Three Poems by Philip Gordon by Philip Gordon


a journey akin to comatose


last night i (dreaming) was

walking everywhere in the city wearing

oversized pajamas. i kept

(being convinced i was) having trouble breathing;

searching for a puffer in my pockets and

sucking on it. the taste

of medical powder in my lungs and on my

tongue. the time (to me) was in a constant

flux; uncertain, but one thing, the side-

walks shuffling underfoot, something something and eventually

woke up not remembering if i forgot to breathe

or not. there’s a meaning there somewhere (glass of

water, mouth-white, paper dry), but i think i left it

(in a dream).





sunday mouthful of sour gummi-frogs

youtube ambience mode: 

      cat sounds

      dawkins debate

      epic after epic compilation

     fuck it, we’ll do it live!


i don’t think

we’re doing anything            ‘live’

i wonder which episode of

‘top chef’ is on right now

if i had cable

if i had a tv

if i woke up before

4:35 pm

oh god



i think time is passing


12:38 AM

and twitter is twittering

with no notion that i exist

in the background, richard dawkins

is on a podium above a slowly moving red bar

above time and the concept of creation

in the background

less palpably,

the ever-present

but not quite quantifiable sensation

of circular, self-defeating conflict:

don't want to work vs. need to work

lethargy vs. responsibility

and at intervals

my computer's fan

rising angrily

then fading

then fading

then 12:43 AM

then fading



philip gordon is a poet, lover of shades, and proponent of the Oxford Comma. he enjoys adorable guinea pigs and playing piano at inadvisable hours. please stalk him at the following shamelessly self-promoted locations: @greymusic_ on twitter and grey-music.tumblr.com