Matt Coplon

Work by day. Ride by evening. Write by night.

Posts from Matt:

NEIGHBOR OF THE BEAST

It would have been nice to watch MTV’s Headbanger’s Ball in our living room. My parents had been doing pretty well, financially, in 1988. ... read more

Postcards from a Memory Palace

Three parallel, personal experiences are what have brought you here. In late September, 2019, I received a text message really early in the morning. The gist: ... read more

Palimpsest

Walk with Me... ...while I wait in line at the SFO airport. What do you get when you reserve a rental car from the cheapest vendor available? We ... read more

The Doll

Today. A postcard was all it took. A postcard and a thirty-five cent stamp. And an apology. Written in any type of script of her choosing. In blue ink, ... read more

A Primitive Paradox

One Taking two steps up a pair of offset cinder blocks, I crept behind the cheap, pink, plastic shower curtain, cordoning off an open air toilet, ... read more

The Story I tell the Least.

I. Mother Brain I sat on the edge of Craig’s bed, legs dangling off the edge. It was a single. Narrow. Just five feet away ... read more

Memory Believes Before Knowing Remembers.

“Memory believes before knowing remembers.” -William Faulkner The pine woods surrounded us. The thin, dark green spikes offered shade at a bare minimum. It smelled like Christmas, partially ... read more

The Cut Up Truth About Sex.

Entry #10 The Cut Up Truth About Sex. I remember biting on her ear I had the whole thing in my mouth and what we had was a failing ... read more

The Boredom Diaries: Reanimated.

It’s been almost a year since I’ve conjured an unsolicited narrative. Simply put, I just lost the inspiration to write. There was no definitive ... read more

Being Maiden America

There are few trips I’ve not wanted to see come to an end. Especially long ones. But there was something about these nine days on the ... read more

Architecture Of A Cult.

Scene One: Winter, 2011. It was winter. The sun was setting earlier on those days. The orange light dull, dipping west, barely illuminating the intersections. Pedaling through ... read more

Gator Totem.

Bruce Chatwin was haunted by what was in his mother’s curio cabinet. Behind the glass was a hunk of skin, with a tuft of orange ... read more