CHRIS GORDON raw nervz haiku
April 27, 2011 § Leave a comment
Misprint
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in the headlights new slats on the fence your mole occluded
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covering the freeway a truck load of pumpkins magpie is a crow
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after plucking hairs from my ear the tea tastes different
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sweat from the questionable meat the monster saves the day
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apparently she decided against underwear the figs gone bad
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an unfamiliar taste to your finger what happens to the crickets
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the next day you remember Buzz Aldrin the pool closed for repairs
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in the shower I make the water hotter and notice the fly
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slow becomes owls wind a mystery with zippers
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she’s kicked me out at the fountain they discuss local politics
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after we’ve met my wife introduces us
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on a seat at the bus station torn panties some old pills
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I don’t feel the fly on my thumb sequel dubbed in English
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a misprint in her body language tear open the air to black seeds
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pale skin where the strap rested dishes drift in the sink
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trying to avoid you I run into you even more
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newspaper machines stuffed with clothing the parking lot a pond
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it hovers then flies back at me what I spit out
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objects fall the definition of silver wavers slightly
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twisting in a swing she talks on the phone about her butt
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Raw Nervz Haiku X:2
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CHRIS GORDON A Guide To Haiku For The 21st Century (1997)
April 20, 2011 § Leave a comment
Everything Comes But The Bus
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the countenance of the little girl muted distant televisions
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a purple evening in the window she folds her underwear
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snagged on the rock the water going out with the tide
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on the edge of the paper an ant the smell of rain without the rain
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diving into the shudder of darkness maybe this time
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lunacy a lost poem about an acetylene torch
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doppelganger spring a drawer of sex toys and failed medicines
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willow leaves drag against my scalp I can’t see her eyes
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morning thick and humid they forgot to turn off the streetlights
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ducks break the surface in the dark blurry crescent moons
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she’s in the shower an airplane crosses the darkness in the trees
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wind stirs the wind chimes on the porch there’s a fire
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clapping my hands I kill a mosquito find it was a moth
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the drip down the back of her thigh a mourning dove calls
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the brown dusk held by algae blooms an egret’s feather
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he washes his feet in the lake the cormorants their wings
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sheets soaked her hand draws away from my breath
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brief warm spell over thumping the outside of the pane the flies
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putting on my glasses gnats hover above my face
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weeks later her sweet voice it’s just a machine
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visible only in the shaft of light a fly her crumpled clothes
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the full moon low a dead tree its seed cones
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the dark shape of a spider wrapping a moth it starts raining
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the smell of garbage cans she asks me to keep her ring anyway
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imagining her with someone else behind the blinds the moon
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my cold foot steps on her bra still warm
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rain louder than thoughts everything comes but the bus
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still sick the tree shadows as real as the trees
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dressing afterwards her voice hardens
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winter again in my coat pocket a strand of her hair
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selected by Hiroaki Sato for A Guide to Haiku for the 21st Century (Gendai Haiku Kyokai 1997)
ant5 