LIGHT-HEADED by Matt Hart Book Preview

7/31/2019 LIGHT-HEADED by Matt Hart Book Preview

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LIGHT-HEADED

Matt Hart

BlazeVOX [books]Buffalo, New York


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LIGHT-HEADED by Matt Hart

Copyright 2010Published by BlazeVOX [books]

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproducedwithout the publishers written permission, except for briefquotations in reviews.

Printed in the United States of America

Book design by Geoffrey GatzaCover art by Ken HensonPrinter's ornament by Eric ApplebyFirst EditionISBN: 978-1-60964-013-2Library of Congress Control Number 2010907778

BlazeVOX [books]303 Bedford AveBuffalo, NY 14216

[email protected]

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13

WAKING FIT

At random in our bodies,this backyard swimming;

the blue water blue in relation

to the heavens, which echo

without being, and so blown

out of proportion. Our time

on this planet is a baseball bat,a hollowed-out log, the scaffolding

of a ballerinaall very different

thingsthough all of them hits.

And now I am brittle with thingness,

with coming to conclusions

and forgetting all existence: the couch

in the dark, being on it.

Epistemology irks me, so I swim

in not knowing, even in the clearing

and the clearly where it hurts me,the suffering of ever more

miniscule beings: the hawk flying

into the buildingand I dont mean


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inside, I mean into the perimeter, glass

shatter, stupid pigeon! Plug inand proceed through each

statements truth value: once again

mistaken for small children at the zoo,

maybe this is autobiographical.

Or maybe its you hauled out

of the drinking, alphabet

gasping in a sunlight of buttertoo much

amplifier as I tickle my daughter

Nobody gets away from anguish.

The question is always

what to do with ones hands.


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16

SONNET

1.

This plunked-down, this fire in the hole.

Evan calls from Clay, and I should answer.

The roses in their starry loam.

Who can tell what tomorrow will throw up

upon us like a vomiting dog or baby?

A hawk carrying a squirrel eye-levelthrough the air. This first attempt at nomen-

Clatter at moving the heavens around

Or packing them up in a box of clean

Faces like sheets in the early morning.

This is all I haveperhaps all Ill ever have.

Light-weight sure, but these are mypoems,

which really are like the poems of so many

others. Once I knew a doctor. Is it broken?


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2.

But of course, it isnt nearly near enough

not Leda and the Swan in Jane Carversbathtub, not my spine is a shipwreck,

but beautiful anyway and to taste.

What else really can be particularly,

accurately stated other than my love for you

and you and you and postage stamps?

The end of the road by the mailbox

beneath the sad and gnarled maple tree,the hawk I keep seeing and its mate

swooping down and down and down, shredding

a rodent, only to return to its nest in the spires

Of Cincinnati. O Nature, or big God swooning,

this time Ill be the pleasure, the music.


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3.

Light-weight sure, but these are mypoems.

A lot we talk about Sara and Californianotdreaming, but rather the real thing, the beauty

and heat of it. The hawks in her hair, the love

of Apollinaire, and somebody comes across

the dazzling dance floor dazzling, speaking

in a breathy voice as if speaking of ghosts

in Italian. Right through that door downstairs

my friends mother undid herself, I mean,she died. Thank goodness for all the life

as an antidote around us, and California

that faraway place like a golden shipwreck

waiting to fall into the sea or ascend to the

marvels of the cloud-b(l)ank (fill-in) the sky.


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4.

The end of the road by the mailbox

And the hawk swooping down, down and down.My friend Brett says, rhinoceros, and the world

claps its dainty hands together, because the world

is a girl and full-flowing atop the mountain

he has made in his mind. I find there any number

of good things gooder. O Nature, you time bomb,

which is to say, the seasons thus exploded

blow up our clocks and everybody ducks for coveror dons a fur bathing suit, or mindful-full

bright bellies of stars. All of it stolen (lovingly)

from the mouths of babiesand certainly Brett

doesnt mean babies, he means rhinoceros,

or dances his ass off with charm. The world

is a boy or a girl.


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5.

My dream a dream of Evans three oranges,

of falling asleep in the kings deep ear.What airy passage the music makes here

and what fallen fruit is it singing?

A cloud, a furnace, a burning balloon.

I mention West Hollywood, a coal mine

explosion. Somewhere out there, Darcie

Apocalypse, a name writ large on the fist

of my heart, is teaching high schoolto the geniuses of our age. And why not?

Even geniuses need to be taught about Beauty

and Vision and the way things connect

in spite of themselves. And us in our basements

so sleeping like babies. Slowly she says it,

rhi-no-cer-os.


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6.

Read thee again thosesonnets. Copy

and copy as hard as you can. So thinkingmore and more about Bewilderment, man.

