Matthew Cooperman

Burner Phone

It was a hot day in a blue town, doing Mexican business. Banking, it was hot, the sweltering stillness of the harbor water, diesel, white sun blinding off the walls of the Malecon. It was hot, a Thursday, they were late, the bankers, and the wait was on in the afternoon fume, mopeds doing circles around the dry fountain. Manatees stank in the bay, bobbing. How would it go down, the need for a plan, the need for a phone plan, her dog bite throbbing, it was hot, the railing burned her. Frigate birds circled like drones. The cool tomb of the limestone bank beckoned. Why would anyone need a lighthouse? She’d gotten the new I.D. They’d promised her a lighter. It was hot. She was waiting for the call.

Rescue Gems

They were talking about the orb again, its appearance to Susanah. She, a Swiss woman, was known by the Filipina massage therapist, as a clear channel. This was after the Temescal ceremony where some things were revealed––the psionic vibration of blue from the lake, for instance, the opening of auric fields as if you too were a cenote. The orb knew all this and was channeling back. That’s how she revealed that she too saw the orb, but only in her dreams. She had been in Tulum and panicked. The gems in the health food store were screaming “save me,” and so she took them. The orb thanked her in her dreams that night, her and Susanah, for the gems, for moving the channel forward.

Jungle Fence

“We move at noon,” he sd. And so she followed…to look for the white door and not the green door, a slight path down a hill from the gate toward a lake and the smell of smoke. It’s a fence in the jungle or a pin drop on the highway, how you can and cannot get there. To make yourself ready in mind. For the ceremony, culturally, nearby, the door to the next world on a lake in heaven during the rainy season. However would she find it? Could she? Always conditional the jungle fence. He repeated again, “we move at noon, you smell the smoke.” 

Skaldic Echo

Iceland, on the icy cliffs where the petrels gather, same petrels as it always was the same planet, a squawk you’re on assignment, at your post, the old post that turns in the new posts, full of water, grass and wind, sky, sky, ocean turning, the same whales on the other side of the same world talking to the other whales, how they heave a bearing weight, a counterforce of swirl and memory to hold the iron core together. And there you are, on assignment, on the boat, counting and praying and opening the gate, as if petrels were our flailing arms, and waters were our element for reals, fissures to climb into, closing gap to swim again our planet to correction.