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
:
to be
taken
:
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
:
than
a shack
:
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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:
:
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thumb
size
piece
:
of
coral
:
a
long way
here
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:
:
:
what
this ant
:
carries
off
:
glints
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:
:
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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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:
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autumn
avo
:
cado
trees
:
lean
toward
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the
window
:
:
:
:
hasn’t
opened
yet
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sun
flower
:
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
:
spider
webs
empty
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wine
bottles
&
:
a
builder’s
level
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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
:
glass vase
some
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white
orchids
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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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