His poems of hilarious spirit and jive, man

which is not at all light-weight, but necessary,

grave as the bottom of a boat which is see-through,

and thus, like the very best dress youve ever witnessed

in the world, which is a girl and darkness. But when

Bewilderment shows up with a bundle of daisiesand a bottle of wine and wants to cook shrimp

risotto, you let him become the king of shrimp

risotto and your destiny, and you do what he tells you

like chopping green onions or crossing out

the unnecessary final sentence because


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7.

Melanie drop-gorgeous, pregnant with pauses.

Light-weight sure, but these are mypoems.I have a hangover the size of your typist.

I have a dream of three oranges

A metal detector

A burst of young blood in my morning of frost.

O dear secretary call me a cab; I need to go

forthwith to Paradise Lost. I need to consider

my pocket discourses: this one on Kindnessand this one on Verve, this one on Corso,

the Roses of Shelley, Roses of Sharon.

And this one of hawks beating-off on my car.

How far will I go to become the next dagger?

Who will co-sign for this loan on my soul?


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8.

Light-headed blue, the color of poems.

My fits dont fit the celebrity ball.Hippopotamus pin cushion, unnecessary

sentence Hawks in her hair, the love

of Apollinaire eye-level squirrel breaking

in and breaking up. Falling fine is hard to do.

Wills on the roof, like Spiderman, dammit!

comes down to say I dont know you

but so happy I could cry I often doThat faraway place like a golden shipwreck

My friends mother A dream of three oranges

Clatter at moving the heavens around

Or packing them up in a box of clean

Good things gooder Leda and the Swan


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9.

Go to hell wicked witches go to hell.

What I really think: Im stupid not vicious.Under the viscous streetlamps I walk,

head up and quickly to my destination

Roadblock. When my friends arrive,

Im dancing with a squirrel being torn apart

by life. Saving me, and thus My wife so sweet

shes an orange. My friends so dear

theyre in trouble sentimental. But forget it:every daytheyre okay. The real issue here

is one of fear and fraidiness on the part

of a certain, gin and tonic contingent. Unlucky

familiar, what do you think? Pick any number

between 12 and 14. Go to hell wicked witches

go to hell.


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10.

Listening to a plane crash. Friday night

wine flightPinot Noir, 2004. Pepperwooddarling

How is your heart? I have no idea. To me

it smacks of wine. California purple.

And suddenly, there she is again,

hawks in her air I know nothing anymore

and Long live man! You fucking posers.

Tell me I dont have a shadow.I double-dog dare you. All the lights

are out. I know how to kick. The best

of all possible worlds is here somewhere,

I can feel it on my lips, and also in

trying to break my heart in a movie.

What I really think: Im stupid, not viscous.


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11.

Bare with me Truth. Exhortative light.

This plunked-down, just one long breath.Mary Anne paints shoes in a long flowering line.

Boom! says Captain Mike. America. Albino

rhododendron. And this week the President said

muckety-muck. None of us were happy. I thought

it sucked. Even politicians need beauty, I sing.

Look in the couch. Look in the soldier. Look

in the shipwreck still sleeping the sky. Why on earthMy wife so sweet and friends so dear.

The fiends leave pamphlets tween our glasses

and doors. No wonder we do our share

of drunk-drinking against them. That soldier

at the turning point is already dead.


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12.

Mike Vallera Mike Vallera.

Red Stripe Lager. Hippopotamus jumble.You call from Chicago and I should listen.

Its snowing. Sounds like a hawk

made of paper on a string. The moon

and stars. California dreaming

Christopher Columbus: Nina, Pinta, Santa

Maria. With any luck well see each other

in a new world soon. By new worldI think I mean better. My advice is this:

Love thy neighbor. It wasnt my idea

just a beautiful sonata. Whatever you do

Leda and the Swan. Think sappy thoughts.

Make pancakes for breakfast every morning.


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13.

Introducing Language Little late

little never. I cant think of anythingmore beautiful than silence. Light-

weight sure As ever, rhinoceros.

My friend Merrill says Bike New York!

and then nothing (which is everything) happens.

Box of clean Faces like sheets Ghosts

and Mote, a song by Sonic Youth.

Id say everythings coming together, dancinglike three oranges on the head of a pin.

The world is a girl, or a boy and a girl.

One long breath. Mike Vallera. Blues

and the dawn of a new Captain Marvel, America.

This plunked-down, this holy I know you


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14.

This week the President Exhortative light.

A hawk shreds a squirrel in the backyard,the meadow. I feel as though Metal detector

Is it broken? The hawks The love.

Whos against me, besides everybody?

Not impressed? Geniuses our age.

Fucking posers. Gin and tonic contingent. Who

asked you for your vicious? Who came down

from your mount? Sleeping like babiesThose unruly sonnets. Evan calls from Clay

I should call back The roses My wife so dear.

Love thy neighbor. I mention California

but these are mypoems. Here in Ohio its sunny

and cold. Look in the soldier. Think sappy thoughts.

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LIGHT-HEADED by Matt Hart Book Preview