GUY R. BEINING ant ant ant ant ant six
October 3, 2011 § Leave a comment
The Back Streets Of A Snail
:
:
billboards
pinned to the sleeve
of the highway
:
we of one market
one leaf one fruit bin
await flies & rot
:
washes whiter
in quiet of evening
dark creak of table
:
bring me
the room of
a swollen number
:
in mock soup
& fan of turtle shell
sore-kneed Buddha
:
offer pictures of mecca
while playing a dangerous
game of marbles
:
bubbles that
hear flat skin of
sunfish
:
heavy black glove
nearsighted & brusque a bee
breasts pressing mirror
:
hand on
soiled number 9
paper off the roll
:
order of night
a hyphenated thought
left in onion patch
:
inhabit this
the back streets
of a snail
:
gets you no further
from nature to circle
the tree in spanish
:
white lips powders
space left by stars
fixer
:
in glass rooms air
listens to itself covers
of light fall & fold
:
a yellow ball from
the women in chairs opens
the crematory steps
:
draw space as maximum
silverware in her hair
& shells to eat with
:
words burn
a cut above the spine
sitting on divan
:
rush hours middays other
times black band around
the sky bright eyes
:
the membrane falls
from a table of ferns
stock multi-bodied
:
another charred
boat has left
the dock of dreams
:
open blossom or
bloom of voice
in insect light
:
and invention
nefarious angles in
bitter snow drifts
:
and long white wings
the estuary on
its dark toes
:
a circle of mirrors
shut out the stars
people don’t know
:
breath
the pin as ice pick
buying the night face
:
colored sharpness
of wild card in
stenciled parlor car
:
go toward
the buried side
of vision
:
dire briefness of
lot pocket it even if
it blackens the soul
:
the moon is not
a number it is a landfill
a gap in the eye
:
on head of mountain
grievous we have maintained
a private clasp
:
:
LEE GURGA ant ant ant ant ant six
October 3, 2011 § Leave a comment
Adjust The Dimmer
:
:
milkweed flowers as seen on national tv
:
dollar not quite as green as the katydid
:
an empty beach on the island spring
:
tax day outside the post office wild plum scent
:
leaves of grass something sticky on the cover
:
93 million miles past the adult book store spring sunset
:
spiderwort in bloom “i love you” note in the wrong envelope
:
phone ringing in the dead of night a cloud of skippers
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white sand beach i fill my pockets then empty them
:
after lovemaking rhubarb tarts
:
just a piece of wing on the dusty road painted lady
:
empty thong where i wonder who
:
white chrysalis of salt on the kitchen table
:
scent from the letter i adjust the dimmer
:
after church a butterfly explodes on the windshield
:
night rain putting on my good underwear
:
forgotten today by the one true god autumn mosquito
:
hardware store smell of gun oil and donuts
:
the virgin mary floodwater up to her thighs
:
motionless in the wind galvanized sheets bent by the wind
:
brought an umbrella for once but didn’t need it
:
one yellow dandelion one autumn butterfly
:
day of the dead there goes my skirt
:
a red plastic whistle in the withered grass
:
drifting snow a pair of blue jays in the treetop
:
winter solstice careful not to touch my sleeping wife
:
farther than the amtrak whistle stubblefields
:
the man who never married doesn’t watch
:
powdered snow sifts across the county blacktop
:
from time to time the dog catches up
:
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CHRIS GORDON year of the fire horse
September 30, 2011 § Leave a comment
Divine Craft
The Chinese Astronauts
Were all born in
The same fortuitous year
Their wives dress
Like stewardesses
The Chinese Astronauts
The President behind glass
To keep his germs from
The Chinese Astronauts
Made in foreign countries
Their suits are different
The Chinese Astronauts
When they hear
Helicopters it’ll be time
The Chinese Astronauts
Their hands fumble at
Pockets that aren’t there
The Chinese Astronauts
The moon is neither
Full or empty to
The Chinese Astronauts
The Chinese Astronauts
Remain outside for
About 13 minutes
If the clouds recede
We’ll be able to see
The Chinese Astronauts
The payload is still
A mystery to
The Chinese Astronauts
The Chinese Astronauts
Aren’t able to touch
Their own faces
Carried from the capsule
The Chinese Astronauts
Sit in blue fold-out chairs
Back at their day jobs
The Chinese Astronauts
Remember weightlessness
FUJIKI KIYOKO by HIROAKI SATO ant ant ant ant ant six
September 30, 2011 § 2 Comments
As If She Were Machinery
:
:
In deep autumn I go on traveling unenlightened
:
The scent of perfume so lively sudden loneliness
:
The quiet sound of a falling mosquito resounds in my body
:
Ears of wheat reveal the depth and shallows of the sea
:
The day my black hair’s heavy and cold we part
:
A spring evening I ride a car with an ordinary man
:
Katydids my perspective gradually narrows
:
A girl’s limbs are thin and wise air-conditioned
:
Having got used to the depth of war I love a dog
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Summer deep I sleep the day with my own smell
