Matthew Caretti

By Matthew CarettiPago Pago, American Samoa         what mud daubers do organ prelude We’ve been around a long time. A mother’s day ever since Australopithecus Africanus. Things haven’t gone all that smoothly, though. These days we spend our time critical race theorizing empathy. Realize it’s more than a single letter from refuge to refugee.         morning prayer a lone canary out of the mine Wildfire embers rise with Mars. Too much pleasure urges more pain. Our brains built for it. Type 3 fun house mirrors bend bones and time. Some circadian rhythm of our…

By Matthew CarettiPago Pago, American Samoa The N-word never tasted good in my mouth. Something far too bitter in it. Indigestible. Yet growing up among 1970s white rurals, it wasn’t uncommon to hear the epithet. It was never a word at home, but one cutting along the precise lines of a barber shop razor, caught on the fly out on a sports field, wrapped within damp towels at the summer swimming pool and in sync with slamming lockers along school hallways. A sound just perceptible enough.         sunburn skies a cant of pigmentation These days I wonder…

By Matthew CarettiPago Pago, American Samoa Here the future kraken in an ancient mariner’s tale wags us again. Always some bugaboo stacking spreadsheet zeroes. Each counter-space filled with a pristine ruin.         times new roman scrawl on Pompeii walls Realpolitik tumbles toward Earth. Cracks a construction hardhat. In mirrored windows a bulbul studies similitudes. Some continental drift wherein a mountain wanders into itself.         smoke forest water bombers smear it red Slow TMZ stream into this DMZ between East and West. Dr. West reminds us in real time of the pastness in the present…