CHRIS GORDON lost & found times 41 (1998)

January 27, 2012 § Leave a comment

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thick hailstones in April I keep swallowing my tail

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all these lights they’re humming uncomfortable in every position

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no continuous skyline the relentless efficacy of breasts

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

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balled up in the shower her wet dress the soughing darkness

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

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she whispers in another language the intermittent rumble of the elevator

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

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not much to say there’s a helicopter

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The Martian Chronicles read over the phone unsteady hand-jobs

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

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dream hungry the call of a crow on the telephone pole

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saxophone practice upstairs the machine fills with water

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

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slowing down you can smell yourself

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CHRIS GORDON ant ant ant ant ant five

January 24, 2012 § 1 Comment

SHE ROUSES BRIEFLY AND SAYS DRAGONFLY

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

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the vents are being replaced I touch your drink by mistake

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

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abruptness of seed taking orders from the smaller machines

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I get on top of you they start playing a commercial

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an eye tuned to the scrape of a chair an ambulance

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

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

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all along the tracks splintered shapes swelling in the rain

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

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

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

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

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tensile strength of thistle the outcome of serotonin and loophole

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

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

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

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

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

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the oven opens to the smell of sweet potatoes your panties

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her ringed fingers twitching she rouses briefly and says dragonfly

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an act of transcription closes the flower travel a violence

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we exhaust the five hundred gimmicks like metal eucalyptus leaves

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

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Lyric Intervention painted over All Day I Dream About Sex

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

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

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

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

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

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OCTAVIO PAZ modern haiku 36.1

January 21, 2012 § 2 Comments

A DAY IN THE CITY OF LAKES

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The white palace

white on the black lake

lingam and yoni

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As the goddess does the god

night has encircled me

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The cool veranda

You are boundless, boundless

but surveyable

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The stars they’re inhuman

This hour though is ours

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Falling I rise

Burning I grow wet

Do you have only one body?

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Birds skimming the water

Dawn comes to my eyelids

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Filled with thoughts

immense as death itself

the marble looms over you

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Palaces run aground

their whiteness is adrift

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Women and children

roam through the street

fruit scattered about

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Flashy rags or lightening?

A procession on the plain

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Cold and jingling

on their wrists and ankles

bands of silver

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In a rented suit a guy

goes to his wedding

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Clean and draped to dry

among the stones clothes

you watch in silence

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On the island monkeys

with red asses are screaming

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Sun dim in the heat

Hanging from the wall

a wasp’s nest

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My face is also the sun

of blackened thoughts

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Flies and blood

fill the courtyard of Kali

A young goat flits about

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Eating from the same plate

gods and men and beasts

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Over the pale god

the black goddess

dances headless

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Heat and the hour splits open

These rotting mangoes

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Your face a lake

smooth, without thoughts

Out splashes a trout

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Afternoon’s gone

Lights kindle over the water

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A rippling in

the golden plain and a grotto

Your clothes nearby

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Over your body in the shade

I am like a lamp

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A scale made of

living bodies bound together

over the void

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The water sustains us

The sky overwhelms us

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I open my eyes

How many trees were born

just last night

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What I’ve seen and wanted to say

the white sun blots out

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El Dia en Udaipur translated by Chris Gordon

VARIOUS ARTISTS ant ant ant ant ant four

January 15, 2012 § 1 Comment

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pagan tulip crescent often spot remove meadow

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Michael Basinski

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racked up in splendid blood

bones of the ryeman

in the thin wings of grass

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Guy R. Beining

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sigh   lens   hair

(retensions)

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hand around you faceless

daughter blue pond and

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heaving

other clouds

“my name”

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John M. Bennett

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molding oranges

numbers radiate from

a digital clock

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Jason Sanford Brown

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One little nail-hole

treasured as the gateway

its mystery breath

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Bill DiMichele

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

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Chris Gordon

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most of beauty is iceburgs

the topic crowds with horror

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late patterns of thought

media pretends

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Crag Hill

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clear winter day

over the radio

the first bombs

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Dorothy Howard

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3am

divining god’s law

from raw onions

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gazing on

her sleeping back

sounds of rain

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Jim Kacian

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cattle sleeping

moonlight on their backs

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a cold scream

narrowly occult

ridge draped in dusk

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M. Kettner

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spitting lit matches

into gasolined brambles

shave till opening

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Buspar plural plural

speaking Farsi backwards

on the phone

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Xie Kitchin

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long-lit afternoon

a cut

unhealed

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ai li

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road salt

tumbling in the vacuum of

an ambulance

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Shawn Lindsay

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forked lightening

out over the ocean

her warm fingers

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evening breeze

a white moth floating

in the dishwater

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pear slice falling

to the kitchen floor

pale moonlight

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Paul M.

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dark

the TV ignores

everything

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John Stevenson

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on the drive

there and back

a pine needle in the wiper

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French graffiti   I drop a coin in the phone booth

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overdue   my dead neighbor’s library book

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Michael Dylan Welch

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JOHN MARTONE ant ant ant ant ant six

January 14, 2012 § Leave a comment

A CHIP OF BLUE GLASS

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potted

bamboo

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tall

enough

now

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to be

taken

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at night

for

human

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:

hoes

her patch

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kneels

& speaks

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seed

lings

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thru trees

little

more

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than

a shack

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painted

white

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a

dream

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haven’t

for

gotten

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where

to look

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a few

square

inches

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dutchman’s

breeches

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:

:

thumb

size

piece

:

of

coral

:

a

long way

here

:

:

:

:

what

this ant

:

carries

off

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glints

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cabbage

white

takes

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five

hundred

feet

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to dis

appear

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autumn

avo

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cado

trees

:

lean

toward

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the

window

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:

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hasn’t

opened

yet

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sun

flower

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al

ready

turns

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half

bottle

blue

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dish

liquid

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on

window

sill

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above

alley

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rain

water

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in

a can

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within

an

other

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past

green

thicket

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woman

in

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white

pa

jamas

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hangs

her wash

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fall

asters

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all

around

half

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a

cinder

block

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my street’s

all

aglint

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from

a chip

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of blue

glass

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out of

nowhere

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:

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back

doorway’s

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spider

webs

empty

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wine

bottles

&

:

a

builder’s

level

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:

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one

step

back

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&

grass

:

un

bends

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stem

by stem

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store

front

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all

that’s left

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glass vase

some

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white

orchids

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:

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:

a

long

ago

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baby

food

jar

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for

bamboo

cuttings

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