BLACK MASS

NOTE: I'm a huge admirer (is 'fan' a dirty word?) of Johnny Depp. I have always loved his acting roles and him as a person aside from the acting - his love of literature, friendship with Hunter Thompson etc. This poem has more to do with Hollywood than it does with Mr. Depp. It's simply a truthful account of how I felt after attending my first Hollywood movie premiere as a bystander amongst the crowd.


BLACK MASS 
by matt burns

Here I am in the middle of this crowd
Camera high above my head
My trusty third eye
Much higher than the other two
I see everything with this crazy zoom.

The crowd moves along with him
Down the steel barricades
It reminds me of a swarm of bees
Like the kind you see in a cartoon.
But I expected much worse
I envisioned a bunch of screeching boars
Sweating autograph hounds
Aggressive paparazzi.
In fact, I drank 24 ounces of Four Loco as precaution
I felt it was the only proper way to experience this
I needed desensitization
Armor.
I don't do well in crowds
Let alone movie premiere crowds
Not that I've ever been in one
I'm popping my cherry tonight.
But, no, the fans seem tamer than imagined
Everyone smells nice, too
An amalgam of perfumes and colognes, lotions, shampoos
Maybe this is the Four Loco talking
The twelve-percent alcohol volume
It's possibly changed my perception of the reality
Maybe it's not as ok as it seems.

I've been glued to the viewfinder mostly
It's been the only way I can see him
I decide to take one glance away
And holy shit!
He's there
In the flesh
Maybe ten feet away from me tops
A swarm of buzzing bees in front of me, of course
But about ten feet tops.
It's surreal
Everything 'til now has been media 
Images
Video
Film
But now he's 3-d reality.

He finishes signing the autographs 
Gives the fans a salute
Hugs his bodyguard in thanks
Hops into a black SUV
SUV speeds away
Crowd disburses
And I eventually disburse, too
Each street I walk becomes quieter
Darker
Quieter

I buy a 24oz. beer at the store on Beacon Street
Where is everyone?
I'm the only one in the place.
I find a dark bench on the BU campus, my alma mater
It's a good place to pour the beer into my thermos
It's the same thermos I had the Four Loco in.
I get most of it into the thermos
But it's frothy as hell
Shit!
Can only fit so much
I make sure nobody's close
And I drink what's left in the can.

I sip
It's dark
I'm alone
Damn, man
He seemed so cool!
I don't want to admit it
But he just seemed so cool!
Maybe I've caught the fever
The energy of adulation
Can't shake it
He just was so cool!

Seeing him tonight
Bodyguards surrounding him
Police men
Publicists
The whole entourage
It was the antithesis of this dark
Lonely 
Bench.
Going from buzzing movie premiere
To this dark emptiness
It's rattling.
I sit here
Sipping on a beer
Alone inside this empty vacuum of space
Feeling like such a nobody.

Obviously this is not true, you will say
I am a somebody
As much a somebody as him
That's cliche though
We're all full of worth, they say
You read it in every self-help book
Every motivational speaker preaches this good news
It really is true
We're all somebody
But, fuck it
Yes
No
Shake it off!
I'd be remiss if I denied the feelings
Maybe it's a disease I caught from the fans
Maybe Hollywood came into Boston like a demon
And totally fucked with my wiring!
That's what Hollywood's always done
Portrayed its stars to be gods
A true Black Mass perhaps it was
Celebrating idolatry
I was paddocked behind steel barriers with the herd
And there "He" was on the other side
He seemed so somebody
And I feel so nobody
My mind says not true
Remember those self-help books!
But my feelings
Right now
Say 
So 
True

WANDERING BOSTON

Bates Hall at the Boston Public Library.

