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and to think i saw it on floyd terrace

Tim Martin's Sonnet Project

Thursday, March 26, 2009

This Wasn’t in the Brochure

once past february, catholic sex has
too much detail to be in midwestern states
under clearest light in eastern philosophy
where city is now an adjective
to have a diet, caffeine-free coke with you
out flower picking in the xeriscape garden
speechless with rock and rye in hand
where she fingered the illegals & loved
to explain what it is to have a donkey
to jean valjean & his clockwork children
who post their fantasy truths on the net
in earnest efforts for world unity
to palm the invisible cool hundred
dressed in their best johnny cash

Monday, March 16, 2009

Future Hazy, Try Again

life in the back row is past related
to dancers that fancy trauma sisters
where they count pieces of blood
in latin from a sampling of sequoia
that i am bound to donate like it’s a tithe
when skin alters into dragonlike feng shui
only to find a jar of salmon and old scarves
in yearbooks of times i chose to give up
from pink admissions of the working class
on paperwork meant to be read by 4th graders
who run away in the independent cinema
busted, like exploitation in the 1970s
cut in two to be sewn with ceremony
one foot on the boards, one foot in the book

Monday, March 09, 2009

Only One Kind of Blues

sound like shoulders for the yoke
love & a case of small batch bourbon
grows like mint in small spaces
regulated by tiny blue cynics
civic leaders wish to screw like poor
starlets in california’s fin de siècle
there can never be just one song
with fifty two percent of the world
so my front window never locks
winter is a cold, rough feel of our luck
these new dealers on the dance floor
fear silence that morning wind relates
clever like thieves but without the patience
smash my windshield & never get to change

Sunday, March 01, 2009

So, Bad for You is Good

actually weighed against a feather
for unkind televisions on the east coast
character assassinates better hipsters
of the brain children left to riot squads
licking wounds, american style
like action flicks with hijacked vehicles
this backstory in vain a pond of obvious
that heavy machines chew with lies
easy is never as like sunday mornings
that learn to kneel after cowardly acts
absolved to tired new englandish wicked
tossed out of amsterdam for failing language
it’s the title of your autobiography
as long as we don’t have to think about it