Matt Hart
AIR TRAFFIC CONTROL
I'm coming to the end of what I can imagine
life to be: a series of pratfalls, dinners with friends,
men who can't afford even five dollar dogs. In short,
whatever isn't all bad, isn't much good either, and
the pain is the thing that sticks with me. I guess this life,
like all jars, has its too slick sides, its bottom and lid.
Thus, every morning I wake up late, having spent
the whole night in the mines of my heart, and Melanie
has already been up for hours. Smell of coffee.
Sound of TV. And this morning there's a dead baby bird
on its side in the driveway. Don't say it's just nature;
it's sad. Why? The thing barely even got started,
yet struggled just the same from beginning to end. I saw it
happen. All afternoon yesterday, the mother bird flying
back and forth prodding and feeding it, calling it back
to the tree. Stupid little bird, I imagined her singing,
get up and fly like you mean it. No one can help you.
The cats are coming, etc. You are a tiny thing
in the shadow of a giant world. Pick yourself up,
or you will die there... But the bird was sick or hurt
from falling, and that was that. The mother was right—
as mothers mostly are—and the bird died in the night.
So the first thing I do is pick it up off the driveway
with a dustpan—though it's hardly dust—and then
place it under the reddish-pink flowers I don't know
the names of. I don't know the names of birds either.
And I don't say for it a eulogy. I just pitch it gently
under cover of those pretty things, and then
stand there a second thinking, poor little bird. I know
it's sentimental, but helplessness makes me sad,
as do also suffering and the ends of things—both,
it seems to me, relevant here. As such, I keep returning
to the beginning, which is right where I, and everyone,
started out, but also where we all keep hovering.
I'm not here to say that everything has to make sense.
On the contrary, I'd say most things have not to, so that
the order, or the Absolute, or whatever connects us,
can keep defying our logic, and also our souls
in the heavens/ the darkness—to cajole us into living
the best way we can.
EVERYTHING FALLS APARTDo not fall apart in this nervous system
everything spins itself into a ball
even the lobster fisherman even the theater
and rolls into the next world singing
its own praises knitting a flame-thrower
a flower a terrific new revolution called
brandishing the plastic mallard
twisting the maple into knots
Do not fall apart, your stomach is not
your stomach but a ready locomotive
whistling under your breath the star-
spangled badass meanwhile the clouds
spit nickels and groan there is a lot
to be sad about but even more to accel-
erate right through into the next line about
where any of a host of innumerable wonders
await the sparks zinging off your lips
in the darkness everybody wants to be
entertained so you think to start a fire
with that flame-thrower from line 5
you build a snowman and kiss him
to the depths of slush you yourself
turn to dust in a mob of tough love
villagers with torches and archers
with arrows aimed right at your heart
which is busting out of its panic room
and onto the dance floor even as you
speak or not it’s up to you your choice
why didn’t somebody tell you sooner
and then in spite of it all nothing much
happens or what does is not worth
mentioning fair enough it’s your love life
Do not fall apart in the department store
mannequins remain mannequins even
when the store is closed the only thing
as sad as a three-legged dog is a three-
legged dog or a sidekick to the face
out of nowhere when everything seemed
to be going so well and right on schedule
why would one do that another wants to ask
but doesn’t because he’s the one who just got kicked
his tongue’s a little tied at the moment
but why are you just standing there
slugging away at your tea
with an expression of utter density
like a halo around your mouth you are not
an angel a nebula a white dwarf
there is work to be done Do not fall apart
there are forces right now that want you
dead or worse etc. and which are
indifferent to you in your armor of caffeine
which is a falling apart agent which is
coming unglued at sunset and diving
deep into a cold lake hoping the pressure
will hold you together or break you
into gravel most gray and most grand
and most grave there it is there’s no escape
Do not fall apart right here and now
what may be will be but in the meantime
the lion is breathing its heated breath
down your back the clock is ticking
you have one or two chances to make it to the sky
and beyond that you lose sight entirely
get to work it’s all you’ve got
do not forget
|
|