Born twenty-eight years ago to a German-English-Irish mother and a Guamanian-Japanese father, Matthew Guzman has learned, out of necessity, to allow the mispronunciation of his last name. In Guam it is pronounced “Gooze-men,” and this slight variation of the Spanish “Guzman” was implemented by the natives after the Spaniards were finished pillaging the small island of Guam. Instead of correcting this mispronunciation of his last name, he spends a majority of his time reading old paperbacks, studying in graduate school at the University of Texas at San Antonio, teaching English at Northwest Vista College, and writing. He has had poems published in magazines such as CC & D, Nibble, and The Sagebrush Review.
Driving through the night,
a need for semi-sour
air, the tar and seagull’s song.
Locked by land,
the land of a single star.
He hears the wind tunnel
of two cracked windows
speaking like an anonymous crowd,
one hundred voices synchronized
into one static charged
Sand is near, the crossroads
of sailor, adventurer, misanthrope.
All keen eyes upon the sea
and her regal music. The crisp rumble
takes him away, riding on a black
segmented ocean. Blue dreams are close now,
so close the other wheeled ships disappear,
and he sails alone, with the current,
through the night.