Country Music
an online journal of poetry
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Matt Hart



Dear D. Boon, the 80s passed me by     So too
the 90s and the Zero Boys' prescriptions     I'm still
playing the records the records the records, 33 and 1/3
My mind in a Vorticist's difficult light     What does that mean,
and why say it, it's confusing     Sorry so sorry
dead shepherd not amusing      The aforementioned dump
truck      Third time's a charm      I say a little wish on you
who hover in the darkness      All I know is this:
the spot where you got hit      The stars break a sweat
all to figure human beings      Might as well
load up and beat the streets for nowhere special, and yet
this burn's so impossibly beautiful and long      That's why
I can't stop proliferating nonsense and love      The angles
of the bass in a Minutemen song      "Twinkle twinkle
blah blah blah"      Maybe this is only of emphatic
punctuation, or maybe it's more than the surgeon
ever wonders why somebody's body doesn't
up and walk away from the battlefield moment
Tiny pieces of shrapnel splatter more than a pumpkin
I stand for language and it tells me, Sit down      I know
it's super jumpy, this moment in the hedges      So much
wrapped up in this flood of flood-lightning      I'll gladly pay
more taxes if our kids can go to college      I have
a funny feeling we should help each other out
Also that greed should be regulated thusly:
take more than your share: your life
in your hands