CHRIS GORDON lost & found times 41 (november 1998)

:

thick hailstones in April I keep swallowing my tail

:

all these lights they’re humming uncomfortable in every position

:

no continuous skyline the relentless efficacy of breasts

:

behind the buildings the lake obscured by fog downstairs they’re fighting

:

balled up in the shower her wet dress the soughing darkness

:

wood smoke in the warm afternoon the deaf woman talks to herself

:

she whispers in another language the intermittent rumble of the elevator

:

a blue door tied down to the top of a car the smell of cut grass

:

not much to say there’s a helicopter

:

The Martian Chronicles read over the phone unsteady hand-jobs

:

too windy for a hat sheets of newspaper slap the chain-link fence

:

dream hungry the call of a crow on the telephone pole

:

saxophone practice upstairs the machine fills with water

:

in the brief blue flash of the train’s light on the tunnel wall abhor

:

slowing down you can smell yourself

:

CHRIS GORDON ant ant ant ant ant five

SHE ROUSES BRIEFLY AND SAYS DRAGONFLY

:

:

distance acquiesces to heat you tell the fly he’s ephemeral

:

the vents are being replaced I touch your drink by mistake

:

where the lines end and the absence begins an architecture or so

:

abruptness of seed taking orders from the smaller machines

:

I get on top of you they start playing a commercial

:

an eye tuned to the scrape of a chair an ambulance

:

milt of friction the ring where the ring keeps the light from her skin

:

pea on the trajectory of a scratch I will be a Ghost Dance

:

all along the tracks splintered shapes swelling in the rain

:

we talk about our childhood TV shows as if they were festivals

:

moon a tear made in the sky with a fingernail don’t answer the door

:

in the dream I was Danae waiting for a drip from the ceiling

:

that dark thing in the green of your eye next to the window that’s me

:

tensile strength of thistle the outcome of serotonin and loophole

:

where she points at the red flower I don’t see anything

:

we both wind up in the fruit aisle one of the lights above blinks out

:

tell me what we’ll do on a bench by the river when no one’s around

:

soaking in a jar for three days the beans are pink and ready to split

:

aren’t all prophesies self-fulfilling sugar written in Spanish

:

the oven opens to the smell of sweet potatoes your panties

:

her ringed fingers twitching she rouses briefly and says dragonfly

:

an act of transcription closes the flower travel a violence

:

we exhaust the five hundred gimmicks like metal eucalyptus leaves

:

my face a trapdoor spider candy foil floats along the dark train floor

:

Lyric Intervention painted over All Day I Dream About Sex

:

all the slurring and none of the puncture no I said sects

:

weeds as tall as roses what I threw out the window when we fought

:

between the cars of the train her body turns from yellow to blue

:

a plum seed flushed down the toilet they found the arctic’s melted

:

if this were an espionage film we’d all be dead

:

:

OCTAVIO PAZ modern haiku 36.1

A DAY IN THE CITY OF LAKES

:

:

The white palace

white on the black lake

lingam and yoni

:

As the goddess does the god

night has encircled me

:

The cool veranda

You are boundless, boundless

but surveyable

:

The stars they’re inhuman

This hour though is ours

:

Falling I rise

Burning I grow wet

Do you have only one body?

:

Birds skimming the water

Dawn comes to my eyelids

:

Filled with thoughts

immense as death itself

the marble looms over you

:

Palaces run aground

their whiteness is adrift

:

Women and children

roam through the street

fruit scattered about

:

Flashy rags or lightening?

A procession on the plain

:

Cold and jingling

on their wrists and ankles

bands of silver

:

In a rented suit a guy

goes to his wedding

:

Clean and draped to dry

among the stones clothes

you watch in silence

:

On the island monkeys

with red asses are screaming

:

Sun dim in the heat

Hanging from the wall

a wasp’s nest

:

My face is also the sun

of blackened thoughts

:

Flies and blood

fill the courtyard of Kali

A young goat flits about

:

Eating from the same plate

gods and men and beasts

:

Over the pale god

the black goddess

dances headless

:

Heat and the hour splits open

These rotting mangoes

:

Your face a lake

smooth, without thoughts

Out splashes a trout

:

Afternoon’s gone

Lights kindle over the water

:

A rippling in

the golden plain and a grotto

Your clothes nearby

:

Over your body in the shade

I am like a lamp

:

