steve timm

What Time Is It There?

What’s not known and can’t be debilitates.  Exertion for a driveway of snow.  A seizured dog’s sleep against the bird clock’s tinny recording.  The way life is lived means clouds are friends.

Starting point: I think if you seizure you see like you do when you first trip looking at the crystalline illegitimate maze of a clear December sky.  Of course nothing can be accounted for.  If you’ve got legs you want no company.  Doesn’t matter what the stars are, ’re made of.

So, who hauls her.  Electric realism.  All the ons at odds {ax-, neur-, …}.  So spent her legs weep.  Bounds aren’t.  The world sounds like what it could be spelled as.

Now the bird call doesn’t match the hour it is finally reasonable to memorize.  Face.  Hands.  Timbre.  There can be no forgiveness or there can.  The gone jars.  Less.  Loess.

Wild Strawberries

Reading “variously sounded space” as “… wounded …” and then now and here “place.”  Troubling these reckful missynonymizations.  Manic or man-ic manipulations crossbowed a-trunkly these manyable ulations though as it stands and she doesn’t a rough raspy sleep sounding verifiably temporary.  Though I could be.  She might.
    This gush light has become.  March’s wind—winds.  Decibels of impatience, rumored jonquils in Missouri, the attention it takes to push self aside (and the singular wrackophony of thereat unable).
    Who is prayer is a reasonably incorrect paraphrase of the dilemma I misfuse to acknowtow to.  Then it’s what?  The feebility of stance no concern.  I don’t rassle.  It’s leaves that rustle.  The quarantine abuts ravish, radish, raggage.  Time of the clinamen.  It deswallows rage.  The being of eatenhood.  Thebrile visions of the nondescript, viz. she has legs use unwonted less’n I back the holy relegated fuck off.
    Ensuing barrage of breath and waking.  There is the ready I resist becoming coming.

The Gospel According to St. Matthew

Such hours and if there is theosis and if it can be gotten.  There is some berth (the malleable beat of that).  (Appoint now.)  The sonogram reveals the meaning.  Still.  They pamper toward a toward a resonant remnant of they never did know what that was as their hands’ backs which they never.  That’s where the language comes from, all this language.
    The holo walking stick and not the bug.  Not the andiron in the shop no one knows what it was for any more.  No mud no mudder.  The freak in occurrence.  The raffle in which foot.  The flutter-by effect.  Tonight the juicy demon as reluctant as ever and she gave in only when the very inches and itches gave out I guess.
    Seems as a life’s way.  Aweigh or -t with no action.  Muddy sang a woman’s dress made the preacher put his Book down.  For good it seems.  That’s the missed crux: the returns, earth and not earth, sky and self, bevel and launch, food and paraphrase.  The juice in the brain, its paths, how it comes to rechoose, how dangle is the euph of damn, the anyway reuppance.

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steve timm has recently published a new e-book, Disparity (BlazeVOX 2006) and has  2   chapbooks as well: Stragetics  (Bronze Skull 2006) and Averrage (Answer Tag 2004). Other poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Volt, Cue, Sentence, and Word/For Word. He teaches English as a second language at the University of Wisconsin-Madison.




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