The lady in the moon
looks pissed. The clouds
of her breath chase
cars into the lake.
The salmon swim backwards
*
The future is broken
Fighter jets disguised as geese assume their checkmark formation
The clouds sink like battleships into the grass
O say can you pee, laughs my inner-child, peeing
Not so funny to the outer-child, prostate swollen, back hair
gathering frost
A rose of butter hardens
The beehives die, the snails ask questions
*
My eye isn’t naked,
it wears tiny shoes.
It dances all night
in a puddle of merlot.
Not drunk, not a stone
with quartz teeth
biting the dentist.
This isn’t a love poem.
The TV is off, the screen
is a mirror. The dead
leap from clouds shaped like airliners—
falling bodies of rain
*
I hate rain. I sink through
hours of darkness, passing only
the occasional neon jellyfish.
My bed lands on the moon,
the moon lands on my bed.
It doesn’t matter. A cloud
coughs down the door.
I weep, pull a dark quilt
of porn over my eyes.
The dog eats me. Showers
melt the town I grew up in:
the idiot weatherman, his umbrella
opening, closing itself at will
***
Jason Gordon’s poems have appeared in Abbey, Bathtub Gin, the Delmarva
Review, Poetry International, and
Presa, among others. Pudding
House Press published his first chapbook, I Stole a Briefcase, in 2008. Currently, he
lives in Catonsville, Maryland, where he teaches English at a high school for
students with emotional disabilities