A scale made of

living bodies bound together

over the void

:

The water sustains us

The sky overwhelms us

:

I open my eyes

How many trees were born

just last night

:

What I’ve seen and wanted to say

the white sun blots out

:

:

El Dia en Udaipur translated by Chris Gordon

VARIOUS ARTISTS ant ant ant ant ant four

:

pagan tulip crescent often spot remove meadow

:

Michael Basinski

:

:

:

racked up in splendid blood

bones of the ryeman

in the thin wings of grass

:

Guy R. Beining

:

:

:

sigh   lens   hair

(retensions)

:

hand around you faceless

daughter blue pond and

:

heaving

other clouds

“my name”

:

John M. Bennett

:

:

:

molding oranges

numbers radiate from

a digital clock

:

Jason Sanford Brown

:

:

:

One little nail-hole

treasured as the gateway

its mystery breath

:

Bill DiMichele

:

:

:

waiting for her to stick her tongue in my mouth an autumn sunburn

:

Chris Gordon

:

:

:

most of beauty is iceburgs

the topic crowds with horror

:

late patterns of thought

media pretends

:

Crag Hill

:

:

:

clear winter day

over the radio

the first bombs

:

Dorothy Howard

:

:

:

3am

divining god’s law

from raw onions

:

gazing on

her sleeping back

sounds of rain

:

Jim Kacian

:

:

:

cattle sleeping

moonlight on their backs

:

a cold scream

narrowly occult

ridge draped in dusk

:

M. Kettner

:

:

:

spitting lit matches

into gasolined brambles

shave till opening

:

Buspar plural plural

speaking Farsi backwards

on the phone

:

Xie Kitchin

:

:

:

long-lit afternoon

a cut

unhealed

:

ai li

:

:

:

road salt

tumbling in the vacuum of

an ambulance

:

Shawn Lindsay

:

:

:

forked lightening

out over the ocean

her warm fingers

:

evening breeze

a white moth floating

in the dishwater

:

pear slice falling

to the kitchen floor

pale moonlight

:

Paul M.

:

:

:

dark

the TV ignores

everything

:

John Stevenson

:

:

:

on the drive

there and back

a pine needle in the wiper

:

French graffiti   I drop a coin in the phone booth

:

overdue   my dead neighbor’s library book

:

Michael Dylan Welch

:

:

:

JOHN MARTONE ant ant ant ant ant six

A CHIP OF BLUE GLASS

:

:

:

:

potted

bamboo

:

tall

enough

now

:

to be

taken

:

at night

for

human

:

:

:

:

hoes

her patch

:

kneels

& speaks

:

seed

lings

:

:

:

:

thru trees

little

more

:

than

a shack

:

painted

white

:

a

dream

:

:

:

:

haven’t

for

gotten

:

where

to look

:

a few

square

inches

:

dutchman’s

breeches

:

:

:

:

thumb

size

piece

:

of

coral

:

a

long way

here

:

:

:

:

what

this ant

:

carries

off

:

glints

:

:

:

:

cabbage

white

takes

:

five

hundred

feet

:

to dis

appear

:

:

:

:

autumn

avo

:

cado

trees

:

lean

toward

:

the

window

:

:

:

:

hasn’t

opened

yet

:

sun

flower

:

al

ready

turns

:

:

:

:

half

bottle

blue

:

dish

liquid

:

on

window

sill

:

above

alley

:

:

:

:

rain

water

:

in

a can

:

within

an

other

:

:

:

:

past

green

thicket

:

woman

in

:

white

pa

jamas

:

hangs

her wash

:

:

:

:

fall

asters

:

all

around

half

:

a

cinder

block

:

:

:

:

my street’s

all

aglint

:

from

a chip

:

of blue

glass

:

out of

nowhere

:

:

:

:

back

doorway’s

:

spider

webs

empty

:

wine

bottles

&

:

a

builder’s

level

:

:

:

:

one

step

back

:

&

grass

:

un

bends

:

stem

by stem

:

:

:

:

store

front

:

all

that’s left

:

glass vase

some

:

white

orchids

:

:

:

:

a

long

ago

:

baby

food

jar

:

for

bamboo

cuttings

:

:

:

:

