Wednesday, August 20, 2014

7.7

I make my wish
not because I believe
in wishes but because
I don't want
to not believe.


by jerry gordon
7.7.2014

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I slide over
on the train bench
into the now
empty end seat
and continue my
breathing. The first
scent inhaled is tobacco
exhaled by the man
who just departed.
His mouth was
right about
here. There is a moment
of measuring
intimacy and the
degrees we all are
living through
each other.


by jerry gordon
12.19.2013

Between Bugs

44 months ago
a black bug arrived
at Nakanoshima.
We were there.
How do things happen
in this world of
mountains, concrete
and seas? There needs
to be meetings
and departures.

A scab formed
across my right eyebrow
and fell off
close to 50 years ago.
Where is it now?
At times,
the scar is visible
and still itches.

After your call this morning,
a black bug appeared
on the kitchen counter.
It ran towards the coffee bag.
I looked away
for a tissue to grab it.
The moment later,
it had vanished.
I searched and searched,
but some things
can't be found again.

How many moons remain
until you stop bleeding?
How will that tiny bug
find its way into your womb?
Bodies guide us
towards and away.



jerry gordon
5.26.2014

Siren in the Living Room

Sailing alone
towards the far side
of the kitchen,
I hear the siren singing
way off in the living room.
She lays on the rug,
reading, but her songs
swirl above the Ikea lounger
and the open glowing
laptop. The ceiling lamp twists
with fear and desire.

I don't clot my ears with wax
or lash myself to the stove.
I stir the soup she brought over.

In certain phases of her moons,
her singing begins.
First, as random bursts
of voices, but then form
is found as sing-song
rambling--a language of
child sweetness and child
violence, of play advancing
onto war. How is it possible
for me to not swim towards her,
to not try to sing along,
to not want
to fit my body against
hers? She does me
so much kindness
and cruelty,
taking and giving more
than she should,
all the while building
bridges to cross into hells.

Heaven is when
the voice subsides
and songs no longer
scratch at my soul, when
her lyrics cease their
search for a language
and the moons
lose their torque on my seas.


by jerry gordon
11.2012

Across

I want to cross
the river and not
be seen. To carry
an invisible candle
through gust after
gust of sadness,
relighting its each exhaustion
with an undaunted
flame. I want to step
in the places that are
untrod beneath the river's flow
and know again and
again that I cannot
know. That I just
cannot know.


by jerry gordon
7.24.2014

Siren Song

Within this arriving
accumulation of the distances,
a siren's song assembles
in my ear. The promise of
an absolute
openness emptiness. Such
a foreign tongue,
usually audible
only in the depths
of the mirror. Beyond,
arriving here in my house.
The song singing itself
like some god born by
its own hands,
meaning what I know
I cannot know.


jerry gordon
5.11.2014