I could’ve sworn there was something I needed to tell you

but now I only feel my face and neck burning

in the tumult of a bright sunlit afternoon

I’m wearing a t-shirt and jeans, not a suit and tie,

and nobody seems to care that it’s green-y late April,

            all of them sleeping through my lecture on Spring

That’s also when I realize that the motorcycle cop, up fast                                                            behind me on my way to work this morning, was a bad

omen     After that, even James Schuyler couldn’t save the day

“His poems,” I said, “are beautiful and shy, full as my eyes

            are full of dogwood blossoms and fog-radio voices

not catalytic converters and omelets for breakfast (when simple

            scrambled eggs will do)”     “In a dream, I loved a girl,

but she exploded,” said my friend Scott Dennis, “over

and over     It was all very innocent, but how distraught

            it made me”     I have a feeling, and this is me again

speaking in the present, that I’m failing vividly, or I’m not enough

revelated, or I’m just not     The gloom inside me hits

the sidewalk, as the shit hits the firmament (and sticks there)

I’m no ostrich     I can take a punch     Mine is only one vision

of paradise tossed, a kind of asthmatic misery, a kind

of aesthetic grimace-ry     Welcome forbearance to the treehouse

            of my disappearance, my delight in substance, my

barrel of walls     When my wallet falls out of my pocket,

I have (I realize suddenly) a million and a half things to lose

            but not one of them is money, not one

of them matters in the eyes of the world—I mean, that is, if

            the world even has eyes, which it doesn’t, or if

the world has a clue, which it never will, and by the world, there,

I almost mean God     Dear sir, I have a question, Do I sadden

myself, or is it You in charge     Among the bad

dreams of exploding true loves and bad omens of lawmen

            and amid reports of another teenager missing

in Florida, another car bomb in Baghdad, these words,

a fragile construction, may in fact collapse on my head

            at any minute     For Christ’s sake, somebody

            give us a break      it’s Spring

*

Elephant

That the elephant’s upon me is no accident.

I’ve been wishing this big game on myself

for a long time, reinforcing the floors,

marking clearly the exits.  So come on out,

Loxodonta africana/ Elephas maximus,

I know you’re in here.  What is it you want

to talk about?  Ponderous participles, clumsy

quotations? I’ve been putting you off for weeks,

but now you’re too much?  Let the games begin.

I’ve already told you I’m terrible at anything

that involves strategic thinking.  But did you know

that in the Chinese version of chess there’s a game-piece

modeled on you?  I can’t remember whether

it’s the knight or the rook, but sometimes it runs amok

across the board trampling everyone, including

the royal family and the human cannonball.

Anyway, I’m sorry.  You’d be better off playing

the poachers.  At least they engage the text and con-

jugate correctly.  If you want to find them

they’re over in that white space just off to the left.

Today they’re disguised as crows, tomorrow

gazelles or delirium tremens.  People say elephants

never forget—is this true?  I don’t forget much either,

and I believe everything I hear, to boot.  But with you

is remembering always knowing how to walk tail-in-trunk

with your fellows in a circle, or do specific instances

pop uncontrollably into your head, like having giant

ears as a kid and being called Dumbo, or

the night your mother sacrificed herself

so that you could escape from the fire?  Hey, Elephant,

are you still with me?  You might as well keep

staying at my place.  At least here you’re safe

from predators, and no poacher, even out of his mind,

would expect to find you living in a row house

in inner city Ohio.  You like it here don’t you?

With your view of the skyline.  With your tusks

in their place.  Elephant, my little secret, you aren’t

even pink.  Thank you for coming to my party.

*

To the People Who Know Me Better, Let Me Say in My Defense

I am of the mind

and then

sadly insufficient.

I am of the gut

and then glued

to a wall.  Or

plastered

like news

to the bottom

of a birdcage,

I am the shadows

of things in space.

There are

no more birds.

The sky

is a big holy

mouth.

I am

of the testicles.

As a result

something

swims for its life

and expires.

But before that

it cries

in a garden

under water.

Everywhere

there are other

crying, swimming

things

and beautiful

flowers,

simmering.

There are

no more birds.

My bone

has some meat

on it. The dog

dotes.  The cat

takes a bath.

She is what

I call Disinterested.

Disinterested,

come and get it.

Disinterested,

have a treat.

The ball-

of-yarn cliché

is Disinterested’s

favorite.

I am my own

dish rag.

I am my own

bent spoon.

I am of the nostrils

and as a result

often

get sucked

into mazes.

Monsters

attack me,

and always

it amazes,

but always

I prevail,

for I am of

Disinterested’s

ball-of-confusion cliché,

and I do creep.

For I can swim

against

the wood

grain, for I

can cry

myself

to exhaustion

under the stars,

and, fact

of all facts,

for I have done

nothing wrong.

I am

of the bed sheets,

the rabbit hole,

the sewer hole,

the Epsom Salts.

My bones

become the dogs

of disinterest.

Two blue

feathers

are all

I have left.

When I hurt

it’s bad,

but when

my love hurts

it’s worse, almost

a hearse-hurt.

I take

a new breath

and give it

to her.

She would

do the same

for me.

In this way,

we rely

on one another.

But in other ways,

we are

of the difference.

Sometimes

between us

there is friction

in the kitchen,

and thus

we roast

a sea bass

or thus

we cook

a stew.

Sometimes

we make our

friction

into what

she said

and what

I didn’t say.

Always

there are words:

I am of the heart,

the kind with wings,

the inefficient

splattered kind,

the heart

with its agenda

bringing

prescriptions

to the world,

the heart

with its notions

about new kinds

of birds

and yanking

those wisdom teeth

out.

I am of the toy chest,

treasure chest,

amplifier,

ear drum…

Listen.

Okay.

I have a key

to a door

in the Bahamas.

I have a makeshift

water lily

in a glass.

You can

look at my chassis

and I will look

at your under carriage,

and everything

will be alright.

Everybody needs

adjustment sometimes:

Twist these hairs

for lightning.

Tighten this

hinge

for love.

In the end—

is it the end?

I am of the sincerest

apologies

and best wishes

always,

also pronouncements

unbelievable and long

and disagreeables

living in the same

parking lot,

like a litter

of squirmy

new kittens

and a hearse.

Disinterested

isn’t a fan

of my kittens,

but I will defend

them at all costs.

For I am of the mind

that belief

is better

than the heavy

truth of cream—

and then I change

my mind.

I am of a new sort,

one that hasn’t even

been invented yet,

one that will cover

the dance floor

and one

that will sing

in the surf.

I am pleading

with the surf

to respond in kind.

I am pleading

with the dance floor

to commit.

In the end—

is it the end?

No, it’s only

the sentimental

fadeout,

and I am very new

to this sort

of demonstration—

how to dust a landscape,

how to build a q-tip.

how to be

of the world outside

and also of this one

I found in a drawer.

You who know better,

know more,

how to do this

correctly,

and how to undo it

perfectly,

how to go

about it

in history,

what measures to take.

Write me

about anything.

The sky is full of words.

I am awaiting

your reply.

**

Matt Hart is a co-founder and editor of Forklift Ohio: A Journal of Poetry, Cooking, & Light Industrial Safety. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Butcher Shop, The Canary, and Ploughshares, among other journals, and can be seen in such online journals as Diagram, H_NGM_N, and Typo. A chapbook of his work, Revelated, was just published this Fall by Hollyridge Press. His first full-length book of poems, Who's Who Vivid, is forthcoming from Slope Editions. He teaches writing and aesthetics at the Art Academy of Cincinnati.

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