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
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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