Matthew Schmidt


Commission the Self

The act believes its outcome. A consequence produces headlines.
I wear an incendiary device [about my midsection].
On the east [end of a street]:
cul-de-sac [with central cacti]
lives the man [whom I have not forgiven]
and wife [I do not know] his
child bangs a xylophone [colored keys].
I look her face a ribbon [in, is]
day’s close [the] [tickertape damage]
invest [-ment, bank on]
[I, lost, my,] [ , ]
How to explain [to get it right] [to formulate reason]
without [words]
the lack of [accountability] [savings]
choice [left].
[Is it a question of ethics
or does pride decide my action?] 

Animal of Vowels
A man [   ] the [   ] [   ] for [   ].
Treehouse over [   ] he [   ] [   ] leans the [   ] [   ].
A man on the west end [   ] a [   ] set for his [   ].
The circular [   ] is put [   ] in the [   ]. 
A man on the west end of town switches the engine [   ] [   ]. 
Have the yellow pages lost [   ] to [   ] [   ] of the network?
A man. A man. A man. [   ] man. He, the man. He [   ] and [   ]. 
To flip pages in the aftermath of [  ]. 
A mammal upon an eastern ridge surveys the city1 . 
The son finds a train in the den, his father switching tracks, an elaborate [ 2  ] 
beneath the track which elevates the engine’s propulsion. 
A man3  [   ] [   ] [   ] [   ] [   ] [   ] [   ].
The baboon and boy become [   ]. It is beautiful. It is so, so [   ]. 
____________________
1  Cute, cute mammal.
2 Can’t it be a baboon even though, even though?
3  Cannot begin with anything.

  

Lovely Thistles 
A woman on the north side of town writes a letter to her future.
Dear Future [ 4  ],
A woman on the north side of town writes a better song. 
Love song with hounds5. 
A woman on the north side of town shakes at the skipping record. 
So silent, the static. Needle. Needless, the sound stuck in the larynx of the insect, 
syrinx of the bird. Outside a child parabola swings. At the apex a grocery in view. 
Lettuce. Tomato. The concoctions of time. [   ]6 
A woman on the north side of town wrings her dish rag, throws it down. 
She leaves the house and walks. She doesn’t stop. She doesn’t stop.

____________________
⁴ Tea pot; hayrack ride; twins.
⁵ She hasn’t listened to Elvis since she was fifteen. This doesn’t register with her as she composes—not the melody or lyrics. However, in the years that follow its release, there will be much naysaying and copyright lawsuits and borderline threats. The woman won’t let it bother her; she knows there was no ill intent to will The King into her song. It just happened. Like anything: an accident, a hint of nostalgia, her parents’ loves. It wasn’t intentional, she’ll tell many media outlets. We live, we only live.
⁶ It’s the usual expert opinion which defines the concoctions which last. Would we need guides or cookbooks, ‘how-to’s’ and instructions if it weren’t so? The BLT is such a usual sandwich, yet there are few expert preparers except her mother. Circumstances also warrant considering the idea that this meal often asks consumers create their own sandwich with available materials. This could be a rabbit hole if allowed, for the bread is likely not homemade, and factoring in the amount of human and machine effort involved in a purchased loaf provokes further thought on origin, makeup, manufacturer, etc. The same warren with offshoot tunnels may branch toward husbandry (swine) and cultivation (lettuce). By this point, one may wish not to make a sandwich which isn’t really that easy in the first place, but necessitates an inquest difficult to complete satisfactorily. All of this to question opinions and experts vis-a-vis health and bodily intake.



Hours Weren’t Told When

1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

He’s riding his moped, an operation of feeling. Wind in the actual and created space; a vacuum thrill. A certain ease of transport and parking, certain danger. So when the sun is low, the visor down to block said, and no helmet is aboard, are there simple risks? Yes, he’s testing his skill as a motorist, luck if he believes, there are ruts. Have you seen the open maw of a cockatoo? Eyebrows cloaked in sunglasses and punchy t-shirt. He pretends a flag is a message. Prods angular motion where data originates. Math problems present an algorithm to solve for. If he knows how to substitute and separate, parse the inexplicable scratches from subliminal measures he’ll speculate accurately to the decimal. Those points of release upon recognition, they’re his omnivorous desire. Haven’t mothers been teaching patience and practice? Online he finds a conjecture: d_{n}^{k} = |d_{n+1}^{k-1}-d_{n}^{k-1}|. He can’t conjure aptitude. His shaking palms impossible. Two-wheels on an incline, impractical armrests. Mother was adamant in daylight. He dipped the dregs of night. Mind, the effigy, priority in perspective; he sees letters jumbling as an incident occurs. It can’t be solved; d and k and n. Mothers try computing damage. His body a decision. How can letters affect an equation equal to us all? Remembrances follow footfalls of ownership. His childhood room with model airplanes. His requisite soda in the refrigerator. That stain on the ceiling when some sticky ball he acquired stuck. Fishing it down proved frustrating. She can’t prevent the sun from burning. To bury something. Can we dig as well as trust? The game decides outcomes on principles beyond rule following. Permutations of domino set-up involve aggressive organization. To fall appropriately, she must execute the mission calmly, make space matter again. A picture of him on his birthday. She can’t stop looking at his exuberant face. When one fall leads to another which surface faces the sun? She listens to the clack of tiles, imagines the pips plotted on a map. She creates color and space to grip her flesh.

Hours Weren’t Told When

1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

He’s riding his moped, an operation of feeling. Wind in the actual and created space; a vacuum thrill. A certain ease of transport and parking, certain danger. So when the sun is low, the visor down to block said, and no helmet is aboard, are there simple risks? Yes, he’s testing his skill as a motorist, luck if he believes, there are ruts. Have you seen the open maw of a cockatoo? Eyebrows cloaked in sunglasses and punchy t-shirt. He pretends a flag is a message. Prods angular motion where data originates. Math problems present an algorithm to solve for. If he knows how to substitute and separate, parse the inexplicable scratches from subliminal measures he’ll speculate accurately to the decimal. Those points of release upon recognition, they’re his omnivorous desire. Haven’t mothers been teaching patience and practice? Online he finds a conjecture: d_{n}^{k} = |d_{n+1}^{k-1}-d_{n}^{k-1}|. He can’t conjure aptitude. His shaking palms impossible. Two-wheels on an incline, impractical armrests. Mother was adamant in daylight. He dipped the dregs of night. Mind, the effigy, priority in perspective; he sees letters jumbling as an incident occurs. It can’t be solved; d and k and n. Mothers try computing damage. His body a decision. How can letters affect an equation equal to us all? Remembrances follow footfalls of ownership. His childhood room with model airplanes. His requisite soda in the refrigerator. That stain on the ceiling when some sticky ball he acquired stuck. Fishing it down proved frustrating. She can’t prevent the sun from burning. To bury something. Can we dig as well as trust? The game decides outcomes on principles beyond rule following. Permutations of domino set-up involve aggressive organization. To fall appropriately, she must execute the mission calmly, make space matter again. A picture of him on his birthday. She can’t stop looking at his exuberant face. When one fall leads to another which surface faces the sun? She listens to the clack of tiles, imagines the pips plotted on a map. She creates color and space to grip her flesh.

Matthew Schmidt’s poems have been published or are forthcoming in Hobart, Pleiades, The Seattle Review, Territory, and elsewhere. He is an associate poetry editor at Fairy Tale Review.
 
 
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