/driving on a battle ground left behind by our parents/fighting to hold on to every ounce of punk rock left in our eardrums/still trying to untangle years of lyrics/could we have missed something from the bloodstreams that had been poured out over worn-down asphalt and sidewalk chalk/I wonder if she remembers when she believed this album could save her life/the chorus of those songs, spilling out through the backs of our throats, still tastes like the salvation they promised us in Sunday School/Fast into greeting arms/baptized in a river of sweat/a choir of angels all singing about wings that have been ripped from underneath their shoulder blades /These poems are the poems that call us home/meet me there/ accompanied with the blown out speakers of a 93’ Toyota Camry/We will pretend that we never lost our voices/ We never forgot how to sing/We never lost sight of our own salvation/the words will spill out from the backs of our throats.

If you get there before me/roll down your windows/open your ears/ They’ve been silent for 17 years/buried beneath the dirt/and now they can fly/but all they want to do is sing.

[sentencesthatmatter]

I don’t have any problem understanding why people flunk out of college or quit their jobs or cheat on each other or break the law or spray-paint walls. A little bit outside of things is where some people feel each other. We do it to replace the frame of family. We do it to erase and remake our origins in their own images. To say, I too was here.

Lidia Yuknavitch, The Chronology of Water (via sentencesthatmatter)

[theastronautreview]

Apocalyptic Love Poem On the day the stars broke free from their bulbs, Our eardrums burst from the cracking of sound and light. The night began to cover our skin like bath water, Starting at our toes, It inched its way past ankles and kneecaps. All we wanted was to keep our chins from being buried beneath it. From disappearing into the deep shadows of forever, Shadows so dark that sight cannot comprehend. Consisting of everything and nothing at the same time. In the grass, The lovers laid down and held each other tight enough to feel the shape of her face on his chest. Red hair disappeared across his shoulder as if their fire had lost all of its flare. Extinguished by ear-ringing and the clenching of eye-lids. The priest was praying on his knees, questioning whether or not to relinquish his faith. His pleas were engulfed into nothing. I wondered if it’s always felt like this. Fathers held daughters and sons above their heads, In hopes that they might hold on to the light for just a little bit longer. Arms stronger than they have ever been before, only to tremble as mothers disappeared beneath them. Beneath them, Where I saw the tear from his child’s cheek fall into everything  that was left and nothing that was there. For once, I wished I could hear the children crying. When I was buried beneath it, I held my breath, I had found there was no longer up or down, And my feet had nothing to find. There was no shouting, But surely lips must have been moving. I was not interested in adding to the void. Instead, I wondered if the lovers could still feel her face upon his chest. If the father’s arms were still trembling. If the mother was still trying to catch her son’s tears. And if a priest had been lifted to his heaven despite the trepidation in his prayer. So with the release of my breath. I looked toward the ground, Or what must have now been the sky, And I could see a white freckle peering its way out of infinity. And from the back of my ear drum, I swear, I could begin to hear the children crying. And I felt her on my chest.

Matthew Lee

[theastronautreview]

A Beast Named Plum

Stephanie told me, that every year her daughters make a New Year’s Revolution. she knows that they mean resolution, but she has yet to correct them.

I tell her, ‘I like the idea of a revolution  much better anyway’ and she says ‘so did I, until they made a revolution to get a dog                                            and then came home with one.’

And so their revolution now stands on four legs, And shits and pisses wherever it can. And they call her Hazel.

This must be how most revolutions exist. With four legs, shit, and piss. And a name that makes you want to embrace them.

To chase them. Like they chase cars, They are untamed beasts released from cages. Wild as the silence between pages. Running full-force into the morning of city streets. Grab hold of their tails, skateboard under your feet. Laughing.

No helmet necessary. Welcome the beating your body will take From pot-holes and ass-holes alike, From uneven sidewalk edges that blindside you, Creating a relationship of face and pavement, Causing blood gushing ear and cheek, And when people ask what you’re doing down there, say I’m listening to what my body is telling the ground.

The ground is screaming back, ‘Get up! there is work to do! There are beasts released from cages, Wild as the silence between pages, They belong to you, Grab hold of their tails, Skateboard under your feet.’

Move forward. No guns necessary, Headphones blasting to the beat of West Virginia, Turned all the way up, To drown out what you are leaving behind, What needs left behind. To drown out your sleepless nights stored on collapsing bookshelves, To drown out the shaky hands and the whispers inside of your head from the beasts that have escaped your palms. To drown out her voice, her hands, the scar on her left eyebrow, and what she left you wanting.

