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and to think i saw it on floyd terrace

Tim Martin's Sonnet Project

Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Birthday Sonnet

the letter i never sent prefaces
one week prior to astrologer’s debates
over fortunate outlooks unnecessary
in the $752.97 of moderation’s son
crayon and paper hands holding
on this sentimental drive back home
is splinters that dissolve or emerge
new trees of recycled material
caught in perpetual teaching moments
she says another fucking growth experience
torn by anthropology and age limits
that never speak of tough matter
she says good vintage here of soil mechanics
promises to get better at correspondence

Monday, December 29, 2008

Meadowlands Sonnet #1.2

because meadowlands blonds
are to one p.m. bar lunch crowds
as pizzerias are to the arabs
we drive in tightly industrial corridors
under late uttering russians
who overflow silk this chemical river
for local access television crews
and their need to flash at us
with regular chinese food calendars
from dawn reads my year in service
stolen school days as horse traders
bet the last race of my unlucky year
with grace enough to get by in these
times to tell of sensitive materials

Monday, December 22, 2008

Seasonal Affected Sonnet

weather is more underground

as found in central american cures

dependent on ancient interpretations

of ways of the plant kingdom

secured on earth as destiny

call it a judeo-christian pastime

to write favors on longest nights

that appear on menus of secret caterers

frida kahlo was a bonfire

no computer could find a match

that overrides common sense fiction

here it is a gift of seven generations

deferred improvisations on final scenes

we are all butch and sundance at the canyon

Tuesday, December 02, 2008

Track Four Revelations

because i watched venus and jupiter

part the rain in perfect time

to chant victories over electronic parts

of math in institutional trades

he invests like ball game scores

old white ladies attend on the a.m. dial

that keeps johnny walker blue

past the supercuts and food chains

is there room in your mythos?

to stop bobbleheads from surfacing

in mimicry of musculature of the neck

arise and be free in the sea of anonymity

with calls of barbers in marble station

arch & hunch emancipated by night mysteries