Matt Coplon

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

Posts from Matt:

Bloodletting.

I was always told “The Princeton” was the proper man’s haircut. That was my grandfather speaking. And what he advised was law. High and tight. Military. ... read more

No Other End Of The World Will There Be.

“On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net. Happy porpoises jump in the sea, By the rainspout young sparrows are ... read more

Mini-Lightning and the Ten Green Men.

Urban Myths are propelled out of mundane events. The Clearwater Monster, for instance. It lumbered out of the surf in the late 1940’s, leaving tracks ... read more

Mind Burglar.

Have you ever walked through a doorway, with something in your hand, and looking down, not know why its there? Why are you here, now? ... read more

The Hand And The Finger.

My grandfather’s room had a smell mixed between distant, stale cigarette smoke and bleach. The cigarette smoke would waft in from the dining room. It ... read more

An Assault with a Deadly Missile.

They took our shoelaces. Our shoes fit like slippers. We had to shuffle around doing our best to keep them on. Touching the floor with ... read more

Skinhead Island.

Tampa Bay once suffered a massive influx of racist, neo-nazi skinheads. And within our punk scene was where they converged. Here, fights were inevitable. Though ... read more

Thirteen Ways of Looking at the Aegean.

The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying. --Wallace Stevens Thirteen ways of looking at a blackbird. I. Gate #98. Newark Airport. 6pm: The witching hour for ... read more

The Art of Compulsion.

Washington, DC. Mid July. Humid. Gloomy. I didn’t know anything important about the capital city. I knew it had a little punk history. I could identify a ... read more

Nut Cut.

"So, Joseph, you don't want kids?" I was thrown off. Not by the question, but from being called by my given name. It was a title ... read more

“Craw-sant,” our battle cry.

I got stuck on drive-through in the mornings. Facing East, a single oak tree served as shade, the Spanish moss pulling its limbs to earth. ... read more

Nine Lives.

"Matthew." I propped myself up in bed by my elbows. Staring straight ahead I saw no one. "Spike's dead." I looked to the left, and there was my ... read more