Knock Knock Who's Left

Knuckleheaded jumble          The spring
comes, I get it           I leave, I get it         All the best
mouths of music, I get it     so I am in the yellow cake
and not sure what to make of it           The news is on,
and I am trying to tell all of you just a few
bastardly things and warn you, too, about
the demons and the monster-headed militias
Now I’m a bluebird three days in a row
I sound like Paul Revere in here, the boy
who cried           Code Orange Kids           But you should
really listen to the angel dust falling          The skinny jeans
of Icarus           Pay attention to the way
the hardcore and noise mix with the ambient
swoosh of pond water          I’m so sick of people my age—
especially when it’s me—saying people your age
don’t have anything to contribute to a better life
tomorrow          Well I’m here to tell you (whatever
age you are) most of us are wrong     I am
always wrong          Some of you do care,
but some of you are wilted rocks
The zombie apocalypse is already upon us
and has been at least since the postmodern debacle
blasted to pieces our affect, leaving us bereft and strategic,
rather than loving, a little bit tragic, people pouring people
in the streets like beer          That sounds stupid I know
and I fear, but I’m afraid of almost everything,
so now I’m forced to dream it           Islamists in Africa
North Korean plutonium      Chemical weapons     Biological
weapons          Violence against children, against men
against women          Violence spreading violence even into
the geraniums, the Bradford pears, the fucking
golden apples of antiquity, now a brand new fall of Troy
Militants and nuts keep stockpiling guns
Politicians beholden, don’t act in our interests
I can’t do a thing about any of it           What do I know
Mediocrity          Second tier poesy masquerading
as the bomb          Desire is a lifeline, but not
when we get greedy, not when it covers us
in sores and eruptions       Recently, a friend
observed my thing-to-thing-to-thingness, and wondered
out loud why I don’t dig deeper     I don’t dig deeper
because my bulldozer’s broken, and even if it wasn’t
what’s a lot more dirt, churned up to cover up
the costumes and the failure     I and you and all of us
It’s not very optimistic          I’m sorry           I need new glasses
joyfully            The ones I’m using now seem to only see
things terribly          That thing on the horizon isn’t Jesus
it’s a blade          And when our heads leave our bodies,
they’re not on a mission     They’re just a box of sleepy
hollows, baby-silly rabbits          Do you get it, the interference,
the lack of solutions          I can give you a hug
and even really mean it, if that’s what you want            my one
and only spark       But now that I’m a dying star
I’m making my last will and testament to swallow
everything in my path with an awful, grainy fleetness
All the guns and all the swans, and all the people hurting
Hacking and heaving and coughing up blood          I’ll be
a great omission, and no one will miss it          I get it          Do you
get it          People poor people, the whole stupid planet
This grave on my face looks alchemically ridiculous
You should laugh at the end of this sentence

Matt Hart