3 Poems by Steve Timm

Well it’s not Ohio & just the one overpass. They’re off to Ho Chunk, the one who had no beer not shotgun. 10 to a taxi, would the driver turn blind. What’s the name for these voices, the dullish pain. What’re the roads going to be, bottles corked anticipate tender’s hand. It’s like a simile, a sandwich is not ordered, the hour, 4 of them, it’s not synchronized if you’re initiated. The smack of servility, raiments cats urges, patterns of holding of glasses. I am not clear, askew prediction. The rodes, then; see? & the ink, the marmosetish fortune we share. I wonder if shave’ll show, these old logistics. Home’s for what I’m headed, heading, do you know it? You could put China. Is there any chance it’s ready, shy, though, so, no, yet, well. A bromide about customers, a canticle the riveter, nostalgic, perhaps the voice in its recognition. What else comes from, they plow amain, it is a floor, unremembered carpet. Life’s not what kills. What partner obviously else. OK, choose, & walls in them, but you’re no dog, you’re no waste-drawn-to-urban-fringe loud coyote stealing cats that never used off patios. What kind of rhythm? How’s about that voice? I’ll give you old, I can’t read a _____ of this in the morning, you never will, & her granting that? Melting absolutely, interrupted. Guessed gray, animate lurks. Hauling off, planting, hauling off, planting, if I could walk that way.

(from “Owed Timid Rations of Mortality,” in Op. No.; forthcoming in Volt)

iii

Rain not rote ever

Case of have to

Brutes forget

Haven too

Pare

Swath cleave overture that pleasure roof

Gainst gain

just

not so stead’

so ’blime as

fire that quite wish indenture

Signal future

unmost gainly soft

wins sub foll

owings

There worms

What hider

there

you cannot see me

likely

perfect in sentence

In rapt ply

Plain bark stroke

weave cheek tolled

It such of pleasure

in

iv

The vamooses. The periternal. Some guy like seeds. Some eagle they dream athwart. Like as fence not terrible sing in fast to mend. The gloats. The gloats at. Damned & near willies hoots. Creeps a row stilled past frantic. They comb the way hope. They brush the bereave in silk wrinkle. Back at the warning. It come white in a said as. Yet the vamooses the very tick & tick. The halter gate. They reign from a satchel curve. They borrow toward stranger skin. They clept beveler mass a sorrow. They. They. It was a steward thought.

(from “Axelogues,” Disparity, published in Gam #2, 2004(

I IF WAGNER CAN DID SO COULD DO

what. composition compositions. who tho not necly webern. well the sun might. it’s a word ordure. stroking tropy. the make is in. sez w/out feeling & to fight that henceman. not jim some dope. a strangle tune radio made into for. like with matching feet. no, matched. not durable not dirigible not thurible & no puzzle. pereubu then but aready jim. think.

opusitional poelitics. sunra in his coelecantho seen 3 took 4. there i. playing johngilmoreball. what more awe. places everybody. that is the mined. no coelincidented. a strange choice & better of would. one’s frantic soul.

no a violation no a commutation. elsefaith. within. webern rototiller plumfairy. but what jim, man. if this was ice. ok. a to a kind of b a b a b could be when dropped castiron. pharyngeal solo whipped oaken. cancant algren’s shorty. unfinished haircut soupcon of flate throat. againsts urgery as such. continue by not any by not all. thoughsome as a fedora as leather is blood. oh it’s ultimate. a pointing, past. or, or not, passed. lucky, i’n’ it. lets us tally. it’s all in the ailerons.

(from Round 6 of Bout, published, as from Round 5, in Antennae #5, 2003)