Noah Eli Gordon
A tiny treasure inside a summer horse is an example.
Is an example enclosure? Bullets & proximity?
The example moves in approximate air, dissipates, galloping.
Press on the stirrups. They break apart like equations.
I break in half. Chalk breaks in half. Half a summer horse is broken.
Ransom. Warmth. Bullets. Everywhere examples bloom.
A Sluggish Root for Liz to Tender
I’ve sunk in one of several strategies
for whittling to its dog that won’t come in
this day’s want of a lap, a foyer in lamplight, the next warm thing.
Life in a novel’s simpler, more lush in film.
Who wouldn’t envy a male lead’s backstroke on the thousandth take?
Two crows in late afternoon stuck on the oil that rendered a perfect oak?
So much for the plastic arts, domestic
as any model and its chores, the chorus’s dinky feedback.
Even duration becomes a throaty hymn’s
threadbare hem, dressed in what’s eventual and artificial.
Sculpture’s never approached a pear.
Two Paragraphs Dubbed From A Perfectly Functional Book
Take note, audience is music discomposed. Take note, half an arguably unclear concept. The enemy of scales or the problem of departure? To annul a wordless description of bird noise from logic, displacing too much water & sinking the universe one subtracts from the composition, light has to blind the phylum under which it’s broadcast. Take note, audience is radically corrigible. If speech is merely a neo-Faustian ascent revealing a thought ordained with the stalled present—a picture of unlikeness, then a red sky is an arguably unclear concept. Take note, audience is an octave higher. If entropy is outright expression, then giving the resulting sound is merely disregard for one’s loosening of a vantage point. Mint my hope to yesterday’s map of anonymity.
Footprints leading away from the metronome. I inordinately repeat myself at the players. A bed of music by stretching a yellow moth appears to work. A pox on cathedral walls, so damn flat. Invert the immaculate image of cultural literacy, tame me, call this high window the hot air around its subject. A wall’s a sentence hacked out if it’s placed down. It’s the event or an ocean of geometry. Striking an underwater ideal, woe is such an indigestible moral. Like you, I’m admitting a simile in for its subject, a tacky advertisement for a paragraph about actual wind velocity. The question arises: does a lion fail to see the marvelous? Speech is terribly monotonous to take, widening the scorched university—the studious avoidance of rotting pine trees.