Matthew Johnstone


Selections from I'm sorry, about Baseball

"... there are many figures in this
scene which might form different
scenes ..."

                — Lyn Hejinian

"... Without the solids of bodies
There is no geometry,
Who acknowledge space—moving
Know as many dimensions
                                             as they have muscles..."

                — Louis Zukofsky

 Play    in      the   newspaper   humidity,    
 let's      go     keep     the        sky    blue
 Or   squeeze   its    shadow   into  a   quarry,
 Throw  the  rose   water     near      grace,
 mote  in   the    sun        again,      clean   
 brick     ambient   high 
 the  fireflies  out,  catcher  mitt  glad, 
 bridge  on,  no  incantations  
 Nothing  subterranean.
 

 Hollowed,    by    coyote  attack
 almost   secondary       a   cap   shows 
 allegiance   from     a   long    way    off
 Swing  away,        noiseless 
 men,         dream     as     peripheral  reapers
 without    drone,         up
 again,   up   up,     gather    your     dull
 fragments,    sometimes    living   in  the 
 scoreboard  
 the   unselfish   days   are   past  fear.


 Beneath  these    towering   
 poles        yellow   law,     defining    
 a      protected      yard,     Good  shapes   allow   no    
 sentimentality,      only        symmetry
 We  are    so     close   to
 the      sea   hitting   for   it    is     everything
 Become   shapes,     huddled   my    men      inward,
 collectors    of   the   pitcher's   only   apple
 Rats   all    in    this     crooked   orchard   for   an
 opening  day     moon.


 Flashing    splits   so   little  is   
 left      is    why    groups    of    men  call   
 themselves     wolves  or
 giants     or   the      souls    of    animals    from    the   sea,
 Why    with  you     I    don't     brush  the  
 moths    away,       Don't     move     an    inch,   child 
 in   the    starch   in   the   uniform.

 Masks      away,        these   bayish    young       
 seem      endless,     each    a    new  sense    
 of      dominance,       no   wait  for     the   organs    move  
 you,    No   man   bigger  than   the   stadium.


 Seriousness  of   jaw,     forth      the  
 colors   represent   city    stripped   of 
 provenance,    Why    you     have    no   house, 
 then     move     like     common    burglars,
 you        traded,      for  
 oil  drums
 My    bones     chewed     tin   flat
 still    us      carrying   a      stick,   
 wind      the           origin    of    being,  
 at  the    very  least         these   
 hollow   bones       cut      wildly. 


 Moth    like  snow   tangled   a  
 head   thrown    well,   
 play    correctly,       see      field's  
 utility   in   the    single   division   of    green,
 each   insulated   orbit,       Smile    
 at  work    not       any   bright    ghost   town        
 is    followed,       noise     breaking   
 does        not    break  by  itself,   
 moving   like   blood    in   your    own   body.

 Our      avenue    of  trim  officers   
 for   chant              re-enactments,   
 dissolves    every   false      siren. 

Matthew Johnstone studied poetry at the University of California, Santa Cruz. His writing has appeared, or is soon out, in Moria, SHAMPOO and Anemone Sidecar. His first collection of poems, Let's be close Rope to mast, you Old light is forthcoming from Blue & Yellow Dog Press. He currently lives in San Francisco, and sometimes blogs at he mouths me wrong.
 
 
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