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and to think i saw it on floyd terrace

Tim Martin's Sonnet Project

Monday, May 30, 2005

In the Living Room

time in my bathroom
says it’s 5:34
for three months now
i am virtuvian man
with perfect circles in mind
to stand in squares
mating the first opponent
with green tea and mint
it’s a living
day to day my hands
fold paper for the week
to close with investment
if mail delivers and goes
to make dark deals with calendars

Monday, May 23, 2005


by the light of rejection
ask questions later
when you’re it
suddenly as monster chases
revert to the Art of War
that welcomes two bodies
for the home position
in conflict with roots of speech
said it is about two hands
empty as the day they landed
on one anothers weight
it sound better before dictation
swears to the hissing machine
these little notes everywhere

Thursday, May 19, 2005

Lucky I Guess

where there is smoke
& a house of rodents
this week my crimes
of travels & panics stop
at the leap this time
before the first promise
catches up to futures
spent in preparation
if we mention it
down to a website
it is just 12:37
who was last
to whisper details
no one else hears

Friday, May 13, 2005

Turnbridge Road

necklace of old intent
remembers still bruises
at dimples in collar
see children as passing
as if greeks only told stories
one day & the next parts
mark this place in the world
as expected as opening
to the revolution we embrace
we gray into families
of book entries yellowing
in our generation of acorns
trajectory from the trees

Monday, May 09, 2005

In the Time of Jolly Rogers

spread like pieces of eight
as if some dictionary dedicated
this description of our fleet
so fly twentysomething insignias
from second grade fantasies
our real master is hot lava
as long as all those bad guys keep
the gang in mask pulling business
pirates of legitimacy
overturn the other values
that consider the fates
into a real night of last watch
& better off than serious
our lives and the seas

Monday, May 02, 2005

On Top of Spaghetti

let’s make the bull happy
his belly aware of loss
moths that devour our wool
it’s good to be the baker
to kneed & bake bread
those simpler fashions
amoeba love that turns
meaningless with morning
we have no words for breakfast
in child’s game with roles
i end up as the bad guy
we see the days getting longer
they say it’s the calendar
i think the sun if bored