CHRIS GORDON the chinese astronauts

September 30, 2011 § Leave a comment

Divine Craft

 

 

 

The Chinese Astronauts

Were all born in

The same fortuitous year

 

 

Their wives dress

Like stewardesses

The Chinese Astronauts

 

 

The President behind glass

To keep his germs from

The Chinese Astronauts

 

 

Made in foreign countries

Their suits are different

The Chinese Astronauts

 

 

When they hear

Helicopters it’ll be time

The Chinese Astronauts

 

 

Their hands fumble at

Pockets that aren’t there

The Chinese Astronauts

 

 

The moon is neither

Full or empty to

The Chinese Astronauts

 

 

The Chinese Astronauts

Remain outside for

About 13 minutes

 

 

If the clouds recede

We’ll be able to see

The Chinese Astronauts

 

 

The payload is still

A mystery to

The Chinese Astronauts

 

 

The Chinese Astronauts

Aren’t able to touch

Their own faces

 

 

Carried from the capsule

The Chinese Astronauts

Sit in blue fold-out chairs

 

 

Back at their day jobs

The Chinese Astronauts

Remember weightlessness

 

 

 

 

 

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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