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Matt Hart



Grasshopper under a fat black boot,

the reconsideration of all

beauty and truth    Or

beheaded somewhere faraway

warm as a biscuit


The only real questions are questions

of value     The nature of everything

so unnaturally anything    What if


all my loved ones were gone

in an instant     Think of all

the freedom I’d have

to make glow


My bloom-full horizon

brushing up against a wolf

His grey fur to my grey fur

We’d watch as the pieces fall to pieces







The weeds mostly pulse, but

some of them hum—and not

a melody familiar, but words

that aren’t words     The x-ray

delivers the bones that aren’t bones


Getting better at anything—

whether you can or you can’t—

requires wanting it more than anything,

more than wanting it very badly


Stuck green moth in the haze

of no future     Hostages

threatened with the ends

of the earth     You close

your eyes and watch the skeletons

of loved ones dancing with each other,


then collapse into leaves that you can’t tell

apart     At the vanishing point

is another vanishing point, but one where

you, too, are so much smaller

than you used to be     When you turn

to look behind you the vast is a frog,

and the rolling pin blackness

isn’t solved, it dissolves






Dog barking “Acetate,”

and the washing machine slurring

My words with best wishes

Good luck,

finding yourself or anyone else you can

really connect with deeply, since the images

images images

are surfaces surfaces surfaces, multiplying themselves

in the infinite

Google that shit

Your heart’s content


This afternoon

I’m reading the aftermath, so present tense,

and feeling ambivalent,

how I continue,

poetically nevertheless     Viet Cong, METZ,

and Samuel Taylor Coleridge


And that “Ode to a Mourning Dove” I’ve been writing,

Oo-Woo Oo Oo Oo,

which is an entirely different


and for which this poem will serve as a prequel,

assuming I finish it first, but first


A jet crashes

into a mountain on purpose

Self-proclaimed Islamic State

I get up and walk around to be empty,

thinking strings of awful things

Chlorine gas      Beheadings on a beach

So dumb, so brutal, so ruthless, so blissed



“What did the Lamb, that he should need,

When the Woolfe sinnes, himselfe to bleed?”

One of my best students makes napalm

as catharsis

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