poims by tim holt

POIMS

Outside the church I came to you, how can you Not know? You know,And how can I tell you?

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The lungs are like paper I painted You, And woke

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Two moonssurrounding the

Night of your departureEven the lines

you erasestay

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¿What’s inThe right

part of yourBrain?

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Sparrow contaminated by (cualquier) reason loving and True

Say Something,Sparrow

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Watching the little circles

your feet make

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When you’ve left everythingunbearable for everyone elseStill, not to know a thing to say.Waiting to be withwhat you missed entirelymake yourself miserable fuck. Sincerity was never what you saw as what occurred to you as a Plan.

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Small movements,Maybe heperceives my lack of discretionin watching yourbody.

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LANDSCAPES

There’s a small mountain Across a valley, down,below everything;To kiss the delicate summitechoes for a thousand years.

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Soft concrete bendingbeneath and showering trees,spotted gray and melting.After everythingThere is timeand the wind willbe sweeter.

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To sinkinto (a) slender cloudTo see soundingmore than dark-city––– eating itself––––––to lay for 30 minuteswithout

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There’s an orange morningin a city somewhere,but hear gray and green,I, only I was awayand had onlytime.

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You saw,

fortunate ocean

wave to silly sea?

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Poznan

What can we do?Promised to others...Aching like the centuries peeling off cathedralsNo home,Your ugly fingernailsonly add brittleness to your beauty.

This city is coldtoday is a worldtomorrow, a symphonyThe only thing that makes Europe bearable isthe shape of teeth inside your smile.

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The air smoothes the sand of skin on faces,faces North In leaving Chicago, with all its grime, filth in every stitch wet filth like Polish mud in cobblestoneFinally, missing Poznanmissing cafes + languageslets go back in mayor June, for a festivalfor love, small you, Prawda.

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My museis the blue sun in the morning

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FragmentsFrom a Young Notebook

The blood of my parentsDried into this capeI fly away with on nights like this.I am the prince of NothingAnd my castle’s in air.I see it, in scattered light of branches.Just before falling Asleep

(Aug 30)

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Blue

Such a cold river Flows from burning eyesUnder a single cloud, That sunk below the sky,Down the landscape of a face.

(Oct 23)

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Bluefor Jack Kerouac

I.Blue Glue

on wallsin heaven.

Blew Away And

ThrewThe Jew

Downto drown.

II.Blue

Sinewtore

the floor.

Blew Away HisDay

and sunklowdown

to ground.

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III.Blue youtóo

blue.

Blew Away

by Titanlightnin’and sandto blue

wave gravein the sinof ocean

(Sept 8)

Christmas

The ole church housewith its blonde yard,Has become white with the winter.And its bell, the cold voiceOf the town, Moansin sweaty bronze, naked belfry.But inside it is warm with breathfrom all lovers, in anticipationof God’s arrival.

(Dec 8)

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Aphorisms

I.Agreeing to believe one’s own liesIs the only way towardenlightenment, genius, or salvation.

II. To unlock geniusThe key is perception.We hold itLike our stupid cocksIn the mouths of angels.

III.The rape of words can soundlike making love to them.

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Bridge of the Aperient Epistemic

A gray stone thingWet, like the children, and piquantAppeared, over the crescendoof english hills, to be anartery of knowledge.

And now, as I runcloserI notice the lines of people, enlightened, piling in a pool along its base.

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Wino Locations

I. Capitol building seen through

columns of highway ramp, behind distillery, defining juxtaposition, is almost as white as the sky, made of

clouds, that holds all of our existences submerged under air like the thumb’s pressure on a tac. Now to the left see suffering, of the road, our pressure on it. In an instant place the self atop the

highway ramp to dive off, scale the mountain of hell, and fly.

Highway sounds, a tree grows between to lots to the left, and stands sovereign, to sway “come” to the side of nature or, to betray, to look to the highway, engine over existence, and

explore the breadth of a tac.

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II.The beach, the people, pan-seared and tender now from slow heat, garnished

with hats so pastel they could be eaten; sprinkled over the tan river

flowing between highway and oceanand it is I, picking them out of the

hand of my eye, that consume them all

III.The ole Colcord, I’ve found, has

abandoned its negative, reciporical bond with the apparition of faces it

blends into the panes of its windows. Something old is now new, absent the o’ergrown neutral air in dawn from the pallet of time, which keeps and

ferments, so old buildings become like runes, at once personal and universal.

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IV.

I move my hands over the ribbed edges of the Broadway Distillery, in

its metal skin; showing the world the harshness of its own existence, embracing frailty and sin within.

And I sit, here again, under constant screaming colossus,

fettered with flicks of light and the jingle and low-moan of the world, watching men, with roaches living in the cracks of their skin, standing like guard dogs over the sepulchre

of existence.

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Little Poim

A bird in the hand isworth two in the bushof blackberriesIn a cloud of mother’s unwantednessWhose whir-voice pricks the ear like needles,And licks the cliff of its lobe.

(Dec )

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Jésubleakleft-handedpoem.

DeadhyphenedTuesday-grassblue.

Fly lonelytwice-foldedover. – March 7, 06

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from the diary of Francois L’Ollonais

I. The Iris is an islandAnd in the black within,lies a small sea of tragedyA window to our sin,

Islands swept up by the seathat doldrums roll to shade;A darkness touched by pristine GodIn an abyss of ken.

We passed through this like few beforeTo feel the calm like death,And as schism shakes the body’s waves,Heard shout, “We Transcendeth!”

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II.It’s a marvellous thing to be deadI’ve been now, and Againone more life to live.

It’s a marvellous thing to kill,Break a man to peace, and Againone more life to take.

It’s a marvelous thing a home,and to Tortuga now, and Againonce more purged of sin.

III.Eaten a man’s heart Wind through tall trees and birds crackThrough air saturated with souls.

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Rum

Dead-sweet burn Reminiscence White-foot Divided blueEmpty ship.

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the piano

88 buttons,

Everyone likesto press buttons

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At the Head of the Black Neverending

We swam–Felt Everything–tangled shipwreck–Quick–Now– We are aborted–Felt Everything–

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A kiss on each eyeMouth full of teeth an eyelid closedto wash away the world

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