the dead parts of me

June 6, 2014 § 1 Comment


onion grass my son pukes in the sink


the moon who cares where it is


your feet they’re nicer than mine


bottle caps rattle among the spoons


the crow says something for the crows


asphalt heat and foreign policy


the dead parts of me pester the rest


stale crackers easy to put them back


your twat I never call it that


the cat’s meow what’s that really about


the penny not as old as it looks


the extra napkin always gets tossed


rain check nothing to do with the rain


your fingerprint a consistent prostitute


the place on you I know you can’t touch


box tops they usually tear anyways


nails one of them in my foot


sassafras people still actually say that


your panties entwined with my odd socks


toothpaste not sure what I’m supposed to think


all the knives clean I hit the lights






May 21, 2014 § Leave a comment


applicant human

verification even this

part I fail

magnetic poetry kit

May 10, 2014 § 1 Comment


to melt owl petal mushroom moon can bark


May 7, 2014 § Leave a comment


a new

anthology I learn

of his passing



his brother


for days



on the page

before me in

the old anthology



went for a walk

left his keys his phone

his pills



said yes

once to one of

my poems



“Is that from your

technique or the toughness

of your mouth?”



your death

attributed to




a collection

of flowers that’s

all it means



his last photo

he looks younger

than me





May 2, 2014 § Leave a comment



we all only

live a day




CHRIS GORDON early haiku 1994-1996

March 27, 2014 § Leave a comment


my cold feet

step on her bra

still warm


fallen elm leaves

the plastic bag



unlocking the door

the key she gave

back to me


I buy

another book about




Modern Haiku 25.2



a beautiful mouth

the postal clerk says

she likes my writing



Modern Haiku 25.3



fast-food containers

the weeds green from

the warm rain



Modern Haiku 26.1



the hot asphalt roof small white petals blow in circles


her hand covers my ear the sound blood makes



Modern Haiku 26.2



tea our silence and the hot still morning garden


light warm rain

mosquitos drift up

through wisteria and dusk


the full moon

coats the dark lake

boarding an empty bus



Frogpond 18.2



the orange glint of rush hour way up there a hawk circling


a train enters the distance empty sheets smooth and cool


imagining her with someone else behind the blinds the moon


weeks later her sweet voice it’s just a machine


the crosswalk whistles skimming the pavement an empty bag



Frogpond 18.3



in the dust splotches of rain half the billboard flaps in the wind


a gliding egret the clouds converge on themselves



Frogpond 19.3



January 30, 2014 § 1 Comment


the cloud-edge on the horizon deer head in the freezer


Jon Cone

Issue Six



where the lines end and the absence begins an architecture or so


Chris Gordon

Issue Five



clear winter sky over the radio the first bombs


Dorothy Howard

Issue Four




till there’s nothing left

of the light


Jim Kacian

Issue Five



your hair drawn back

the sharp taste of radishes


M. Kettner

Issue Five



meadow speaking the language she dreams in


Scott Metz

Issue Nine



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