MATTHEW GUENETTE


DIS(RE)COVERY

You seam my pleasure
at the governor’s
extraordinary
show of short-sight.
You are family feud’s
fast money, the wager
life lies or lies
before you like a path
of driven snow.
You Hank like Williams.
Johnny like Cash.
Kiss like kissing.
Your eyes I agency,
entanglements,
forgetting the kids
to write their names.
You are what the telescope
regards regardless
of Inquisitions.
You are a run of questions.
Why do you drop?
Why do you drop cannonballs?
Why do you drop cannonballs
of differing mass
from a tower of invisible
ink?  Your tremor
totems.  Your three days rain
scrubs the shoot until:
Have you killed each other lately?
Your occurrence whirrs.
Your wowzers wowze.
Your strip-malls gather
like perverts
perverting the gathering.
You are the embalmer’s
out-of-body-experience.
Omnivorous to onager.  Scanty
to scapegoat.  Unweary
to unwedded as birds scatter
from the roof,
the half-life lingers,
a man speaking broken English
tries to explain while another
says Como se dice
my pants?

You tumble down
stairs like a practical joke.
Your are: Next, name an article
of clothing some women wear
as tight as possible.
Name a profession in Vegas
that makes good tips.

Her toes curling with pleasure.
His theories experimenting.
How can you tell
an extroverted Finn?
When he talks, he looks at
your feet instead of his.

Your bridle lifts.  You commiserate
maniacs. You are the ballots
uncounted in the moment
stolen as the retina
heats to a clairvoyant flash. Loop
holed.  Whale watched.
The writing that happens
while drinking that happens
though not necessarily
in that order.  You are God’s face,
broods the minister.
You are not around. The blight-
shriveled buds. The diary
vampires. The bad moon
the dude blames the chick for,
the chick blames the snake,
though we know everyone was naked
at the bust.  Over
the fruiting bodies burst,
he kisses her neck like evidence.
It doesn’t take a genius
to see the world’s problems.  The word
problems. Your Knocked up
on Notting Hill.  Your S =
10 + B.  Your sounding
by sounds method of sounding.
How many Finns does it take?
Six?  Seven?  One
to hold the bulb, the rest
to drink enough vodka to spin the room.

You are the room.
The spinning until quantums
particle, Saints Augustine,
Neptune Plutos, lights
distant on the printless verdure
as a photogenic mother
dies in a freak accident (picnic, lightning).
People ask should we pray, your radio
playing: This is for all the strippers
cause I know they gonna bump it!

Your drive-by doctors
& barefoot truckers, your containers
& rates of diffusion,
the anvil hammering the stirrup
in my ears until you vibrate
like Nebraska. The stranger
who smiles & what the other assumes,
that a) he’s drunk
b) insane
c) an American
d) all of the above.  I’ve hardly been
outside for weeks.
You say we need a length of wire
with alligator clips on each end.
That we can always cut it
shorter.  Time preventing everything
from happening at once
even as you happen
to everything at once.  Even Chuck Norris.
Even Des Moines. The ecosystem
in a lover’s brain. Kate
in the taxi. Monks in the garden.  Two Finns
in the wilderness drunk for weeks
where winter is the polar bear’s
funhole.  Listen, one says to the other.
I know this might sound
a little crazy.

 
 
 
 
TIME KEEPING

That dusk poppies & furrows, that ubiquity
is mortar, that that is a gumption
& lovely. I am stubbornness like flowerpots,
theoretical as angels.  I’ll caulk
your stardom kitchen if you floss
my wailing mantis.  I’ll white-space
to your whispers if you theft sunlight
to my causeways.  The numbed underwriters
grieve us our mazes.  Amazed, we season
& seethe.  Seashore & eyeglass.
Allegorical as melons.  We find
in translation our findings untranslate.
We allege like ampersands.  What themes
you glimpse of yourself are selves, swooped
up & down-poured, furiously daffodiled.
 
 
 
 



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