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About this poet

Noah Eli Gordon is the author of The Word Kingdom in the Word Kingdom (Brooklyn Arts Press, 2015). He teaches at the University of Colorado-Boulder and lives in Denver, Colorado. 

Jaywalking the Is: "First Dream" [excerpt]

Noah Eli Gordon

To say sleep works by accumulation is to disregard the
weather in my head.

It makes a genius of the pillow, an apt anthropomorphic
redundancy.

When the story stumbles into its fearless costume &
everyone at the edge of the woods is worried their waiting-
room bravado won't open to anything but the same door on
the same house that seemed a little off in the morning,
every anecdote has an empty object.

When your own name's written on the gate, negation is just
something we do.

What's redundant about the human personal? The urge to cull
an animal pronoun from a procession of wedding guests?

At least reductive absolutes rivet you somewhere closer to
the actual rainfall, adjudicating ultimatums or handling
the ounce of mulch it takes to cover any experience worth
calling tactile.

There's nothing sharp about a knife in a movie.

& doesn't it make you fearless & brave to say so.

From The Area of Sound Called the Subtone, Ahsahta Press, 2004. Used with permission.

From The Area of Sound Called the Subtone, Ahsahta Press, 2004. Used with permission.

Noah Eli Gordon

Noah Eli Gordon

Noah Eli Gordon is the author of The Word Kingdom in the Word Kingdom (Brooklyn Arts Press, 2015). He teaches at the University of Colorado-Boulder and lives in Denver, Colorado. 

by this poet

poem

The bottom teeth of summer

in winter, braided into

whomever stood on the green green bridge watching her shadow lengthen.

Sun-pocket. Sunflower. Seedling, you

brittle blossoming something the room clears of dailyness.

Daily, the bottom teeth of summer

poem

for Graham Foust

What is technology if not

a kind of built-in nostalgia

for the frantic past’s long slide

into a slower present

Put another way: a decade

bends 8-bit bells & whistles

into an oxymoron it nearly

hurts

poem
I'd give you another day dizzy 
in its bracket for the reluctant circumference 
of a sad sad satellite's antiquated orbital stoppage.
You can't jump with a lead foot, can't 
anthropomorphize insect anticipation, can't 
pixelate postcard nostalgia, can't 
trace a boy's tiny hand and call him
king of anything that