THE DIAGNOSIS

 

the chemicals I can’t

live without they’ll

kill me

:

after my labs

he asks if

I’m an artist

:

my heart not

as big as I

thought

:

my doctor his

eyes drawn to my

carotid artery

:

the vendor who

hates Arabs and Liberals

sells me my poisons

:

my arteries and

veins they work

harder than you

:

a well-lit plane

passes beneath

Venus

:

my new pill

I already have

the side effects

:

CHRIS GORDON ant ant ant ant ant ten

Cucumbers Are Related To Lemons

:

:

:

you return with

a second bottle it’s cheaper

and goes with fewer foods

:

:

an automated message

from the library

it cheers me up

:

:

tucked in her back

pocket a pink packet

of artificial sweetener

:

:

looking at the veins on

your hands I think about

the planet Neptune

:

:

on the blanket on

the grass a few magazines

their different odors

:

:

waking in a strange bed

without my pants

a seagull at the window

:

:

above the bowl of

apples a mosquito

slow from the blood

:

:

swollen in the shallow

creek a novel open

near the center

:

:

a love letter to

the butterfly gods with

strategic misspellings

:

:

dusk turns gray and

hazy and breaks off into

several angry girls

:

:

the pill in my pocket

looks smaller

than it did this morning

:

:

the breakfast special

missing a few letters

not quite spring

:

:

at the urinals

we talk about our allergies

the war loses ground

:

:

a weed in bloom where

the fence’s torn back

the links gleam

:

:

the rain sounds

different when I lean my

head against your head

:

:

the fly that kept me

up all night I find

him on the shelf

:

:

in the parking lot she

notices the two notes

stuck to my door

:

:

in a small white bowl

the lentils

no one is going to cook

:

:

looped over itself

once a rubberband in

the drinking fountain drain

:

:

the smell of heather under

the bridge the black water

makes no sound

:

:

she says it’s like

eating a pecan after

having walnuts

:

:

one tied to the other

a pair of shoelaces

floating down the river

:

:

it’s been about

a year she suggests

you take a vitamin

:

:

when I look back

the light is gone from

the blue pine

:

:

your sock in the corner

of the closet a thin shoot

sprouting from it

:

:

the office at midnight

a grain of rice

in my chair

:

:

one light on at

the laundromat a blue towel

left on a dryer

:

:

while he’s talking

to the cop she

eats his hot dog

:

:

its view obstructed

by blossoms the room

a little darker

:

:

we barely speak

she leaves me a pear

she picked on a farm

:

:

just beyond the reach

of the light the plum

sags on one side

:

:

I meet the twin she

never mentioned the mist

lit briefly by the sun

:

:

the doctor’s office

a magazine left open

face down on the couch

:

:

blown down by the wind

stiff white washcloths

holding their shape

:

:

the blue jays have a spat

some cherry pits left on

a three of spades

:

:

the girls on the bus

discuss places

on their bodies

:

:

a headline declares

the war goes badly the red

umbrellas closed up

:

:

on the toilet she

mentions that cucumbers are

related to lemons

:

:

in the dust in

the corner the curling

tops of tea packets

:

:

reading the lives

of great people I shave

a little more frequently

:

:

pieces of the moth

that got stuck in the envelope

slide out

:

:

lit briefly by

headlights a tree at

the edge of the woods

:

:

other analogous

rifts in your story

about the plums

:

:

the slow guy who

just got fired he asks me

if I’ve seen a bear

:

:

the lump in the pillowcase

a pair of her panties

I’ve never seen

:

:

we get home from

our trip the brown crayon

we left on the table

:

:

the hand that always

aches a girl wants to talk

about long division

:

:

in the old peppermint

tin pencil shavings we

argue about pronouns

:

:

the anguish of snails

something to do with

fluorescent light

:

:

a screen door slams

shut the scent of

approaching rain

:

:

left on her desk

three paper cups

each with a little water

:

:

warm rain the homeless

guy offers me a cookie

from his pocket

:

:

my landlord who doesn’t

like crows she opens

the door without knocking

:

:

a cool August evening

in the shopping cart

some crushed daisies

:

:

following me from room

to room a gnat tries

to get in my mouth

:

:

a note from ten

years ago says you’re

going to the store

:

:

a patch on the road

where the streetlight’s out

the sound of moths

:

:

rug burns on my knees

I feel them in line

at the post office

:

:

a chair on fire

in the dumpster melts

the snow as it falls

:

