m a t t h e w    s a v o c a

 

two hundredths of a beautiful woman


shovels


for the light there is my ear































two hundredths of a beautiful woman

 

understand youíre the man to see
about a shovel
when two hundredths of a beautiful woman
walk by asking me if i want to marry her.
at the dark end of the street
weíre taking turns
weíre digging graves
and field people win medals
for mathematical equations
but weíre the ones with
grass in our hair
from the empty lot
at the dark end of the street
laying cold down
face first
arms pinned to sides
ears, the river rushing far away by.
we resist it less and less here
at the dark end of the street.

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shovels

 


i stumbled upon winter
coming around with a spoon in my pocket
and a bucket big enough for the chewed up remains

of mercury venus and earth.
itís been said that once the bees are gone
man has only four years left

and i saw you out my bedroom window
driving up in a smashed red van.
now iím picturing

(bear with me)
an inflated red giant
swallowing my bones

in some dusking meadow
where the tall grass hides
at least one pair of lovers.

it sounds like a cave
munching on rocks full of motor oil
but when i step outside the house

everything is soundless and white.
the wind blows cold open your jacket
and we put shovels in the trunk.

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for the light there is my ear

 


and nothing else.


II.
there is a talking elephant
on a wall
with a hat.
its shadow looks like
a certain guitar
or a crowded room
but they arenít people
only arrangements of flowers
or feathers falling
and i canít see it but
i can hear.


III.
grey pants to match
the sidewalks but
you hid color on your
socks
when you were twelve
and again
forty nine
years later
in the future
where everythingís
a doused out flame
dusty smoke behind an old red
bus and we board.


IV.
itís friday once again
and once again
one of two things is true
my eyelids itch or
i am the most articulate man alive
like

ashish to ashish
on the short wave radio:

thereís a man in a smiling bag.

overrun by weak moments,
i am slowly losing my roof
to the man with the intertwining
nets.

when something involves more than one state
they call that interstate

like asphalt or
money in exchange for goods or services.

it all repeats itself and
puts everyone in rows.
dashed lines
like a long string of days.
some of us arenít taking
showers anymore
even after climbing dirty trees.

and i wonder if this is how it happened—
slowly, like huge water wheels.

another welcome to
and my cue to be brave

old faithful used to be punk rock.


V.
everyone outside is exercising
a car horn
furiously.

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MATTHEW SAVOCA lives in italy at the moment, where he wastes away his days playing chess down in immigrant square with the eastern europeans. he's the one who started this whole right brain left brain fiasco. he drinks coffee with maple syrup and draws balcony pigeons naked. more at seageometry.blogspot.com.


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