m a t t    t r u s l o w





Three Poems for Jack Spicer



My name's Matt Truslow and I am the birthday boy,
loosing flesh in metrics to open the cake pit.
Stop! One fast last one for the man's old manic noise,
whose angel crumbles magic down the rainbow grit!

Evidence of absence is no answer, a noun,
like its silhouette described in mouth making shapes.
As it's my birthday Matt Truslow you're in town
from boxes of wing powder across the milky lake.

I love you. No hand can everout swim its mouth.
I love you. Small darknesses cover Matt Truslow
and he seems like that space. I love you. Someone else
steals a drag, pulls a fast one. O cake! O my! I love you.

The fault, stupid, is not in these stars ourselves.
In heathen glow and lightly, you do open this.




Here I am now again and love you in morning
When that never seen bird sews more fever in the air
Where bathroom lights clicked on above hot mirrors
And such poison devices nakedly have been
Afraid to sleep the way I'm thinking of the sun again was
Above us and some rattled creature we once together saw
Writhing out its clever skin in heavy noontime weather
And love poetry show me writing
Become unhuman that does place invisible spaces
About to kiss in part of our parts touching

I grew up furious in blue dark weather
I am looking to you I will never drop to my knees
For anyone without body or kindness and to anyone
Listening wherever you are I have never loved
Pronouns implicitly when you are not
And you aren't simple

Simple            poems say I love you
Here I love you here I
Am and           again I want
To be dead and still in 1000 years I will wake up happy
And take a shower and have a face mouth your name
100 blacknesses driving 10 hours to loosen cars
To rattle creatures we once together saw and were that
Weather yesterday colors and together

I mouth off
Some blackness rattled
Now again alone


Three Poems for Jack Spicer



Son of man love
            Youth as urban night clouds
Not there as janitors in building lights
Some blue box of lethal stutters to newly declare
Our independents ourselves
The hot barrage of petals- we have none
But windows in tall apartments
Using bent metal to float flowers in the air

You're a flower- Jack
No- other choice your or
At least a moth
You donít know
It wont open with dust Jack
Even the jacket itself- same
As the Sear's picture
The same man in gloss rotting
The catalog- a door step

Your cotton body would understand
As it does the bulb you suck on


All nouns, answers but not
all answers, their drug foldings.

Jack, what Latin fuck-puppet is this
you are now eulogizing with?
Your milk mink cock,
your soggy rage flakes.

Sorry, still hardly I write, "[...]still
hardly I think god and poetry, sacred,Ē
thinking poetry separate from John Riley
, Weiners not dying too in holiest morning water.
Hole lie'st therein.

You've died days ago and love me (in imagination)
As well as those amputee pool-boys peg-legging
Morse code between your verse,
astride your gun numbing last century brass-
city in midnight.

May you find (a way) out your closed mouth,
your hammock of planets and spit and veins.
Of those dry library rivers
let rivers of beer run out your heart.


I never look into your picture
Anymore than Jack is pictured with
Foil and light amidst as I am one liar
Of every liar and I swear to god
I am not lying your name- as mine Jack

But than your name-
This hot wind at this sound
Flays sound and such problems render
O no symptom of death foretells it

How certain impossibilities occur
One succession after another silence caps
Fractal seize and lamp strike seizing
Too your picture was taken so- by and by

Its you I think of when drinking- Jack
I am a liar and as one I am someday going to
We are all going to some one lung is someone
Else has songs thrown up on the barstool
Marked a tiny death mask upon another patch
Of pasture blackness in photos forth

I am never going to die as have the dead
But what is that tense echo with wind inside


MATT TRUSLOW lives in Fort Collins, CO, where he studies poetry.

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