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and to think i saw it on floyd terrace

Tim Martin's Sonnet Project

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Apes of Apology

one third of this life is at war
on the side of  investments and inventions
based on loud mouthed south philly men
scared sons, the kind of who prove far easier
to pass through the eye of a hurricane
than through the pages of a bible
but please make sure not to recycle it
ground quakes & do you know the language of heaven
it’s a thug life at risk under illiterate stars
we read the birds as they drop from europe
another whispered hallelujah chorus of poor kids
sing out like weeds in a hated garden plot
behind grey mansions like de maurier
i am in the ghost of your first wife

Monday, August 22, 2011

Your Blues

i am drawing a map of our highschools
on the back of gas station napkins
this is how we started, i think
play music: free beer,
my math was decent enough to find west
and you know, that’s a charter school now
in the old testament to our lifestyles
what seems exotic, ends up a fake british accent
drains our interest in what is called the cost of living
dear brother, it has been exactly one week
and making noise isn’t what it used to be
the truth is, I lost my cosmology in a national park
and somewhere its theater deadens me
but we get to come home rough and immediate

Monday, August 15, 2011

Black Shoe Sonnet

there are nice ways to say anything
given my taxonomy of utensil drawers
this becomes meat for dehydrated lions
kicked off just inside the doors
that pass for volunteers of occupation
decent forgeries in acts of surprise
would welcome the vaguest smile
to name the specters that aren’t
appropriate for the attention of children
tossed into communal living spaces
in a parable of the inch of blood
it takes to form the resistance of splinters
even though there is no word for farewell
it is clear we both follow our own suns

Sunday, August 07, 2011

Apparently, It's a Thing

this is so last year’s meme
that sunk the memory jugs down
tips of our fingers by anastasi cave paintings
culled from victorian seed catalogs
in a ritual granted by IWW activists
to reacquaint us with attachment parenting
by sending us canned screams of acknowledgement
the kind that killed John Henry
sung by punks to the tune of my reignition
i am a pruned branch sacrificed for fruit
handpicked by the felicity of namesakes
who shouldered the touch of fellowship
confer, o rebels for your last stands
there is joy in life’s hard reset