CHRIS GORDON the chinese astronauts

September 30, 2011 § Leave a comment

Divine Craft

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The Chinese Astronauts

Were all born

In the same fortuitous year

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Their wives dress

Like stewardesses

The Chinese Astronauts

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The Premier behind glass

To keep his germs from

The Chinese Astronauts

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Made in foreign countries

Their suits are different

The Chinese Astronauts

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When they hear

Helicopters it’ll be time

The Chinese Astronauts

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Their hands fumble at

Pockets that aren’t there

The Chinese Astronauts

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The moon is neither

Full or empty to

The Chinese Astronauts

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The Chinese Astronauts

Remain outside for

About 13 minutes

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If the clouds recede

We’ll be able to see

The Chinese Astronauts

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The payload is still

A mystery to

The Chinese Astronauts

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The Chinese Astronauts

Aren’t able to touch

Their own faces for days

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My schizophrenic friend

He’s had contact with

The Chinese Astronauts

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Carried from the capsule

The Chinese Astronauts

Sit in blue fold-out chairs

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Back at their day jobs

The Chinese Astronauts

Remember weightlessness

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FUJIKI KIYOKO by HIROAKI SATO ant ant ant ant ant six

September 30, 2011 § 2 Comments

As If She Were Machinery

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In deep autumn I go on traveling unenlightened

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The scent of perfume so lively sudden loneliness

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The quiet sound of a falling mosquito resounds in my body

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Ears of wheat reveal the depth and shallows of the sea

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The day my black hair’s heavy and cold we part

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A spring evening I ride a car with an ordinary man

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Katydids my perspective gradually narrows

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A girl’s limbs are thin and wise air-conditioned

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Having got used to the depth of war I love a dog

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Summer deep I sleep the day with my own smell

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Fingerprints of desolation everywhere clouds white

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The trifoliate orange is sharp the lady’s elegant

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Oppressed by the sea in twilight I await a train

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Covered by the sounds of insects lies a brain

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Lonely spring a wife lives as if she were machinery

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The night I give up and sew the needle shines

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A white moon turns to gold above the young leaves

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Through my temples a locomotive dashes dark

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Here’s life the fruit juice amber transparent

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Early autumn’s good my veins transparent arteries pulse

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Rainy season desolate I find myself with peanut shells

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At a katydid I feel as if noon day were sinking

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With dusk slow to fall gruel’s cooking at my feet

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Knotweed growing thin falls into the typhoon zone

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A spring evening is wound down toward the apple skin

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Coming away from parting I drink hard cold water

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White noon no white letter comes knocking

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Only a horsefly’s voice annoying my ears I make unlined clothes

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Having lived single-mindedly I’ve lost my goal

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TOM CLAUSEN ant ant ant ant ant seven

September 30, 2011 § 1 Comment

After The Pleasant Part

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from the soil

in the shovel

a beetle crawls

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low cloud cover

early in the morning

her tight dress

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in the tall stand

of evergreens

my cookie crumbs

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reflections

under the bridge

a man fishes

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without her friend

on the bus

her face

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no one home

on the hard ground

a light snow

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carried on

the flooded river

a beach ball

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spring

removing the neighbors

from view

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while they investigate

the accident outside

I order pizza

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wild cherries in blossom

their land rough

with junk

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all I know

she has a blue star

on her left breast

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gray daybreak

her “to do” list

from yesterday

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at 70mph

what I saw

wild turkeys

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keeping quiet

last of the day’s light

on new grass

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asleep

in the fallen scarecrow’s lap

a cat

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the War

a woodchuck nibbles

beside the freeway

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at the next urinal

he studies a tile

higher up

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garden walk

she checks herself

in the pond

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the crow

in me

gets a response

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dentist chair

the sun comes and goes

from the window

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cemetery

tracks in the snow

lead out to the road

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the habit of looking

where it used to be

the mirror

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on her cell phone

going into the building

“I love you too”

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on time

the daily truck load

of pigs

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after the pleasant part

of our walk

we hurry

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warm spring day

a bra

in the bushes

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the chain link fence

runs into

highwater

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writing him

the second letter

without complaints

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dinner over

he addresses

some crumbs

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heavy overcast

between bench slats

a sprout

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JON CONE ant ant ant ant ant seven

September 30, 2011 § Leave a comment

Yet She Tells You About Owls

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I look for my ax sounds of distant trains

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Horns swirling my ruined reeds

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Cup your hands hold the iron water briefly

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After the storm all morning gathering tree branches

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Wondering about the unreadable billboard I boil an egg

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Ropes and bags of sand even I remember the old garage

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Plums in a plastic bag on the picnic table the fountain lights

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On the path to the water pump sky filled with stars

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At a loss for words using bleach to clean your infected toe

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Laundry on the line grasses move in the ditch

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Stirring ashes with a stick crudely drawn phallus

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The pond is frozen hard nipples beneath your shirt

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Three pennies in a urinal full moon tonight

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Before the universe not even nothing to piss you off

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Toy truck rusts in the sandbox measureless grief

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You don’t even like her yet she tells you about owls

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The juniper is ill with mold I need new eyeglasses

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Sprouting through plastic grass seed left in the rain

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The hammer feels warm I wipe my face with a rag

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Paperbacks my glasses a change tin decorated with pin-ups

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Near the lonely summer telescope an outhouse steams

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Thunder approaches at my desk writing a letter

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Scanning the phone book you find your name

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In the barn straw dust climbs a column of light

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Summer already I catch flies with my bare hand

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By this time next year you won’t even remember why

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T-shirt wet with sweat working the lower register

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The wasp you don’t really like begins a new nest

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On the hill of flowers your ragged mouth gives me ideas

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Black angel in need of repair it’s just me lousy with tools

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