Nada Gordon

Zoea
                                                                                                                                                
in the inner ear a spool recondite
the watchers toe a bit upon.
hulks of manhood blurt out
confessions of strandedness,
then choose to discover orange
sundresses in rag or bone.
     older bottles as magnitude
     older bells as authenticity.

i see i need a picture in my head
of dad and mom as lonely word.
astounds glass how. that's just my
issue, i take the kale nevermore:
wart of bliss, hebephrenia.

a limitless number of calico cats ...
take no action whatsoever.
i play with them in the void.

homophonia elites my silver bug
raised to the clouds as morph.
chant = bitter genesis with mine smell.

self -conscious? you know it.
every time the fig hits the ceiling.
like how as blobby knobs of speech,
below own whisper, fish
almost have ... summer

strategically, what ejaculates?
the roots hit the sky ...
if you really loved lyricism, you'd ...
but I guess I'm a bundle of needs too.
looking for a form today,
my writing subliminally tight
under the looseness today.
the number of words happily
available to the red hat hair of
brains. treat the bee as brother,
someday you'll be honey.

creative maudlin not kicking
in over lola montez or maria
montez/ my education feels bad
today. who's boethius, boehme,
and what is the traffic of my roasted
insouciance.

trumpets nurse the mood
i try to catch to lean back
against wall feeling hair
swing, the tow truck a poem
for the new girl and his
problems on the detoxifying
avenue. i spend my days in
songing in strange hat and
i want to fill my mind
with gum and gossip
in simples.

suffering from an ecstatic
disorder, the salad dressing smells
of eyeglasses and where's
the typical party. i also
don't like the way it tastes,
now, elevate:

words are still the subject as pills of cuneiform ranting
skin a tight network of criscrossed canals the dry panting
my is a o no pass over seraph of no confuse
did you change your noose to swallow my devotee
is the best frock balance a hero lapping a break?
heaven's insane recalcifying by some soppy tone
yes i'm a bleed listen you age sephardic country
humanities and how i louse -- oh you're kidding --
as no one else and how long for service call pacify
the window dove don't if i'm asleep just in time


this enters the sphere
of the aesthetic with a giant gong

abrogating dumb tongue in
stilton. milky arugula in
high hat over the far-flung
conclusion

handprint glittery cheese --
the fries are wiggling: gelly
roll. over magda and bertram
how they are olive (alive).
in multiple drafts and stretching --
the hammock of sung.

aporitic verbiage sparrow
squatting, professorial. violet
and frightened wave of gas,
the denture of wonder.
i thought hard parasol.
on the drugs of education
in lockstep pagina tion.
when a great poet dies,
the shrimp weep.

i thought hard at the
mall. sound. image.
saturation. emeritus
nowhere. tutelage
a crutch and leg hairy
under cast like bright
disease of mother tongue
above the drone of mucosal
whinny. the traitors and
their spotted wings, their
radar squares as caged as
peace. such moody things
as slake the compress
of techniques, their
complex simple forms
apostolic, diastolic.

remind me to ponder those
internal impulses we barely
notice, i always come away
with sympathetic skin
in the urban underground.
i felt swept and escorted
hands whitewashed lofty
like pleasure boats in sympathy
with enfolded pagan wealth

and powerful rigidity of
movement, um, excuse me --
i group buildings, suspicious
bovine teachers, this reversion
to time in dusty related objects
imperceptibly safe. in salmon wrap.

i saw a blonde with heaped-up
hair yelling "memsahib" at the
omens that show themselves
as recombination. undistinct
predatory mammoths in floral
print dresses ... a porthole
is carved into a whine. lunacy
flatters itself in new starts and
pinchedness, wave of blind
castles move this way, that way ...

hey catullus -- the lightning will be
in your world as curvaceous
disjunction. look good in your
executioner hat, the information
you can smell in ocean frappé ...

but i'm not meant to birth or
bend it qua telephone wire.
longletters from the lord of
selves -- i see a telephone in
the old bathhouse. any problems
with police nudity? rude squeak,
how do you edit a plaything?

sounds are loud. O. O. O.
the women hit my bread. who
will paint the town olive, cambric
cranberry or paste? be more specific
about the dove blue and "she has no
sensibility."

I WANT MY BARE BREASTPLATE
covered in sand. the noble unveiling
of pure vinyl (value). no fine mesh cover
heaving defensively. in the garden a rake
of worms, all dead, i see a flash of light.
transfigured as kindness and soup with
yuba, under torii of relative meaning.
denser than paranoia. more kuyashii
than sphinx.

macaronic verse falls out the eardrum.
mosaicked on. its awkwardness makes me
jump (up and down) in a sparrow's
frame of references. the old pigeon
is miserable. i feel pigeon.

feeling streaks into body as something
missing, becomes old habit faster than
the stepped-on rake hits your head,
reverses personality so that
interiority juts out soda spills
out of buildings. disorder. but not
"crude"

modernism has been well-done.
something else ground, formed
into patties, and grilled as
fabulous changes (crescent
moon and star. whispered
confessions in impatient
old age as each word crawls
on the back of the next).

processed and pressed self-
referentiality in lieu of ample
smiling human flaw. i hate
the whole tendency, want
grass huts under moon in
temperate weather. imposters
gnaw the bones of ancestors.
and are filled with prose. sick
of palimpsests, forever trapped
in lyric ... it doesn't really hurt
but it hurts my throat.

reason as onyx says
i wrote from inner need
in caftan, juices lushing
in shit and bills and walked
to my mug, justice assigns
curfews to my children's
big broken light. the clouds
poked out at angles in
seraglio or put the pears
in sideways. i see a seabream
breathe out light. flies.
shakiness and pathos. in
a golden shift at midday,
transrational loose pigeons
dropt in soil. no draw lotus
here under sleep end. as
deepening or crescendo
nearly unzips skulls
so horns come greenly
out.

[Back to Readme]