spork press . oeuvring
archive of printed pieces
archive of online stuff after 5.7.11
online stuff before 5.7.11 (poetry) (fiction)
nothing to see here
audio / podcast
submit to spork
FB   ///   TWIT

Jacob Kahn || 5 Sonnets


As if measuring time and measuring thought,

the night tells the night to breathe in.

Alas to emote triangles is to keep lancing

at the square. The sequence defers

its contingency upon me and a few other bloggers

by the rails. In a small city by a river, we

tour the edges of a mountain with a little glass hat.

We handle and pack away capsules

of cylindrical black air.

So the investigation in its throes,

in description, a circular impediment

hollowed out by an arcade of stoic resignation

and ornamental chimes. Not too much, buddy.

Too much stirring infers.




Pile the ups, scatter the downs.

The cumulative city has waved goodbye. In principal,

lavender culminates in the context of forever.

Forever implies the wake of this nostalgic throb.

Some galvanize Tripoli, some admire the ducks.

Still it hurts to be loved & understood.

In Tuesday, I sense disbanded truth,

cause, the hair on my neck

expanding like a spider inside a parade float.

My sixteen green legs circle the tree of proof.

A crusade of ancient brooks backs fragrantly off.

This part of my brain is bruised, it deletes

the sound of your voice coming from the closet.

Remove or deflect; two legs come together and cling.




Her shade is voluntary, with each pause

I leak ebullience in a brazen river.

Incumbent zones announce English conduct.

From ‘the brush of statement’ I got

‘understatement as underbrush,’ from tomorrow

gilded springs. From religion

I got time for a hot red beer.

Now show me a language other than landscape.

Because what’s ethereal in practice

should be practical in the field of ether.

Should night precipitate in rooting-out my pulpit.

Should tender shuttles remain theoretical.

What’s common to barrels is common

to spines. And if he wants, so he thumbs.




I have a few more questions beginning

in winter and ending in fall.

A black scarf rotates around the neck.

A green ball lands in my arms.

I’ve heard Heidegger thought best in other people’s houses.

I’ve heard potentially being was not

what the world had in mind.

Pivot and ricochet, pivot and glance.

I need tissues brothers and fingers

to avoid death. I need intend nothing

to stay alive. Here is my chance

to launder in the frame of taking place.

I’m going to take it with me

to Hawaii, to the movies, to my backyard grave.




The lit-up rift of phenomenology

cools off (in) the locomotive hedges.

Suspended similitudes

constitute religious episodes

in the vestigial haze of our diorama.

Squirrels rescue Appalachian towns,

they never let go. They rest on the ice.

I hold my nose close to one’s neck.

I have some sort of natural right to the camera

to accumulate visible tread.

Like a plangent riptide,

Idaho flings out all its seasons at once.

Like Idaho, I need one more line.

If you cut laughter in half, it shines.


Jacob Kahn was born and raised in Salt Lake City. Since 2008, he has lived Missoula, Montana, which is a good place to write and unwrite sonnets, a place that knots in the heat and blossoms in the cold. Other sonnets can be found forthcoming in 580 Split and other writing forthcoming in Dreginald.