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
HAIKU FOR MARTIN LUCAS
May 7, 2014 § Leave a comment
a new
anthology I learn
of his passing
his brother
concerned
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
bird-watching
a collection
of flowers that’s
all it means
his last photo
he looks younger
than me
1962-2014
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
remains
unlocking the door
the key she gave
back to me
I buy
another book about
non-attachment
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
HAIKU IN ENGLISH: THE FIRST HUNDRED YEARS ant ant ant ant ant
January 30, 2014 § 1 Comment
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the cloud-edge on the horizon deer head in the freezer
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Jon Cone
Issue Six
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where the lines end and the absence begins an architecture or so
:
Chris Gordon
Issue Five
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clear winter sky over the radio the first bombs
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Dorothy Howard
Issue Four
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whittling
till there’s nothing left
of the light
:
Jim Kacian
Issue Five
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your hair drawn back
the sharp taste of radishes
:
M. Kettner
Issue Five
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meadow speaking the language she dreams in
:
Scott Metz
Issue Nine
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CHRIS GORDON a book of matches
January 29, 2014 § Leave a comment
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snow from Xmas still painted on the porno shop
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thaw before New Year’s silverfish in the bathtub
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three lentils in the beach bathroom drain
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my son says I’m not playing I’m having fun
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at the doctor we divide by two subtract one
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the button I sat on falls to the bus floor
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drawn to the lollipop ants sizzle in the sun
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panties tossed on the melon rinds wet in spots
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over time the little steps take us far away
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my brother I don’t really know it’s his birthday
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hoofprints on the beach seaweed entangled with bones
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morning the bathroom empty except for my razor
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you write a list I let your tea steep too long
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with a book of matches you know how many are left
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lit by the window sawhorses covered with snow
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the corner where the blackbird attacks a rag on fire
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deep in the river a tiny moth leaves my head
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CHRIS GORDON a ring around the moon
January 19, 2014 § Leave a comment
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after the movie
we find the ants
in the bag of candy
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footfalls on the wooden
floor I can hear what
I did to your knee
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the foundation separates
from the house ants
carry off a beetle
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silence on the phone
a spider darts out
from the matchbook
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the crow in
the road refuses to move
a thunderstorm at dusk
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at the bookstore
we pretend we don’t
know each other
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yellow dawn waking
up to the taste of
vomit on your lips
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a bit of your breast
as you lean over for
a piece of cold pizza
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where someone walked
the grass has lost its blue
sheen of dew
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at dusk the heat
inside the house pushes
the door open a little
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your panties soaking
in the sink today
the crocus bloomed
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the bank teller tells
me there’s a ring
around the moon
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she’s taking a long
shower I add up
the receipts
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empty nut shells blown
by a warm wind a rag
that smells of gasoline
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waves of heat rise
from a tin roof a balloon
in the distance
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a few grains of sugar
at the edge of the fire
slowly smoking
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a woman in white
furry boots I drop a handful
of screws
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at the end of January
we see the sun your results
off the chart
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after our fight
we both wind up at
the pineapples
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CHRIS GORDON the yellow payphone
January 5, 2014 § 1 Comment
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it only takes
incoming calls
the yellow payphone
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when you buy
a newspaper
the yellow payphone
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the yellow payphone
the only one
in the neighborhood
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next to
the ice machine
the yellow payphone
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if she’s angry
call her on
the yellow payphone
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additional charges
may apply
the yellow payphone
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the store’s closed
it’s still lit up
the yellow payphone
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calls may be
monitored on
the yellow payphone
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it smells
like cologne
the yellow payphone
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a call from
the sheriff forwards to
the yellow payphone
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all I remember
when I get back
the yellow payphone
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ant5 