:
Fingerprints of desolation everywhere clouds white
:
The trifoliate orange is sharp the lady’s elegant
:
Oppressed by the sea in twilight I await a train
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Covered by the sounds of insects lies a brain
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Lonely spring a wife lives as if she were machinery
:
The night I give up and sew the needle shines
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A white moon turns to gold above the young leaves
:
Through my temples a locomotive dashes dark
:
Here’s life the fruit juice amber transparent
:
Early autumn’s good my veins transparent arteries pulse
:
Rainy season desolate I find myself with peanut shells
:
At a katydid I feel as if noon day were sinking
:
With dusk slow to fall gruel’s cooking at my feet
:
Knotweed growing thin falls into the typhoon zone
:
A spring evening is wound down toward the apple skin
:
Coming away from parting I drink hard cold water
:
White noon no white letter comes knocking
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Only a horsefly’s voice annoying my ears I make unlined clothes
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Having lived single-mindedly I’ve lost my goal
:
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TOM CLAUSEN ant ant ant ant ant seven
September 30, 2011 § 1 Comment
After The Pleasant Part
:
:
from the soil
in the shovel
a beetle crawls
:
low cloud cover
early in the morning
her tight dress
:
in the tall stand
of evergreens
my cookie crumbs
:
reflections
under the bridge
a man fishes
:
without her friend
on the bus
her face
:
no one home
on the hard ground
a light snow
:
carried on
the flooded river
a beach ball
:
spring
removing the neighbors
from view
:
while they investigate
the accident outside
I order pizza
:
wild cherries in blossom
their land rough
with junk
:
all I know
she has a blue star
on her left breast
:
gray daybreak
her “to do” list
from yesterday
:
at 70mph
what I saw
wild turkeys
:
keeping quiet
last of the day’s light
on new grass
:
asleep
in the fallen scarecrow’s lap
a cat
:
the War
a woodchuck nibbles
beside the freeway
:
at the next urinal
he studies a tile
higher up
:
garden walk
she checks herself
in the pond
:
the crow
in me
gets a response
:
dentist chair
the sun comes and goes
from the window
:
cemetery
tracks in the snow
lead out to the road
:
the habit of looking
where it used to be
the mirror
:
on her cell phone
going into the building
“I love you too”
:
on time
the daily truck load
of pigs
:
after the pleasant part
of our walk
we hurry
:
warm spring day
a bra
in the bushes
:
the chain link fence
runs into
highwater
:
writing him
the second letter
without complaints
:
dinner over
he addresses
some crumbs
:
heavy overcast
between bench slats
a sprout
:
:
JON CONE ant ant ant ant ant seven
September 30, 2011 § Leave a comment
Yet She Tells You About Owls
:
:
I look for my ax sounds of distant trains
:
Horns swirling my ruined reeds
:
Cup your hands hold the iron water briefly
:
After the storm all morning gathering tree branches
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Wondering about the unreadable billboard I boil an egg
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Ropes and bags of sand even I remember the old garage
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Plums in a plastic bag on the picnic table the fountain lights
:
On the path to the water pump sky filled with stars
:
At a loss for words using bleach to clean your infected toe
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Laundry on the line grasses move in the ditch
:
Stirring ashes with a stick crudely drawn phallus
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The pond is frozen hard nipples beneath your shirt
:
Three pennies in a urinal full moon tonight
:
Before the universe not even nothing to piss you off
:
Toy truck rusts in the sandbox measureless grief
:
You don’t even like her yet she tells you about owls
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The juniper is ill with mold I need new eyeglasses
:
Sprouting through plastic grass seed left in the rain
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The hammer feels warm I wipe my face with a rag
:
Paperbacks my glasses a change tin decorated with pin-ups
:
Near the lonely summer telescope an outhouse steams
:
Thunder approaches at my desk writing a letter
:
Scanning the phone book you find your name
:
In the barn straw dust climbs a column of light
:
Summer already I catch flies with my bare hand
:
By this time next year you won’t even remember why
:
T-shirt wet with sweat working the lower register
:
The wasp you don’t really like begins a new nest
:
On the hill of flowers your ragged mouth gives me ideas
:
Black angel in need of repair it’s just me lousy with tools
:
:
CHRIS GORDON raw nervz haiku
April 27, 2011 § Leave a comment
Misprint
:
:
in the headlights new slats on the fence your mole occluded
:
covering the freeway a truck load of pumpkins magpie is a crow
:
after plucking hairs from my ear the tea tastes different
:
sweat from the questionable meat the monster saves the day
:
apparently she decided against underwear the figs gone bad
:
an unfamiliar taste to your finger what happens to the crickets
:
the next day you remember Buzz Aldrin the pool closed for repairs
:
in the shower I make the water hotter and notice the fly
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slow becomes owls wind a mystery with zippers
:
she’s kicked me out at the fountain they discuss local politics
:
after we’ve met my wife introduces us
:
on a seat at the bus station torn panties some old pills
:
I don’t feel the fly on my thumb sequel dubbed in English
:
a misprint in her body language tear open the air to black seeds
:
pale skin where the strap rested dishes drift in the sink
:
trying to avoid you I run into you even more
:
newspaper machines stuffed with clothing the parking lot a pond
:
it hovers then flies back at me what I spit out
:
objects fall the definition of silver wavers slightly
:
twisting in a swing she talks on the phone about her butt
:
:
Raw Nervz Haiku X:2
:
CHRIS GORDON A Guide To Haiku For The 21st Century (1997)
April 20, 2011 § Leave a comment
Everything Comes But The Bus
:
:
the countenance of the little girl muted distant televisions
:
a purple evening in the window she folds her underwear
:
snagged on the rock the water going out with the tide
:
on the edge of the paper an ant the smell of rain without the rain
:
diving into the shudder of darkness maybe this time
:
lunacy a lost poem about an acetylene torch
:
doppelganger spring a drawer of sex toys and failed medicines
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willow leaves drag against my scalp I can’t see her eyes
:
morning thick and humid they forgot to turn off the streetlights
:
ducks break the surface in the dark blurry crescent moons
:
she’s in the shower an airplane crosses the darkness in the trees
:
wind stirs the wind chimes on the porch there’s a fire
:
clapping my hands I kill a mosquito find it was a moth
:
the drip down the back of her thigh a mourning dove calls
:
the brown dusk held by algae blooms an egret’s feather
:
he washes his feet in the lake the cormorants their wings
:
sheets soaked her hand draws away from my breath
:
brief warm spell over thumping the outside of the pane the flies
:
putting on my glasses gnats hover above my face
:
weeks later her sweet voice it’s just a machine
:
visible only in the shaft of light a fly her crumpled clothes
:
the full moon low a dead tree its seed cones
:
the dark shape of a spider wrapping a moth it starts raining
:
the smell of garbage cans she asks me to keep her ring anyway
:
imagining her with someone else behind the blinds the moon
:
my cold foot steps on her bra still warm
:
rain louder than thoughts everything comes but the bus
:
still sick the tree shadows as real as the trees
:
dressing afterwards her voice hardens
:
winter again in my coat pocket a strand of her hair
:
:
:
selected by Hiroaki Sato for A Guide to Haiku for the 21st Century (Gendai Haiku Kyokai 1997)
JORGE LUIS BORGES diecisiete haiku (1981)
March 4, 2011 § Leave a comment
:
Afternoon. The mountain.
What they told me.
Already it’s gone.
:
The broad evening.
Nothing more than
a vague fragrance.
:
The dream that faded
just before dawn.
Was it real or not?
:
The strings grow still.
Their sound gives way
To my thoughts.
:
No comfort from
the almonds in the orchard.
They make me think of you.
:
Dimmer, dimmer.
My books, pictures, even keys.
Just like my future.
:
Since that one day
I’ve been unable to move
the pieces on the board.
:
In the desert
dawn presents herself.
Someone will see it.
:
The indolent sword
rings with its former battles.
My dream is otherwise.
:
He’s passed on,
but his chin doesn’t realize.
Each hair still growing.
:
My hand.
At times it brought about
Your horseman’s capture.
:
Under the balcony
the mirror shows no more
than the moon.
:
Under the moon
the shadow that reaches out
finds itself alone.
:
A hint, this light
that extinguishes itself,
or a firefly?
:
The new moon.
She as well sees
by some other light.
:
Barely a trill.
The nightengale’s forgotten
how to console you.
:
My old hand.
The traditional forms
bring it a forgetfulness.
:
:
Translated by Chris Gordon
JON CONE ant ant ant ant ant six
December 3, 2010 § 1 Comment
I OFFER YOU AN EYELASH
:
building a stone fence a scattering of feathers
:
smell of incense meat scraps in a plastic bin
:
mouthful of willow rain on the shed roof rain wherever
:
lifting up your dress from behind fire-scorched land
:
basket filled with stones the graveyard we wandered in
:
dreamed we lived in a corn maze what a curious word chthonic
:
axle grease on a rag blunt ruined fingers and eucalyptus mist
:
wasps by the pump only the four elements are real
:
the cloud-edge on the horizon deer head in the freezer
:
the shade of a hemlock I offer you an eyelash
:
ant5 