And when you are no longer under water, climb onto the back of the beast, wild as the silence between pages, running full-force into the morning of the city streets.

And give her a name.

Because every revolution that exists, Aught to have four legs, shit, and piss. And a name that makes you want to embrace them.

[theastronautreview]

When she asks me to teach Sex Ed. to 50 fourth grade boys, My mind begins to roll, A pile of questions begins to build inside of my head, Will I have to use the anatomically correct term, ‘penis’? Because it has always been hard to get that out of my mouth with out choking a little bit. Plus, I prefer the term wiener. Or does dong or shlong, belong? Do I make the kids say penis three times fast? Penis, Penis, Penis. I know that I don’t show them mine, but do we just to have them face the wall and look down at it? Like 50 kangaroos wondering where their baby went. Do I get to put the condom on a banana? Can I eat the banana after? Can I use Legos to show them what sex looks like? Make a theater production and call it ‘Everything is Awesome’ The only flaw would be that Legos don’t have wieners. But they might have vaginas. All Legos might be lesbians. Do I teach them about lesbians? About hetero versus homo? And the complications of hate that follows. Is this the time when we teach them that no means no? I think probably it should be. Because the world tells them that no means go. And that men got needs, and it is our right to pluck these flowers and turn them into weeds. You can buy a ruined life with some drinks and a little pill, And she owes you because you’re a real winner, Bought her a gas station rose and some dinner. And if she’s not coming home with you, Then she’s a whore. And if she does come home with you, Then she’s a whore. And all the world wants is for you to keep taking more. Can I teach them that? Can I teach them that alcohol can still taste like stealing. Can I teach them that the reason she can’t get wet is because she doesn’t want to, And that IS the same as saying, ‘No’. She pauses me, ‘All you have to do is show them the video.’ And I can’t stop myself, The one where bruises cover her body in all the right places? Or the one with the sheets full of blood from the night before? Or the one with the man still crying because he couldn’t stop him? Or should I just turn on ESPN and say this is how you get away with it. ‘No’, she says, ‘the one where they realize that thing between their legs is used for more than just taking a piss.’ Right. No, I guess I’m not ready for this.

Matthew Lee Poetry

[theastronautreview]

And if you're still breathing you're one of the lucky ones

[theastronautreview]

How today is going

[theastronautreview]

Professionally Trained

I am not a professionally trained poet.

I am more like, a William Hung doing Ricky Martin’s ‘She Bangs’,

on season 2 of American Idol,

professionally trained kind of poet.

So,

just remember that I am the kind of man that never took the time to learn what to write or how. But instead spent his hours learning to paint his own face.

Twisting my body into words,

Brushing melodies upon my cheeks in an attempt to make my skin appear a little bit thicker.

But I have not yet, begun to master drawing these words.

So forgive me if you will, for it may take me longer to finish some of these sentences

But I promise if you look closely in the detail of the dots in my I’s,

they look a lot like yours when you cry.

Dripping T’s like crosses,

and J’s float away like mermaids from my jaw.

I am an old soul with a young boy still dancing within my heart,

he tugs at the tendons in my hands to help draw these words,

our disagreements,

they build to conflict.

While juggling dreams and debt,

standing one foot on top of a Superball

balanced on the pinpoint peak of a mountain top.

With an avalanche about to bend,

He will turn to me and say,

‘Old man, we can make it through this.’

I am sometimes words cannot describe this.

Whether the sea or the sky is too big or my body is too small,

I cannot tell you what it felt like to watch her die.

She would say, ‘never make a promise you can’t keep’

I am a promise to teach the difference between school and education.

I said,

I am a promise to teach the difference between school and education.

I am a Mr. Feeney mixed with Mos Def .

And I am most definitely telling these kids that dreams are worth holding onto.

So,

Let me show you how to go from clinically depressed to survived.

How to go from survived to now living.

How to not be afraid to tell you where these scars came from.

How to admit that someone else had to sew them shut.

Though my fingertips still tremble, so do pianos.

I have seen hope become a light bulb that imploded and transformed into the Sun,

I have soaked in its rays.

Look how tan I got.

I am an astronaut still searching for his home planet,

looking for signs of life bigger than what is seen here on earth.

An atmosphere cannot stop me.

With the sun going down,

Seattle Hip Hop is busting out my speakers

I’m going 88.

with Jackson Pollock turned all the way up splattering paint in my tracks

This is how my mind works.

.A civil war between Love Me and Fuck Off

Where most things are found to be true.

But remember what I told you,

I am not a professionally trained poet.

I am just an old soul with a young boy dancing within my heart.

With words rolling off the tip of his tongue

Professionally trained at not wasting a single breath.

