PETER YOVU from Imago
April 27, 2016 § Leave a comment
For Beauty I Wept Butterfly Pins
a small bird’s
thud against the glass
my house
closing in
spiraling
into an ear’s
galaxy
the wren’s inch
grackles gather
the enamel sound their beaks make
in my mouth
in a cave
the remains
of tiny toads
the little bones
in my ears
ring
jagged sky
above the canyon
a crack in the egg
the sky’s blue gong an orange in my hand
Ornithopter Press 2016
http://www.ornithopterpress.com/
haiku
April 13, 2016 § Leave a comment
#345
underwear:
long/division
architecture, or so
from A Hundred Years of English
three haiku
April 5, 2016 § Leave a comment
ants in the white
gob pushed out by
the tube in the heat
the crow on the hedge
a shovel someone left
leaning in the rain
the white cord of
the coffee grinder hangs from
the shut cabinet door
CROW
April 1, 2016 § Leave a comment
SCHEME TO SCREW YOU
rather big for a crow distant woman in the snow
his pupil says he’s a raven the crow
thunderbird he consumes the crow
a little pussy under lace candy for the crow
women whose name ends in “y” by the crow
the crow is an arbitrarily actualizing hologram
the crow his wife her spectacular mounds
the crow can’t make his feathers look right
the crow thought he was a one man show
takes the sex princess to the fuck ball the crow
the crow says a view master jack off
a note to bring peanuts to the crow
the crow ponders the state of bears
the crow gives away all his buttons
the crow he’s the enormous radio
chickens cat shit dishes the crow
post cards from his heart attack the crow
the crow he’s just waiting for Cindy Sherman
your birthday on Desolation Row the crow
the crow will never go to Moab, Utah
the crow his super power under tow
that summer with the wasps the crow
the raven and the mermaid don’t tell them so
his scheme to screw you the crow
the crow thinks he’s the chemist
the crow thinks he’s the bomb
the crow’s taking calls you know
even later the crow
PAUL M. ant ant ant ant ant seven
March 16, 2016 § 2 Comments
A FAVORABLE EXCHANGE RATE
fast river
white seeds
cross without me
chance of showers
a frayed rope
linking the mules
redwood stumps
some color
left in the sky
winter pruning
she changes
away from the window
snow outside
everyone else rises
to receive the host
hard winter ground
we argue about
the constellations
this year’s paintbrush
a path between
granite moraines
meeting the neighbors
the shapes of things
hidden by snow
warring countries
separated
in the botanical garden
spring buds
the creek over boulders
of every size
snow-capped peaks
loom across the border
a favorable exchange rate
seventh full moon
men at the bar
watching the door
string from
a pigeon’s foot
March wind
talk of rain
I find myself
in the old neighborhood
first sunburn
an ant
on the lily arrangement
returning warmth
the first bird
into the house
war in the news
new leaves on a tree
my grandfather planted
summer dusk
the awkwardness
of a first guest
manzanita lanterns
a whole day
for idleness
distant thunder
the pigeon coop
ajar
flowering maple
the gait of horses
after a long winter
rustling grass
bundle of letters
from an old lover
earthquake weather
the pliant body
of a sea cucumber
heat wave
I count
the remaining eggs
red maple leaves
a mosquito bite
scratched open
winter nears
a beach full of shells
no two the same
crescent moon
a homeless man
asks about Bob
chill in the air
fire-blackened needles
still on the pine
winter night
a hard crumb
under the sheet
even after a snowfall
a gap in the wall
from a missing stone
A Haiku
March 4, 2016 § Leave a comment
Mist drifts off of the creek. A few bubbles that breach the surface catch the streetlight. New organizational priorities. Limited space. The euphemism of structure. Dig your own hole now. The smooth untrammeled spaces with a fence around them. Fissures forming where things get interesting. Suddenly the demand for punctuation. Symbols that indicate even our pleasant moments will be taken from us. They’re usually the ones who volunteer to go first. The gesture replete with silver fish bones. We’ll pull them out of our bodies through our skin and say “See, they were always there.” “Assassination” has the word “ass” in it twice. We note this in the shower when we’re stepping on the rusted cans you trundled in here in your sleep. I’ll probably just tear this one part out and tape it into a different book. I think I hit my head against the wall one too many times. My sons asleep on either side of me. One a burlap bag of sticks. The other a silk sack filled with warm sand. The swelling moon rises and draws the attention of the branches clawing at the purple sky. The sassafras collectors have arrived. The have a red ball they want to cram into your mouth. The coat worn a little at the collar. A grasshopper crawls from my sleeve. It only has the word “ass” in it once. The chill settles and refuses to budge. The dark-haired robot-girl passes by on the way to the shed again. How to vomit up the black mouth crawling around in my guts. Her eyes pass through my hollow body and cast the shadows of broken clocks on the put-upon pavement. I massage your ankles. Later you throw the toaster at me. I insist on this being a haiku.
