Friday, August 1, 2008

Tim Martin

How ‘Bout Them Apples

then two trains latter and
imariachi singer at the forties
monday to friday hourly relates
in tempo changes that porter
tunes in crystal tube radio hobbies
or in counseling we awkward
robots with unpretty dates
‘tis your silent witness here
that rises early in smoke
stand on any moving object
is that faces make me hurt
and force countdowns when
home along oil down dust road
sit’s spring and all we misplace

The Spanish Lover

sunday is an empty cup by noon
there a leafed through copy left
of everything in a scary movie
it is a dance of chickens once more
whose russian bosses give noise
to promises of one day of rest
in foreign, it is easy to be taken in
to give over and boy scout on
with rumors that it is the business
here in summer she sips the kool-aid
it is points of tongue that occur
when citrus tastes old in march
perform faster to memorize her side
in the end, only our winters matter

Sonnet For My Jaw

1986, i am a pointless secret agent
silently that kidnaps off sands
what riot of only brown power
too close to draw from memory
i don’t like the way this sounds
that pirates could have blamed
for texting a function of twenties
it’s true, they congregate guiltlessly
and sure to bring a wingman
this is an accused vocabuary
that did this to me in atari
in a lifetime that yearns to faint
at any one word that comes
to us in the guise as days of service

Broke Even

in this video my class of men
not yet sepia before new decades
what is the last car of our
bachelordom on bamboo screens
all the way half on electricity
holiday recasts his autobiography
this is the sad part of hope city
ten chips down slaps the wheel
it sounds so much more polite
to put lady in front of your terms
womanly at the bottom on the ocean
true believers end their discussions
that outcome is empty gold bird
that twists blades of light on our backs

Why We Can’t Have Nice Things

two hundred-three dollars mid-august
cried for luck this bourbon contribution
of next steps, some rings, baby names
& the western slope which is burning
and the one plays it out in lonely wind
for taciturn gods in full opera voice
just back from gathering folks
in stoic imaginations of the neighbors
police calls through rainy sundays
who makes this ratio of yin and yang
five years and misplaced address book
for our only meetingplace is these events
thunderless when you are entertainers
we hold the fire back for you to cross

-all poems from his blog, and to think I saw it on floyd terrace