Matt Cozart
The House To Myself
Twenty-three percent of all
horse-related accidents
occur in real time
to give you a realistic feel
of how it all goes down;
if you're lucky, sophistry
will oil you up, casting doubts
on your ability to lead.
Similarly, if I had a head
for every mouthpiece
who ever knocked on
my door, I'd never stop
blowing. Intimacy is out now
digitally, and will be
released later physically.
Troubling Developments At The Lodge
Someday I'd like to fantasize
about attaching words to Tesla coils
as if something could be
accomplished by doing so.
But my understanding
of Tesla coils
is poor. I skipped that class
and all others
in order to attend various festivals.
Tonight, I am waiting to be reborn
as a column of steam
trapped inside a pipe
that is not a pipe.
A Public Forum
A public forum is what I call my apartment
All I want in life is for people to like me
And move between rooms
As I manipulate objects
Basically I'm a slow-moving salad
Eating is a sad activity
Every movement is precise and deliberate
I go around
Made by work into a sleep machine
Notions any less slight would be uncomfortable
Of heavy flotationThe iPhone is a thing
These are things I say to myself occasionally
To talk about in a public forum
With only the slightest notions
Guy In Landscape
Ice melted in my head
into something I felt
like calling McDonald's
but I didn't know why.
Perhaps I have a gift
for hydrology. Perhaps hydrology
has a gift for me. Perhaps
hydrology and I are each
other's Secret Santa.
Military Santa, Fireman Santa,
Baseball Player Santa—there
are many Santas, but none
wise enough to have foreseen
the already dated topical
reference at the end
of this poem: Enron.
Transmissions
The streets
are filled with
streets
so are
the people
where are
the people
From morning
to morning
wildlife
considers me
part of
itself
to which
I respond
with a
shrug of the
antennae I
had installed
on my head
to receive
digital
tv broadcasts
That they
serve as
a conversation
starter is
an added
benefit
I've yet
to take
advantage of
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