solstice
December 23, 2016 § Leave a comment
X’s on the calendar
we mark them for
different reasons
at first
it seems Venus
is moving
after the melt
the trees
still bent
years later
the same problem
with a comma
an insect
upsets the operation
of nature
it turns out
it was you
who did it
explore your soul
the thing above my
toilet says
CHRIS GORDON Haiku 2002
December 16, 2016 § Leave a comment
her hand covered in orange pulp she slips into her accent
full moon hanging from a line between buildings a white shirt
it’s been ten years we start calling each other by name
cold spring rain snail in its beak the crow blinks
wan light of the bathroom a spider lowers to the blue tile
sun shifts to the rest of the house a petal blowing across the rug
the curve in the metal peaks a taut black cord its slight motion
waiting for the timer to go off I let the moth walk on my arm
the green chair has lost its cushion tracked in tiny wet leaves
dawn light of spring a ticking from the grasses
the lights go out here in the room all along the full moon
through a gap in the seat of the bench the last weed
she changes her bathing suit again the flies start biting
a spot on the table without varnish quietly the heave of trees
washed over the lip of the bowl an ant holding a yellow fleck
her hand turns purple in the rain an empty bus passes
steam drifting from a manhole a crow picks at ragged plastic
dandelions among the stones that wasn’t one machine it was two
covered in graffiti the train cars pass quickly through town
it keeps peeling itself off into a moth the bare bulb in the night
untitled
December 2, 2016 § Leave a comment
amygdala the nervous little shit
the dead animals all around me
a symphony of recorded hang-ups
the frog is a leak in the kitchen
nothing blooms precisely
it’s almost a French word
glimpse of a tuft of hair
the refrigerator turns off we hear traffic
untitled
October 23, 2016 § Leave a comment
at the dry edge
of the hurricane
the old crow
the old crow
his friend
the old crow
sadness just
makes him horny
the old crow
the old crow
his feathers never
age
lost
his children
the old crow
the old crow
at the four
way stop
Their Blurred Parts Acceptable
September 30, 2016 § 1 Comment
mixed up with
my black socks my wife’s
blue panties
fumbling with
the ham the crows use
their different voices
the fence is the gap
in the slats we forget
our manners
campground
we’re all quiet for
the evening bird
between dreams
what’s left of
the hard-on
the phone in
my office tells me
I’m on night mode
because he’s
green I can’t
kill the fly
my hands nowhere
to put them except
my hands
chicks walking
their dogs their skirts
high on their thighs
muff
diving the left
prefrontal cortex
how do you
spell tongue
my wife asks
everything
clean there’s nothing
to do
the white
parts of the cat
move quickly
the breeze
that brings
a hot wind
the actresses
their blurred
parts acceptable
how can I
be hiding if you
know where I am
the fat girl
doesn’t get
a cigarette
I decide
upon
a pistol
witch hazel
kelp
horse chestnut
discount shopping
the future is cheap
and heavy
raspberry
sorbet the spoon
is deep
a year at
the station my bag
in the locker
my black
pants the fly
turns green
our wives
the cone of
silence
as we
depart the raven
at last
duties
use a
pen
the hot springs
Russians talk about
America in Russian
teenage
girls their teenage
boys
when you look
at ants you see
other things
a tiny
pool too hot
to touch
the patches around
the house the rain
doesn’t get to
I’d rather speak
to your pussy
in person
a thunderclap
and the sun
comes out
my cat he’s
different than
my other cat
she can’t describe
the thing that
pierced her toe
the police
arrest
the geese
people in
costumes shop
for costumes
it is raining
but it’s not
raining now
I don’t want
to get Hungarian
drunk either
on the way home
I see a man pee
in his bathroom
we have
a lot of
helmets
he seems to be
everywhere
the winter fly
