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September 2, 2010The Arsenal Building, Central ParkNew York, NYFrom the Academy Audio Archive

Electron Face

Matt Hart
It's true that two hummingbirds singing
in exactly the same pitch
can shatter the blackest of mountains.
But it's also true that the missiles
in those mountains can shatter
a hummingbird to pieces of hummingbird.
The end. But this curled mess of black
yarn, this series of concrete barrier
entanglements, means that we have to be ready
for no matter what, for whatever
might befall us—hummingbirds, missiles,
those drugged-out runway models. I'm telling you
man, we know each other like we know
the ghost knowing each other,
and I'm so fucking grateful
I could fly a kite about it:
this terrifying state of the seasons,
this half-baked smell of church.
I lurch forward to go backward,
awkward to go on the record. I just can't
get over those blues at the window.
And the tiny bit of yellow, like cats' teeth
spitting sparks. How lucky we are to have light,
how marvelous to scribble over fate.
The reason it's good to have faith
is the reason for everything good.

From WOLF FACE, published by H_NGM_N Books. Copyright © 2012 by Matt Hart. Reprinted with permission of the author.

From WOLF FACE, published by H_NGM_N Books. Copyright © 2012 by Matt Hart. Reprinted with permission of the author.

Matt Hart

by this poet

poem
I had a girl, I named her soap.
I had a soap, I named her cat.
One day I played the accordion on paper,
and it sounded like a birth certificate
drifting into the sun, a disintegration station
in a vast bewildered wilderness—
which sounds like a slide whistle at first
but later like the back porch flytrap I named
poem
nothing and nothing
gets by you, but I get
so distracted
that my notice
has been put on notice
for birds and for traffic
For instance,
the constant
slap of the sound
of waves
against gutters
gets by me
Grass stain on my hands
from falling down
at the hospital
gets by me     Physics
Sequined dresses
The Olympics
poem
Today a rainstorm caught me
and I still have not recovered
myself with drier blankets
The brown leaves blowing
off the trees, squirrels
and robins cheering them on, but not

cheering me     And anxiousness has an owl
by the throat, has me pill-popped up
to Heaven Hill, head spinning one hundred eighty
degrees,