[theastronautreview]

Death is not that different than waiting on someone to want you.

Derrick brown

[homet0wn]

Mos Def about the US government

[theastronautreview]

Where is my super suit?

This is a proposal to you and me,

Tonight,

Let us no longer wear our sadness on our sleeves,

Let us peel back the scar-skin blanket of our bodies,

and bowtie it around our throats to throw behind us.

Let us become the caped crusaders of fallen victims,

and dedicate it to the times we have needed to be saved from our own shadows.

Those bastards always seemed to be on the backs of our heels.

So tonight,

Let us shake them altogether.

Tonight,

Let our feet fly until the stains of our shoes apologize.

Let us land soft unto their words.

They are the poems of our past.

It is time to accept them.

Tonight,

Let us snap the dials from the stereos.

Let us turn up so loud that the founding fathers turn over in their graves.

They are dancing-earthquake-revolutions.

We are a riot with Jello-legs and trombones.

And when the police accuse us of disturbing the peace,

We will ask them to join us.

We will show them the stars,

and will say,  

Unload your guns you cowboy astronauts.

This is how you keep people safe.

Tonight,

Let our porcupine bodies shed each of its quills.

And if they begin to grow again,

Feel free to wrap your arms around me.

I will Velcro this body to yours,

so that our hearts may beat with balance.

Tonight,

Let us tear down the art they have told us is beautiful.

Let us carve its manifesto in the barks of trees,

so it reads,

All of This.  

Tonight,

Let us be the teachers we needed,

The ones with super suits hidden beneath khaki pants and button down collars,

The ones that speak out of the sides of their mouth with direct hits to the heart,

The ones that know our innocence may choose to find its way back to us if we let it,

The ones that taught us to be who we are, and don’t let it kill us.

Tonight,

Let us write the songs they will play at our funerals.

Be sure others can sing this celebration.

We all deserve to be sung to.

There must be music hiding in our silence.

Tonight,

We come from stars that burst at the seams.

Watch my backside to see if my cape still burns.

I’ll admit that the sun still sings brighter than I do.

But I’ll ride beside it,

With your hand in mine.

Hold your breath.

Taste how sweet it is to just be you.

Because we’ll never be this young again,

And it’s about time we bloom.

[theastronautreview]

[furimmerforever]

To the ones that I call home. 

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stuck in my head for weeks

[littlealienproducts]

[theastronautreview]

Grey

1.

It is 3:32 PM when rubber meets runway in Columbus, Ohio.

Four hours since Sacramento,

And for some reason,

my heart is convinced that by ‘time change’,

Some how she meant that times have changed.

I still cannot pinpoint the moment when her heart became so treacherous to navigate?

For once, I swear, she is excited to see me again.

2.

I wonder if during a solar eclipse the sun turns its backside to the moon to make sure she keeps her distance.

She is not convinced he can get that close.

So she scars him, craters his body,

and as minutes runs thin,

she peaks at all of his grey.

As their eyes meet he remembers why he continues revolving around her.

3.

It is 4:12 PM,

I am pacing a parking lot looking for my way out of this jet-engine field.

There is a buzz in my pocket,

It reads:

Have you left yet? Come join us!

Come join us!

Finally, right where I had left it.

4.

Where do all good things go when they die?

Do they turn to the dust that we collect on our brows when we go through the cardboard boxes in our attics?

Do they become the stale air we breathe in through the hospital halls?

Do they evaporate into the small specs of dirt that fall in the heaviest of rains?

Do they never die at all?

  5.

It is 4:59 PM,  she hugs me.

How are you?

My heart is pumping loudly,

Like I am staring through subway sections.

She is standing on the other side of the track.

I see her face,

car after car,

after car,

after car,

I swear there is a harmonica playing in background.

I am well.

  6.

Have you ever seen the night swallow a star?

She wraps her arms around it like a mother swinging a child to sleep.

All at once they both disappear.

  7.

It is 10:56 PM,

We remember what it is like to tremble.

The radiation between our bodies begins to dismiss all of this disease.

But in the quarter-rest of our breaths she whispers,

I can’t.

  So I twist my kiss into a smile.

I touch the soft spot on her forehead.

She disappears into subway shuffle and attic-box dust,

But I swear,

I can still hear a harmonica playing in the shadow of the moon.

As the sun,

Takes one last peak at all of this grey.

[theastronautreview]

For my friend Christine who introduced me to the intricacies of shortwave radio. This poem was inspired by the coded number broadcasts. I still find it awfully romantic to publicly speak in a private language. This is the broadcast I listened to while writing this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nTz9Obp9ez4