2 poems
By Matthew Medendorp
Paul Newman Takes Horseback Riding Lessons in Sedona, AZ
Butch Cassidy is singing in the rain. The tape is
stuck. He should be riding a bicycle with
Katherine Ross. Instead he’s in the wrong movie,
cowboy hat collecting rainwater in the Arizona
sun. There’s a gecko on his shoulder, its tail is
in Indonesia where the salt surf is being peed in by
boys too young to hold manhood. They’re naked
except for flip flops and their big eyes are dark
with the world they know. It’s monsoon season.
In Arizona monsoon season holds fire in its hands,
a blowhole of embers, beached timbers licked by
salt tongues. Houses burn but Butch Cassidy’s hat
is full of water. He can’t remember if it’s
rainwater or the pool he found, a secret posthole
in the desert where a barefoot bush drowns in
perpetual sparks. He misses the Sundance Kid and
dreams of Bolivia.
Window Washer, Kalibata City
When the window washer came into view
I was naked and holding my ukulele,
the urge coming upon me as the
well worn ropes thumped against the
glass in time to tinny Fleetwood Mac rhymes
bouncing over my laptop speakers.
I thought what a surprise it would be, this view
this wild ritual in my urbane animal skin
and this man in an orange jumpsuit
might have a story to tell over his
next coffee break: one time he saw a
pale madman, Jakarta’s apartment prophet,
strumming badly at the ass-crack of noon.
Matthew Medendorp
is a poet, essayist, the current Creative Director at Thin Air Magazine, and an MFA candidate at Northern Arizona University. He spends his spare time washing boats in a warehouse without heating or cooling. You can read more of his work in HAD, the Boardman Review, and at mattmedendorp.com