HART TARP

This is the yard in the green street of knots, the site in which the ceiling split and the bees began to break apart. The curtains hurt up against the wall for ages. This is the glass and the wood and the rock, the wearing down of brick, what's beneath the brick pressed to the dirt, a dish of sweat, a field of pulverized stalks, death bitten, grease of our starved lake. This is the convex sound of things caving in and caught for days within the brown underside of terrible monotony, chokeberries pushed into the hollowed out end of a cul-de-sac, a paralyzed bird. The crickets are kicking forever. Pine needles in the mouth. This is the summer crushing the garden into a whole acre of ash, a whole day of tumbleweed and spit, sky sucking a slab of glass for daylight, color of color gone. Heart of our hearts so busted up and torn apart. The dirt clod sun is an onion in the air, and the air is mushy as a frog on our last little brown desert of feeling nerves. Steam off grass.

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SPIRITUAL SERIOUS

I go about with many nicks, blotches, stains, a heart and my teeth. Big impossible sky trapped in an empty apartment. I suppose it's all imaginary. My smashed identity blows up with the air for the sun and it sways. My vast fatigue dances around, stumbles into the shape of something slightly angelic. The pouring fog in the pink sun. The tiniest blade breaks open and spills a handful of shells. My eager radiant soul, it's out in the world like paint, stone, scrap, spit. A white moth in the middle of a lake, breathing and floating. A little vessel of lichen stalled inside the trickery of my own thought speakers. I assemble a vibration on a sinking raft of experience. I mumble, weave, sing, sway, curse, shout, do my best to elevate in some harmony of exuberance. What I think I am remains beyond me. An empty fat clip of feeling. An eater of shiny fruit. My career engine absorbs a metal blind. An innocuous pile of leaves fills the story of a caterpillar. I reorganize rocks in a grove. It takes all morning. Light glows directly and simply through smoky bluish air. The progress world swings forward and breaks apart, a puffy cloud. Some awful thing within me. 

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My writing obsessions center around the dark underbelly of grief and loss. I'm drawn to surreal and sad poems that go adventuring. Hart Tarp is about the end of a relationship, how it's so hard to kill things sometimes!  Spiritual Serious is a commentary on one's loss of identity in the modern world.