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Noah Eli Gordon

I am here with my suitcase to collect only the good brains.

—Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry


The Dubtone

Chamber of ash left open.

Mythic entitlement wash-out made us witness

footprints I crush to register a slow descent.

A place to appear overly eager, unjustly relieved.

I hadn’t been hanging garlands, ineffectual geometry,

crossed streets & arrival circuits, an overdose on the outline

traced by falling in. The mice were still. Switch channels.

I’d say ease its own name, written on the lowest point

between broken instruments. Sew the house. Although it’s closed.

Admittedly, I could. But paper legislating geography, flowerbeds?

I rubbed backseat perfection. The glue holds the ground

so frozen nothing happens because we do it.

Like this I-think-I-can engine rides

an otherwise mimetic account.






The Dubtone

Lighthouse out, equal sign to anything save contempt, spreading code pink in the not-quite-famous. I’m willing to flowerbed, stuck striking these illustrated pictures, perfectly reflective glass. Pulling teeth or trying to cull an ideal peach rotting a window ledge, a coat draped over footprints to refract the loved rain, an expectation of divinity. Immediately preceding the earpiece, standard philosophy, two threads to disregard differing modalities. Differing modalities considered disassembling the TV.






The Dubtone

Snow-covered bird’s nest outside the next big motif. Later, a silent art. Beside fine print, why not a jar of its own syntax.






The Dubtone

Things are mirrored next to belief.

Light in almond oil paint congeals, bubbles & the string is how we believe in the other.

Joy enough behind me somewhere.

A little sparrow choking.

A half-completed mock salute to harness willful redemption.

A fragment of conscience immediately preceding the ante.

A lie to the library.






The Dubtone

The scattering mice. The fibers.

The framework of the barn’s red curtains.

Perfectly balanced plain jack-in- the-box psychosis.






The Dubtone

Gut rot in the left-brain, right-brain paradigm, apart

from swerving into think-tank spillage.






The Dubtone

Alters the left-brain, right-brain

paradigm apart gracefully.

Time passes or a city without

its diminutive song.

Aft, the oracular self

striking gross overstatements.






The Dubtone

Think, vistas of architectural terms. Later, there’s not a landscape before settling down. You leave a knife in the context her paintings take back onto what? Locomotive sound, hooves rotting in two, hoping for these overindulgent pleasantries? One side has his implicit contract—gift-box deliverance, another telephone solicitation list? A litmus test in a joke of manipulative dogma. It’s the crowd. We agree on the leash, de-lead the weather in such abortive silence. I’m pure bull’s-eye for precisely such an exposed metronome.






The Dubtone

I’d considered moves, differing modalities, considered

disassembling the trees or a commencement speech

lounging on the rocks, another fuzzy-diced measure of reason.






The Dubtone

How ‘bout a heart saying: that way.






The Dubtone

Someone’s fascinated by another Peter Pan statistic.






The Dubtone

It’s like a kite will go out, wondering on a symbol? Maybe you can count on a correlative. If every photograph of a vertex like this afternoon dents itself into flange. To speed-read through terror cake seems overused. If you’re waiting, try extending. It’s taken their own ink to overdo it, a handmade atlas of empty unknowing strings in another week’s clemency.






The Dubtone

Maybe cartography’s the dailyness of stargazer lilies.

I feel awful about nature, art & sediment rotation.






The Dubtone

Splay the sludge, the foreground, to say

an argument? Starboard, a flame begins

by cupping the sun from first abundant

flower parts. Lacking in noise, in my

finite sense of oil paint. Starboard,

a visible form’s tangible notion of music?

Aft, the archer’s darkroom gear. Outside

the spot where mythic immediacy lacks.






The Dubtone

Imagine being prone to bits.






The Dubtone

It’s all boundaries, but consistent.

I left the last Saxon in the trenches.

The pipeline disappears. The pipeline disappears. The appearance differs.






The Dubtone

Starboard, a dim sarcophagus. A cord crackles, holds workhouse skirmishes, some paregoric to entertain a visible river of happenstance melodrama. What’s precious in the red city caught the clouds past an offhand allusion. The pipeline disappears.






The Dubtone

Winter ends. Laughter happens downstage. It’s serious motion. Two thin triangles of left-brain, right-brain paradigm, apart from the pavement. The last Saxon’s noise, a beacon leaning its soliloquy to gravity, a fig & the referents to call elision an otherwise drab parlor-room distinction. Flack battered in the haystacks. It’s all barreling back.

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