Friday, October 30, 2009

Shadows ~ Gideon Xenos


What is the shadow of a home’s
leaning age? The shadow cannot lean
more into distance than the mind’s
fingers’ eventual control.

Inside, a family lives, speaks
dialect of au courant recollections:

birth, maturation, meals paralleling
evening surprise.

Soon, they will wave into wind’s
musical science, forming
hallucinations of the former
life, living inside the shadow of
elegant control.



Gideon lives in California

Same is the Difference of Intelligent Control ~ Gideon Xenos


Sole leaf wore variants of green. These
greens spawned satirical shadows of
initiated selves, as moss
as grass as lizard’s blurred
absence. When asked
if self was the self of syncopated memories,
myriad green voices
spoke of tomorrow’s
finalized casualty:
its browning edges
finding bug-eaten crevice
italicized motion of understanding
difference.



Gideon still lives in California

Here Though Silence is the Echoing Vernacular ~ Gideon Xenos


Socrates,
his wandering sameness (sandals, white cloth, intent)
wore on sleeves of reason a
brand of continuous questioning.
Thus
when answers failed to fit body
of elongated remorse,
words of which were intensely untrue
fell near paths his tired body
delved into the
entrance of enormous
death.



Still Gideon lives in California.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

the open window ~ emily howard



Quiet now after the wedding.
Pouring rain I am still sitting fancy
Katie’s ghost is smoking on the front stoop
I won’t let her in although
I would really like a cigarette.

Apparently ghost love is all I know
For example, I love a ghost across the ocean
He loves another ghost, well his wife really
but ghost nonetheless-he sends me memories of her
line by line. I don’t really mind although
I still would like a cigarette as I read.

My brother died and now he’s a tree frog somewhere
Is this relevant? I wear his shirt sometimes.
My ocean ghost sent me one that looks just like it.
I’m not sure this is relevant.
If Michael weren’t a tree frog, I’d say he should join Katie on the porch.
but they wouldn’t necessarily get along.

Tonight was nice. I should ask my therapist
Why I hate weddings so much or is it
just a resentment of those who do not live ghost lives
But I think maybe everyone lives ghost lives.
Still they are pert and neat in their barriers
between here and there. And me,
I danced, fleshily, in a séance shawl
and felt solid at least in my whirling-they smiled at me
It was nice. Tiny nervous Thea left to go smoke.
I almost went with her.

In the story I read
one woman left her French doors open
every autumn so as to let in the long dead
Hunting party of her sons
And through the doors they came.
I read it, eating dried dates, under my covers
with a flashlight. We had similar doors in my house.
downstairs, where Michael sat watching television.
Because he was there , it didn’t frighten me
But I also wanted to be frightened.



I almost wish I knew what I am getting at.
And yes I see my lined face in the computer screen
ghostly, but so what? Hardly the point I’d say
but maybe the arc. The window is open and rain blows in
Michael is a tree frog. Katie smokes on the porch.
Nobody asked me to live as lonely as I have.
At least, he sleeps across the ocean
At least I can think of that.

I look in the kitchen for dried fruit
I find blueberries instead, cold in my mouth
I accept this little by little.

the gable

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

train