:

some noise in

the dark kitchen it

must be the potatoes

:

:

SCOTT METZ ant ant ant ant ant nine

A Sealed Jar Of Mustard Seeds

:

:

bits of found objects that hole she left in me

:

:

up among the dawn stars her dreaming hand

:

:

falling through my side of the story blood red spring

:

:

it’s always either the ocean or a mountain with her

:

:

ants have found the freshness last night’s lightning

:

:

weed it openly challenging the war czar

:

:

an illusion of green the caterpillar’s comment

:

:

peony night i lift the mask by the tip of its nose

:

:

i say yes sir to the rattlesnake sign

:

:

from pistils sky scrapers covered in vaseline

:

:

new myths crawling slowing into the old heat

:

:

autumn leaf already i am attached

:

:

last of the ice he enters the apocalypse before me

:

:

meadow speaking the language she dreams in

:

:

the fog returns my carbon footprint

:

:

entering through the back door eaters of light

:

:

a comma attached to the tip of the flowering branch

:

:

without permission part of me starts to bloom

:

:

still cold the taste of the fan

:

:

abandoned by an insect full moon and i

:

:

last of the fireflies in my small intestines

:

:

our silence fogs the window city inside us

:

:

at the very edge of it all saplings

:

:

winter day barely one language

:

:

green noise the cicada can’t hear it

:

:

the blood rushing through my blowhole winter stars

:

:

a god that never noticed me before the peony shadow

:

:

sometime today i’m bound to grow another string

:

:

bright thick moss the violence in me

:

:

a sealed jar of mustard seeds swift moving clouds

:

:

sometimes the wind lifts up its wing to read

:

:

invading another land crow caw

:

:

trees almost bare touching you

:

:

letting the lightning inside elephant cherry blossom

:

:

daffodil scent no longer in the elevator

:

:

the aftertaste of snowflakes pushing away

:

:

speaking up peonies in my synapses

:

:

inside a hotel of runaways glass elevator

:

:

a dried up grain of rice clinging to the black sea

:

:

perfume on my fingertips from the counter fading moon

:

:

is it the wind god reminding me of her breasts

:

:

coastal blossom the opposite of america

:

:

what would the cicada think quiet nights

:

:

could be her could be a firefly

:

:

thru an eyehole the crow leaves a sea of skulls

:

:

the leaf’s erotic story circling the hawk

:

:

winter night she knowingly reveals another arm

:

:

the war awakens the face of an insect in the mirror

:

:

among the keys i took off black sesame seed

:

:

asleep her fingers move on their own over moss

:

:

the old train tracks end a nightmare of trees

:

:

another day of snow my jurassic layer

:

:

the only sound that’s come out of me all day firefly

:

:

at this point i just assumed they come alive at night

:

:

the string attached to me unraveling bare branches

:

:

far enough into it dyslexic spring

:

:

the sound of water i enter the spider’s dream

:

:

walrus with its mouth wide open war statistics

:

:

outweighed by the butterfly’s thought

:

:

the word god being eaten by a field of robins

:

:

:

JACK GALMITZ ant ant ant ant ant twelve

The Coincidence Of Stars

:

ant ant ant ant ant

issue 12

autumn 2011

:

now available

:

inquiries to mrcr3w@yahoo.com

:

HIROAKI SATO ant ant ant ant ant four

Wartime

:

:

:

February when people often die has come again

:

Kubota Mantarô

:

:

:

For my child leaving I pick moonlit eggplants and cook them

:

Takeshita Shizunojo

:

:

:

In the midst of layered spring haze a murderous intent

:

Ugaki Matome

:

:

:

The black cat too is painfully summer-thin in my house

:

Mitsuhashi Takajo

:

:

:

“Cease with destruction” “Cease with destruction” my heart freezes

:

Kubota Mantarô

:

:

:

In the pitch-dark room I remain leaning on a papered door

:

Takeshita Shizunojo

:

:

:

I fold only cranes with my child in the autumn shower

:

Fubasami Fusae

:

:

:

Under a two-day moon the Divine State has gotten small

:

Watanabe Suiha

:

:

:

All of them the writings my husband left in this seed bag

:

Takeshita Shizunojo

:

:

:

Survived: I sowed buckwheat and now it has flowered

:

Hayashibara Raisei

:

:

:

Hiroaki Sato, Translator

:

:

: