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

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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

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Jim Kacian

Issue Five

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your hair drawn back

the sharp taste of radishes

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M. Kettner

Issue Five

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meadow speaking the language she dreams in

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Scott Metz

Issue Nine

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SCOTT METZ MASKS No. ONE

November 6, 2013 § Leave a comment

A SACRIFICE MADE FOR THE SHADOWS

BIRD CAGE to GOETHE

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A Famous Love Letter

War the Queen of Violets

one day she finally

spoke up waking

perhaps brighter days

my friend

King of the Sharks

the church bells sound

most blissful moment

like jellyfish

I would refuse them

but they disappeared

the Queen of Violets

flowed at this parting

part of a question about

as I interrupted the cloud

irrational lines

and my beautiful dreams

the distant far-extended night

in a redwood forest

in the tone of your voice

the Shark King

taking lifetimes

to be with me

wherever I go

my happiness is my home

B.

the Queen of Violets

her hallucinations

in triplicate

Letter to a New Acquaintance

Dear Shark King

I the taste of

being a scarecrow

a fatal weakness for the coast

for the Queen of Violets

left us to ourselves

the fog is so shy

since the keyhole

three phone calls

you wouldn’t understand

I suppose

the Shark King

in a big city all your life

the memory of creating an ocean

if you dropped it tomorrow

with an ocean all over again

under clouds

what do you do for

the Queen of Violets?

you expect another holiday?

the Queen of Violets

part of the bargain

buried her teeth

cordially

after the storm

Vivian

the Shark King

inside the moss

Letter to a Jealous Sweetheart

My Darling

why do you insist on hurting

the Queen of Violets?

our neighbors

to the next life she takes

a fear of snakes

you?

you can’t penalize me for

the Shark King

this argument so often burns

you’re only too ready to believe

the coral’s dream

certainly married to the hands

by all rights he ought to hate me

a steel worker

that’s beyond my control you see

the Queen of Violets

yesterday mother received

the Shark King

a sacrifice made

you read this line

no strings attached for the shadows

I swear

the Queen of Violets

as you once did by writing

she once took a step

outside the city

self again

Lydia

Letter Accompanying a Gift

the Shark King

his memory of stars

Dear Revised

the first frost caught me

dilly-dallying with a sweater

the Queen of Violets

winter without it

a hole cut in one night

I could protect you

against the north wind

love has tamed me

it has kept me with a bomb

chained to my chair

the Shark King has fallen

in love

the result, mother

you may even put in

an order for a muffler

your own

the Queen of Violets

what was her last memory

of me

a bottle of water

awaits

the King of Sharks

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Autumn 2009 / Spring 2012

CHRIS GORDON Haiku 21 an anthology of contemporary English-language haiku

October 16, 2013 § Leave a comment

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a love letter to the butterfly gods with strategic misspellings

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avoiding definitions we stroke the tender leaves of the maple

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later you realize it was actually a part of your own body

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

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parked ahead of us someone watches the air a syrup

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the rain drips quickly on the white pavement lowfatdeathcamp

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Anorexia plus Silicon

June gets a bruise

then it starts to rain

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twilight those children shout the names of their dogs Freeway and Tequila

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spiders settling in where my habits where away the edges

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I meet the twin she

never mentioned the mist

lit briefly by the sun

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which part of me gets which part of you suddenly it’s spring

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dusk turns gray and

hazy and breaks off into

several angry girls

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leaf shadows on

the ground sway from

the secrets of war

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all the sticks

sharpened differently the moon

has stained your gloves

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she’s reaching for the red

chicken something passes

in front of the sun

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when the rain stops

you find me in the apple

packing my bags

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things I did with my hand show up as dead skin

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MASKS No. One

August 12, 2013 § Leave a comment

http://en.calameo.com/read/0025115455c1e2567dbe3

SCOTT METZ ant ant ant ant ant nine

November 17, 2011 § 1 Comment

A Sealed Jar Of Mustard Seeds

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bits of found objects that hole she left in me

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up among the dawn stars her dreaming hand

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falling through my side of the story blood red spring

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it’s always either the ocean or a mountain with her

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ants have found the freshness last night’s lightning

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weed it openly challenging the war czar

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an illusion of green the caterpillar’s comment

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peony night i lift the mask by the tip of its nose

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i say yes sir to the rattlesnake sign

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from pistils sky scrapers covered in vaseline

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new myths crawling slowing into the old heat

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autumn leaf already i am attached

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last of the ice he enters the apocalypse before me

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meadow speaking the language she dreams in

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the fog returns my carbon footprint

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entering through the back door eaters of light

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a comma attached to the tip of the flowering branch

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without permission part of me starts to bloom

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still cold the taste of the fan

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abandoned by an insect full moon and i

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last of the fireflies in my small intestines

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our silence fogs the window city inside us

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at the very edge of it all saplings

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winter day barely one language

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green noise the cicada can’t hear it

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the blood rushing through my blowhole winter stars

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a god that never noticed me before the peony shadow

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sometime today i’m bound to grow another string

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bright thick moss the violence in me

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a sealed jar of mustard seeds swift moving clouds

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sometimes the wind lifts up its wing to read

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invading another land crow caw

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trees almost bare touching you

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letting the lightning inside elephant cherry blossom

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daffodil scent no longer in the elevator

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the aftertaste of snowflakes pushing away

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speaking up peonies in my synapses

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inside a hotel of runaways glass elevator

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a dried up grain of rice clinging to the black sea

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perfume on my fingertips from the counter fading moon

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is it the wind god reminding me of her breasts

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coastal blossom the opposite of america

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what would the cicada think quiet nights

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could be her could be a firefly

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thru an eyehole the crow leaves a sea of skulls

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the leaf’s erotic story circling the hawk

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winter night she knowingly reveals another arm

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the war awakens the face of an insect in the mirror

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among the keys i took off black sesame seed

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asleep her fingers move on their own over moss

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the old train tracks end a nightmare of trees

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another day of snow my jurassic layer

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the only sound that’s come out of me all day firefly

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at this point i just assumed they come alive at night

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the string attached to me unraveling bare branches

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far enough into it dyslexic spring

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the sound of water i enter the spider’s dream

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walrus with its mouth wide open war statistics

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outweighed by the butterfly’s thought

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the word god being eaten by a field of robins

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