WANDERING BOSTON

by matt burns

I walk the streets

I take the subway

I go to the public library

I roam Boylston

Newbury Street

Searching for that great poem to manifest itself

On the Green Line

I notice everybody’s buried into their smartphones

There’s got to be a poem there

But I got nothing new that hasn’t been said before

In the library

The bathroom is straight out of a horror movie

Shit, piss, blood, all over the urinals

There must be a poem there

But I don’t have anything except what I just said

I sit in the middle of Bates Hall

There are long

Wooden

Rectangular

Tables

With muted green lamps

Bookshelves line the walls

Domed ceilings

Murals

Beautiful architecture from many years ago

I thought this room would give birth to inspiration

It’s got that look to it

Like an early twentieth century writer wrote a novel in here

But all it’s given me is an erection

Because there are tons of beautiful girls in this room

I can’t even concentrate on poetry in here

I guess this is a poem

About a desperate search for a new poem

I thought with all the stuff going on in the city

I’d come up with multiple poems

But no dice

Maybe I should have just stayed at home

Because now I have to pee

And the closest bathroom is the horror show down the stairs

Also, I think my car’s getting ticketed as I speak

Staying at home

And writing about staring at my bedroom wall

Analyzing the squashed mosquito and its guts

Probably would have yielded a better poem

Than what I’m coming up with right now

Traveling

Urban activity

Tons of different people

Diversity

Culture

It doesn’t necessarily give birth

To much inspiration

The traveling poet roaming around an exciting place

It’s a Romantic concept

But the reality is that

It gives birth to bullshit

Stay at home

Stare at the wall

Analyze the bug juice

You don’t have to be worldly

To come up with good poems

Come to think of it

I think I’ve already written a poem

With this exact theme

Thus nothing new has even been written

Case in point

I should have stayed at home

PUBLISHED IN POETIC DIVERSITY

One of my older poems has been published in "Poetic Diversity", a literary zine based out of Los Angeles. HERE is the link to the page and I also reposted the poem below. Thanks for checking my poems out!

WALK OF SHAME

by matt burns

The path is all too familiar.

Every landmark

Pumps shame

Into my blood.

It’s a conditioned response.

Like Pavlov’s dogs.

If somebody showed me a photo

Of any of those places

I would feel the shame.

It ruined the Charles River for me

Or at least that part of the Charles.

Or maybe just

That

Specific

Bridge.

First, it’s the mechanic’s garage.

Some sort of rack with tires on it.

The sounds of drilling

Tire pressure sssssssstttttssss.

Ratchets.

Each sound pumps more shame

Into the veins.

Then the bridge is next.

The Charles’ water’s flowing

The ducks floating

Birds chirping

All happy to start a new day.

I envy their enthusiasm.

And the innocence.

Nothing to regret from the previous night.

The traffic whizzes by me

And I’m still wearing my clothes

From last night.

All wrinkled.

My hair matted and parted

In all the wrong ways.

Alfalfa

Bed-head.

Crumbs of eye crust.

The drivers may be able to see

The blemishes.

Or maybe I’m far enough away

To still look normal.

But I feel and look like a zombie.

Dehydrated.

Head so fuzzy

Not present

Not even on earth

My brain cells all currently dysfunctional

My skull feels hollow.

The booze burned up

All the intelligence.

Like somebody had poured

Acid into my ear.

After the bridge comes a weird

Industrial-type-road.

Blue-collar workers

Pulling up to their places of employment

In pick-up trucks

Extra-large Dunkins coffees in hand.

Fresh

Energized

Ready to work.

And then there’s me.

The zombie suffering the consequences

Of a thirsty-Thursday night.

They glance over

And see that something’s off.

The attire isn’t right…it’s for nighttime

Not day

And it’s wrinkled.

Clearly suspicious.

Thank God they can’t smell me.

There would be odorous acid burps.

Sour vagina.

Stale deodorant.

Stale Natural Ice.

Finally I arrive at my car

Start the engine

And drive off.

Zombie driver

So dangerous

Hung over

But sober

So totally legal…

Legal, yes…

But everything is so very wrong

Not just me behind the wheel of the car

But me behind the wheel of life.