the flower I use as
a flashlight is dead
a hawk flies in squares
the sky is a cube
a box of blue clouds
refusing to rain
the phone is too old
to remember the future
the flies look like people
with chainsaws for mouths
the grass won’t glow
the trees won’t shine
the phone can’t sleep
the silence is loud
the brain made of flies
in the sea is on fire
the beer in the fridge
inside of the kitchen
tornadoes don’t enter
has started to boil
the mind is blank
the bleached whale sings
a song about nothing
our phones fall in love
the brain is an empty
cloud made of wood
After mowing the lawn,
my shoes were green. My skin
was green, my hair. I feared I was becoming
a giant. The furniture in the house
turned green and began to grow.
The cat incessantly licked his green fur.
What else does the green god
of summer have in store for me?
I wondered, pouring myself
a glass of green milk. Then
a swarm of green-eyed flies
smashed through the wall.
I hid in the freezer. The heat wave
had only just begun.
Jason Gordon’s work has appeared in The American Journal of Poetry, Bear Review, Passages North, Poetry International, and Smartish Pace, among others. He is the author of one full-length collection, Many Appetites (Spuyten Duyvil), as well as two chapbooks, I Stole a Briefcase (Pudding House Publications) and Attack of the Nihilist (Ravenna Press).
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photo: Henry Cherry