Matt Turner

 

 

 

Reography

1. The facts: a damaged "hous-
e" in Cape
Cod
blown around
as if without parachute,
shingles
cozied across vacations into
wealth-hillsides;
vultures attack
broadcast
signal.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Closets
submerged in
a newer seaspectrum
floating
habitable un-
simple
Puritanis-m
deep into color, symptoms redecorating
finally timeless & still.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

If ranking goods
for lasting value deferred,
reject displays
of opulence, humble
material
democracies material efficient as
uses
large
arches
dead-in-the-water
taste like salt,
salt.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

This is the crablike
justice
crown mouldings
embrace-to-
death, period,
furnished with city-state
purges.  How does one secure
land rich in silt?

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The water-plants are not telescoped
through the garden
versus the sea, tries
a fierce country
for the bankruptcy
preserving
this
wilderness park this
front lawn sha-
pe
z
e
r
o
-sum
Civil War.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

2. All woolen coats worn out are
hanging from the 30-year-old
racks
indoors, inside
the heaving
condos
"x"-ed out by
a highway
still
breathing
banded
soot particles
loosened,
pasting
cracks
in the glass
between.
Could drop
from the clouds,
been mown
down, bowled
over
like every
discognate,
lines up –
gets
shot.  Hu Jintao: I wanted
the hair to be
cut short,
and then it would be clear
            everything that would work
                        and wouldn't.
Investors have
            been called
                        to lie down

 

 

 

 * * *

 

 

 

in my rooftop
            garden.  Nascent to
                        the fact
churning
            in
                        my
alotted
            life-
                        span.
            Out
                        of sight.
            From the image
                        so
            from the hand.
                        From
that a stunt Emersonite
            enough, this
                        flower
in error!  But what error
one rarely leaves,
            it heaves
                        along the
road, behind the palm
            trees swaying deathly
                        in hot pink
            to-be-fastened
                        upon the roof
planted another ground-level
            no walking "outdoors"
                        fling your golden
buttons on the ground.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

3. Back to the window.
Gore it.
Look at the bridge we exploded.
Disrupt your cellphone
splash around.

Back from the casinos.
An eye falls out.  Not afraid of the bomb.
No machine.

are the hands of a factory inspector,
not automata.
Swinging from the
It's New Year's Day, and corpses
awaken
in the photograph.
The bank is mine.

A guess would put it
at the foot of the mountain,
where we left the rest to die.
We dig them up
because we have to:
at the foot of the mountain.

The rugs on the floor are soaked with the sweat
of mammals sleeping.