Pomegranate

Today I ate 

the pomegranate that I stole
last Saturday. I picked it
from an ikebana on Culture Day--
which somehow seems appropriate
because I have never bought a pomegranate
in my entire life
and sense culture is born
from and for thieving.
It has been
on my stainless steel counter-top
since, aging like a sinking king--
its spiky crown slouching east.
Its shrinking skin cracking more
and more open daily,
showing wider seams
of its jewelish meat.

I worked one of its splits apart,
my wedging thumbs
dividing the whole in two,
and ate it
with a woman who stands
at the gate of several worlds--
the secret and revealed,
the sacred and profane,
the heaven and hell. Eating
mostly silent,
as though it were
John Cage's birthday--
which it might actually be--
we commented
on the husky hisses emitted
in dismembering
a pomegranate's pieces.
Persephone must have felt likewise,
looking into one's rubied brain,
picking out particular memories
with stained finger tips,
letting the seeds sow at her feet.

I just heard a few
old women laughing
outside my window, so sure
they will last till nightbreak,
so happy to speak of
the schedule of the trash truck.
The shell of the pomegranate
is stuffed deep in
my flammable garbage bag,
obscuring the evidence
of what, like me,
has surely vanished unknown.

jerry gordon
11.6.2012

Setsubun 2012

The men replaced the moon last night,

hanging it a bit lower outside my window.

It now has its white shine again,

after I’d gotten used to a confusing tint of orange.

But, I will miss that dull sun of night,

as it marked a special couple seasons in my life.

The men were cheerful

in their truck and crane and helmets,

climbing the pole

and ratcheting off the moon’s supporting straps.

They smiled and spoke in sing-song signals

to mark the stages of the old moon’s removing

and the hoisting of the new.

And I even caught the guardman--

those men who usually look

like they’ve been plucked out of street-boxes

and wrapped in an oversized jacket

just for the day’s job--

enjoying an inspection of my neighbor’s

tiny plum blossom tree,

checking the buds’ progress

towards spring.

by jerry gordon

2.3.2012

My Tornado

When I enter my tornado

I take off my glass hat,

I put away my bouquet of

flowers

and the other 

things I love

to keep them safe from

tractor tires, factory roofs

and the flying cows

that may come down

against my body,

tearing me into realignment

and leaving my clothes

disheveled.

I know I will

survive my tornado,

but I’ve seen how it batters

the stuff I love. So,

I use silence

and other brands of wisdom

to keep the future

possible.

by jerry gordon

1.8.2012

Icarus Did Fly

Everyone forgets that Icarus did fly,

that he rose off the ground and rode updrafts,

that he helped design and build

a set of wind-worthy wings,

that he caught birds and killed birds

and plucked birds and cooked birds.

Food for inspiration.

We fail to imagine him

sitting there in Crete, leaning against 

one of the Labyrinth’s infinite walls

and strapping a pair of fully functional

four meter wings to his arms.

Now, imagine him standing up--

for the last time in his life--

and starting to flap, lifting up in his invention

at first on bobbing hops of weightlessness

and then beating against the gusts and blasts

of the Mediterranean breathing over the genius’ walls.

My children slowly push the edges of two futons

against each other. They buckle, lift and flop.

There is much laughter and sound effects in this game.

Here I have a good model of plate tectonics.

Up up up he flew, moving amidst the churning air

above his island birthplace and prison.

He followed his father’s path in flight,

but then looked back and fathomed

the revealed plan of the Labyrinth

beneath him, seeing the whole 

maze from a higher perspective

and finally not feeling lost.

Feeling bird-viewed.

Feeling awe-struck.

Feeling free.

Strapped within the success of his thoughts,

he flew beyond the reach of mountains

and waves and Minos’ guards.

Given such victories against such gravities,

can we blame him for a blaze of pride,

for thinking that just maybe 

he was good enough to sit with gods?

Uranium fuel rods gently chime

within their honeycomb hives:

a rattling song,

evidence of torque and earth-crust undulations. 

Should the pools of coolant stop flowing,

uranium pellets would begin to glow

beyond white, burning with mathematical purity

through meter after meter of concrete, deeper

into gravity’s embrace.

Icarus put his ideas to test,

using his own life as the risk.

This has a type of superhuman

test-pilot nobility in it.

Tokyo Electric Power Company

built their reactors in Fukushima.

Everyone still wisely rejects

putting reactors near the capital.

It is rumored that Icarus gathered 

over a million feathers during his lifetime.

All of them, cataloged and sorted

into structure, size and source.

His father taught him

the skills of attention and invention,

the ways of building impossible things.

A woman in a pink coat

and pink pants

and a pink scarf

and pink gloves

and a pink helmet

on a pink scooter

just zipped past 

the Education Center’s 

parking lot gate.

Somewhere someday

she will die, probably

long after her motorbike

and outfit have vanished.

The terminal velocity

of a falling flailing body

is about 200 kilometers per hour.

When Icarus’ head hit the water,

he was moving very fast. Faster than

the feathers and ash and drops of wax

that followed. The impact

knocked him out

or killed him instantly. 

The ocean filled him calmly.

His ripple didn’t reach any shore,

but it lasted longer than the sound

of his splash or final word.

The tsunami reached and reached

and reached and reached, raising

its greasy black stench higher than everyone

imagined, going beyond the impossible.

Those who climbed higher than what was

impossible, found an old stone on the hillside

engraved in ancestor script, saying,

“Don’t build lower than this point.”

Tell me when we have listened to our parents.

by jerry gordon

4.30.2012

Bosozoku

In this land 

renowned 

for its clamped-down 

uniformity, I'll 

happily tolerate these 

brief spasms of roar. 

The majority of

Bosozoku WILL conform 

to the logics of sensibility, 

practicality and hush. 

But, for now, 

I'll cheer their 

nonsensical, 

slow-motion terror 

of the sleepy.

by jerry gordon

6.11.2013

After Another

Don’t be defeated by the Rain,

or let winds stop your movement.

Lean into forces that push you back. 

Keep going. 

Keep going.

Hold your bag close to your body.

Don’t let nature take it back too soon.

The gifts you carry are for others,

from others, 

valuable only to others.

Watch

Listen

Learn

Rest where others rush.

Work when others laze.

Care for what’s kicked.

Cry amidst voices of anger.

Shout for those invisible in sobs.

Be foreign. 

Be forgotten.

Die in the leap of living.

If you cannot find

a thatched house

beneath a meadow pine, 

this body will serve as

enough.

by jerry gordon

6.5.13