Sunday, February 1, 2009

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.


The streets
are filled with

so are
the people
where are
the people

From morning
to morning
considers me
part of
to which
I respond
with a
shrug of the
antennae I
had installed
on my head
to receive
tv broadcasts

That they
serve as
a conversation
starter is
an added

I've yet
to take
advantage of

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