Matt Hart
Black Box Cockpit Voice Recorder
Friday. Today. Alarm going off at 5:30 a.m.
And I, snoozing-in 3 times, getting up finally at 6;
kissing good morning to Melanie and the cold air,
the coffee, computer, the baby and dog; make coffee
singing birdsongs to fly in the face; feed Aggie her rice
cereal, which she spits out-about indiscriminately.
Then say hello to Brett, who’s come over to stay
with her while Mel and I are at work. I get ready
to spill. I check my email fifteen times. O fussy inbox,
what am I expecting? It’s the long day; it’s art college.
I say, I can’t teach you how to make a Leonardo
Da Vinci drawing because he was a genius,
and you’re you. Best to do your best and hope for it,
too. Work the whole world like an evergreen shark.
Deformation is the way we make heaven—and thank
the Vast for that. And for my students so eggwhite
and shiny, or full of bang-boredom-apocalypsesmile.
I think I saw you in an ice cream parlour, drinking
milkshakes cold and long—perhaps my favorite line
in all of rock-n-roll, I wrote on my blog two days ago.
But now home in the afternoon I whistle and read
Forklift submissions with Brett: brilliant new work
by Matthew Siegel, Allison Titus and Mathias Svalina.
We take it and go off our rockers. And Melanie gets home
just in time from work, and Brett says he’ll see us; goes
Bretting the world with his Brettness. So I take a nap
on the couch listening to the new Sparklehorse, Dreamt
for Light Years in the Belly of a Mountain, wherein I dream
my dog Daisy is a little black kid with a white soccer ball,
maybe nine years old, and she’s a he, and I’m running
after him, but can’t catch up. The burnt-out trees. The drugs
in the street. When I wake up, it’s evening, 6:15 and
already dark, so time to go running for real with the real
Daisy already by the front door waiting. And soon we’re off,
and the cold air feels terrific, my ears filled with traffic.
I feel like I’m still dreaming, each step automatic, my body
self-propelled. And on the streets with no lights
without my glasses, I can’t see a thing. So Daisy and I
simply rocket, bolt and breathe, benevolent burn,
and only the trees with their low-hanging branches,
which scrape against my face every thirty or forty
seconds, break me out of my trance and remind me
of me, and also where we are—Cincinnati, November!
I settle into pavement; easily, the night and a few
funny stars. But I don’t look up, ’cause it’s like I’m flying,
and I hate flying. But not this time,
and not this.
Poem I Wrote in My Heart for Your Head
Out in the sunflower writing in traffic
I think your niceness counts flamingos
to a hundred Ready or not, here I commingling
Maybe you know me in my highchair
reverted, my diary filled up with brewer’s yeast songs.
Or maybe I just think you do, or want you too,
so ruddy and empty O tiger in my sock Or
October in my headband or August between
my sheets, or better yet, 7:46 PM in Spring I look
under the couch-grass. Again the phone rings,
and again it’s my mom Ever since
we had the baby blue-jay in a pool of light
she sings, while I remain forever saddle-stapled
to the ether Anti-inflammatory Books
on my breath Now to brush the chlorine out
of my guilty momentum the syllogism
therefore
{Now showing of falling}
Now showing of falling
Technicolor maple September Midwest
Who cares more and who cares less Nobody knows
if I don’t This daily-ness recorded recording art or
not art current events
Leaves of Grass Iron Chef America
I feel cheap, but heavy-duty fine My friend Dobby
says “giraffe” in a letter says “tops”
and possibly
“little appropriation” says “baby” and
“the only thing worse than feeling
this way/ is not having a reason to feel this way”—is not
having a reason to feel O agreement
floor to ceiling I’m with you esp. in light
of Nate’s “This Tremendousness I Can’t Talk About”
and Gina’s FEAR
OF THE KNEE BENDING BACKWARDS and also
the tiny poem I found scrawled in the margins of my alarm
going bonkers warp speed uh- head—
my own eyes awake wide in the red sunlight
Cincinnati’s my favorite moment and’s unfolding ever
and sometimes after Thirteen years and counting
birthday cake candles front porch azaleas Melanie
Jackson Daisy now Agnes!
Lovely Insulation vs. Robot Paranoia
Crumbling driveways sinister bushes
plank-walking pool-sharking neck meat
the sky
O flight of meaning
of kite string erupting for the very first time I mean
a bird’s nest not an image I mean a depth-charge
not a grave So far so good so
rockets prove nothing or almost
hereafter convince me