Matt Hart

 

 


I Wished to Be a Lovely Thing

 

I wished to be.  Upsettingly
appended, I ran toward the kitchen,
a young man's head in the mouth of a moth.

There, mishandled by a bear in the stars,
in the midst of a brawl, in a stomach of dust…

all it seemed for a time was lost;
all it seemed was but covered by war.

Lately crying wolf from a hole in the floor,
the marching band a-blast
with its hundred thousand feet,

Who's on first? —A many-legged thing.
What's on second?  —A half an hour dream.

In the beginning, I only wished to be.
The sentiment was somebody else's.



 

Our Man in the Details

 

would like to say something both pure
            and purely distant

but everything new here
                      this new year,
                      each week, each second,
                      is so pressed

like firemen against Him,
like midnight against the moon,
like a jawbone versus an army…

Thus, this pharmacy is closed until further notice.
                                                            Dear God,
           
He writes,
                      talking to Himself,

How will SonicYouth make another hit record?
                      And what could “another” here possibly mean?

         White frozen flower buds.

                             Pointy droopy leaves.

The contradictions between what is and what is
                                                                       are endless,

not to mention all the memories that don’t make any sense.

Who ate the cake at the heart of His wedding?
Who burned down the doghouse to make it a mansion?

If only He
                      had an employee
                                                    to work his funny angles.

Angels. 

If only He could call his own gunshots.