Poetry by Matthew Ussia

           Mike Maguire CC



​
Stepping in Dog Shit at 5:12 AM While Naked at 43
                               (After Charlie Brice)


The light pink padded vinyl sushi lounge 
was the fourth or fifth stop on our Toledo bar crawl
roaming, tumbling playful conversation
spilling through the walls of taverns and dives 
laughter, thought seeds planted
it was 1990-something 
all of our friends were still alive
no cancer or overdoses or threats in my imagination 
all the friends I met 30 years in the future were with us too
I was wise middle-aged in my old young body
it was night on Earth and I expected
we were going to watch the sunrise together
though I've never been to Toledo--

all that drinking meant that I had to piss
woke up in a twilight bedroom in 2021
the Earth is screaming for help 
maybe we only have a few years left
Kenny and Neeley are still dead
though I was just talking to them
excavating their worlds of secret knowledge seconds ago 
plantar fasciitis in my right foot

careful to slip out of bed as to not wake up either dog
especially our new life, Hildy
that would mean getting completely dressed 
sitting on the back porch with her 
until it was too late for the snooze alarm to save me
stumbling without my glasses
trying to replay my Toledo visit
not wanting to stop time travel intoxication
hoping to return if I can make it quickly back to bed--

and that's when I realized 
I’d stepped in dog shit 
on the black mat in the dark bathroom
with the foot that works every time I ask it to
hobbling on the bad foot to avoid further smears
shocking myself out of the last vestiges of sleep 
to deal with the present
to ensure I'm not currently wetting the bed

now I'll never get back to Toledo 
where it's possible Damon and Rae didn't move to Portland
Brian and Brett didn’t lose their minds to addictions to bad ideas
and all the international students I befriended in grad school 
never had their visas cancelled by a country
that didn't want them in the first place

as I cup the bathmat to drop the smashed logs into the toilet
dropping one on the seat and two on the floor
I remembered when Baldinger texted me
Karl Hendricks had died in the night
the only thing Nell could say was
this begins the time in our lives
when our friends are going to start dying
and that's when I realized Hildy pissed 
on the part of the mat I was holding.





Up Yours Robert Hayden


Yeah, okay man like
I get to have that moment
in a gen-ed lit survey
reading "Those Winter Sundays"
in a class full of undergrads 
who never liked poetry before
when it hits them like a shockwave

it's a fantastic poem
crushing the competition 
in a survey conducted
by the Library of Congress
dunking on Frost and Dickinson 

but dude,
for all of us who grew up in a house
like the house you grew up in
that line:
the chronic angers of that house
says it all 
all too perfectly  

what the fuck are the rest of us supposed to do?
one can rip off that line once in a poet's career 
the rest of the time condemned to finding synonyms
under the anxiety of influence 
I got a lot of mileage once out of
dreading the day's first screaming
but dude

why did you have to be such 
a fucking ball-hog?
​




​The Gift


My first true moment of despair was
in second grade when 
I fell into the toilet
I didn't realize 
the seat was up, this is when I
learned what it meant to feel worthless 
as I sunk into the cold water

later, watching 3-2-1-Contact 
eating a TV Dinner 
they got into the death of the Sun
and possessed by the image 
of the frozen sky falling
on my little grave
on an empty Earth
I started screaming
with a mouth full of mashed potatoes
inconsolable

I’m known for 
a cynicism that works its way 
to any conversational subject
morbid fun facts about
the gigantic penises demons are supposed to have
and how we would never see a quasar coming
at the speed of light, turning us
into clouds of superheated gas 

ran into a former student the other day
who still remembers the time 
I told her class about the liquified remains
of a corpse lost in airfreight, I think
the lesson was something 
about how to use a semicolon

but when you've lost sleep
over the second law of thermodynamics
it's always time to have all the sex you can
and get the fastest car
enjoy every sandwich 

they say I’m fun at parties but
I just want to help my friends
by teaching them it's okay to die.

​

Matthew Ussia was once described by a former student as "completely wild, intimidating yet forgiving, smarter than most - knows it," and while the truth of his life is far more mundane, he really is a professor, editor, podcaster, thereminist, writer, softcore punk, social media burnout, and all-around sentient organic matter.  His first book of poetry The Red Glass Cat, was published by Alien Buddha Press in 2021. Fred Shaw in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette describes The Red Glass Cat as beating with “a thumping big heart.” He is a founding editor of the Beautiful Cadaver Project and co-edited for their Social Justice Anthologies. His writings have appeared in Mister Rogers and Philosophy, Winedrunk Sidewalk, Future Humans in Fiction and Film, North of Oxford, and The Open Mic of the Air Podcast among others. He is co-editor of The Dreamers Anthology: Writing Inspired by the Lives of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and Anne Frank and Recasting Masculinity. His Theremonster alter ego performs doom metal on a theremin. Matt sang back up on the Silence LP The Countdown’s Begun. He lives in Pittsburgh. More info can be found at matthewussia.com. 

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