NOAH ELI GORDON

from The Year of the Rooster

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

from THE YEAR OF THE ROOSTER

 

 

Morning orchestrates its little engines—

 

residual truth, frightening rain

           a leaf

shaking with yellow jacket liftoff

 

It’s a deafening sound drives through

sincerity, its armored trees & sad insects

 

Who’d want to move from the particular?

 

Clouds shapes themselves judiciously

 

go to ghost windows

                          I’ve lived every new city in

So programmatic & unsunned

 

                       // oil inertia //

        // honey inertia //

                // nerve endings & string //

 

An accomplice to thirst is gracious

 

 

***

 

Okay, so can a bird elicit real ambient beauty

will me a capable compulsion machine

flipping the difficulty switch, high-pitched chatter

to ward off carnivores or saying a little extra

in case it won’t pass the incubation period

 

Who’s smashing atoms on a cyclotron

shows infinite reductions beyond a long green afternoon lakeside

just so momentarily leveled by rain clouds dabbed on to cover a mistake

 

Unaccountable lust begins unseasonably, striking

a chord into balcony ambiance

Better keep where it fell, a brittle lookout tower

subtle acuity of someone who’d spend the day in war paint

 

 

***

 

Bind & link the rooster thinking

a protracted present can’t keep

the characters straight

 

Cliff-Noted Infamous Death

 

Sun Making a Color Wheel of Oil Spots

 

There were dragonflies over the pond

 

Like the rooster puts words behind my eyes

& calls it more a mouth than speaking would

 

Does this window have a name?

 

                                                 Yes

Will you sing it?

 

                                     Hush me

 

 

***

 

 

Gutted architecture, global compliance

 

The first to the finish line

is always first to the finish line

 

Gratuitous self-perpetuating publicity

 

Eight weeks in broken collarbone

& aesthetic tendencies instead of ideas

 

Proof that one’s voice at very least is wanting

contact, has a pedestrian flair, terribly mistaking

crows for consciousness, the surface for vapid paint

a house for a sarcophagus, a bed for a life, your white shirt for mine

blue for blue—obedience is an awful word I think to get lost in

 

Rooster talking a museum out of its eternal monologue says

“Sometimes all a stone does is eating”

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

Nebulous space between next week

  & that line of trees amounts to the ball-chain

my mind can’t help but drag

 

What emerges is hope for something to sink these doctored teeth into

 

A divination unaccustomed to cracked walls, strips of paint

about to voice other states the sky doubts

like a windup turtle on a wooden table knocks over a cork

& I’m in love with impossibility for its dynamic body

or simply shaking grit from a shoe

wears through the pedestal beneath

notes that amounts to nothing when nothing

erases as well as a name

 

So story gathering in the corner shivers a bit, rights itself, wipes off cobwebs

 

How long does it take to muster that kind of attrition?

 

 

***

 

 

Thought vaccine

 

Thought collapse

 

Before I died I was a thief now I’m a head of state bored of full talking

 

Death’s a touch-me-not trigger

constellates around the rooster

 

Boring as a canvas to a waterfall, a splotch of red

to equations lifting a helicopter

apologetic penis, don’t try to make me

one of your machines

 

Who said it?

 

Him or me? 

 

If suffering pronouns are only words

I must be a ghost of it

 

 

***

 

Collecting discharge decomposition carries

dangling a carrot in front of a theoretical mule

something akin to startup fervor, sweat & its saltlick altar

ominous rust on an ice pick, the impromptu ballet in a palmist’s index finger

tracing a line I might as well rely on

 

Can you believe this humming anonymous light?

 

He thinks the light is anonymity

broken against an electron, smeared with a magpie’s tail feather

cast on a sheet of orange vellum pasted inside a brown leather book

 

A cricket’s ankle is not fragile to the cricket

 

Dab it there

 

Good Good Morning has nothing to do with sun

 

 

***

 

 

you are you & me & him & she & rooster’s blemished

lexicon baffling myself beside myself in selfish hyperbole

you are you & he & me’s a she with boy parts for a girl’s

part in rooster play affections always publicly masked to

mistake him mistaking her instinctively tame history you

are you & me & him & she & rooster’s flushed red standing

feathers stand for outmoded chivalry yes sir I’m madam

to a hen’s dogma of danger-chuckles receding like consummate

you & you are him & she & I’m stuck a fraud to think in

dignity gives rooster back his sickly stupid gaze you are you

& me & him & she & the rooster’s aggressive wonder wanders

austere horizon hopes to say wake again with the world in

your mouth salvaging prude armor of a pride encased by lesser

speech with louder reach so go faithful straight’s a human fate