Tim Earley



I had made it again to the point to the point of nothing to say.

My intimates were free of my sun and brainpan.

I am a revolver of hostile inclination.

I am a flipping boat.

The process of establishing a retinue.
The house quivered with its house things:
milk, chair, lamp, rug. These were things of goodness,
these were things born of fish lore and the wood.
Thunder filled them with country.
Lightning separated them into noises.
A way to feel about Spring.
A dependable bowl.
Where were my limbs in all this?

Corpulent builder of terrariums. A simulacrum of Detroit. Rock-shape excites
a wind-shape, the lovelies of difference, the wiring of flaw, the interdiction.
Culture an aromatic.

They are just humans and those are very human reactions.
We've all peddled. You don't forget.

I am a retarded shark.

I am a flipping boat of revolverly inclination.

Dental gorgeousness of the washer and dryer.
Think long and long on their rivened cycles.

This is the vantage point. I ate a steak there
and affectionately cursed the sun's wink.
God damn people are funny.

Sometimes they get stuck in closets or underneath each other.

Sometimes their parts look for them all day long.

Funny, isn't it, how quickly it transforms
from this
into utter hideousness.

Sometimes motions come out of their tails.

Again to establish a retinue.
Mackerel burgers and fries.
Galoshes filled to their brims with the moon.
Daddy's first time crying.
He liked it a lot and kept doing it.
Eat this spell, Daddy.

I am a lyric valuable.

I am a motion out of my tail.

Actuaries say. Modesty is a woman's primary virtue.
Woman says no-no to Goddish musculature.
Tooling the heather produces no sandwich in the midday sun.
Tying the shoe produces
absolutely none sandwiches in the midday sun.



Somnolent, the tree.

I am very sad.
I really would have liked to get to know you better, but that is not the reason I am sad.

He was not a true hater.

In my vial, an ablative heart. In my ablative heart, a sorry bone.

The children turned their heads as though permanently affected by the other room.

The masters hung me in the Spring of '25.

Reliquary daisy, hush your mouth.

Sweeping the berm, sweeping the berm.




          Get in line. Square bomb and square hat.


          The fence defined the world more than trees or shadow.
It made it possible to plan for swings. The girls rapt in post-lunar conversation.
One was attached to the other; they sipped the other's honey; they dreamt the Lord deeply in their pellucidity. More babies. A dog set out for the family
from a far away hill in Montana. He ran with joy and determination toward their frailty.
Song and evening-tide. Purchase.


          Moldy ritornellos. Trapse with me there are hills to fluid. A hypnotic bell.
Trapse with the lessers and there among them implant an acreage of coin.
An acreage is full. It will be fun. It is this they most appreciate. The food given them
of the Lord. In their sharing is midnight. Theirs is a forward advance position.
In their hilt of plenty is the number of plenty the number of hilts is least important
to their fun.


          The wonders and gorges split the heave and leave increments. Tissues and linings envenom the spirit. A vista as dead-broke as the view. Is not as bad as all that is not as bad as the winter leavening the spigots as the patrilineal descent into brickishness.
Is on second thought as bad and worse than adroitly sponging the machine is worse than
the flicker of spirochetes in a sin-head. Is happening again. Gives the promenade a certain amount of tidy.


          To horn on you. To kill you fistly with top-tier yearning. In a nook to invest
alarms. To oderous you. To tamp it, tamp it good. To spiffy. Oh stop moving
those limbs. Oh the mouth must requisite itself to stillness in order for the lesser
to survive. To alack you. In a slip to disseminate the tiding. Reminds one very
much of the plum or lush indirectly. To bask in surfeit. Oh that mouth raze its holler.
Have many arrivals to unfetter today.


          Luddites and their sea brine. Rednecks and their turnips. West of the Mythic. Phlange A is useless, useless as weeping. The lesser loses his cargo in the least swirl.
A point of munificence to track the eggs. Insert B hops the fold. Black folks
and their gorgeous misery. The ill and their mendicantry. Sloping toward fulfill. Grid C flaunts and delineates. Encourage atrophy among the lesser as one kind of switching.
Summon the finite, summons the finite.


          Here are the beggar's pants. Arraying some eels. Is not as much silence in the lesser as the markings seem to indicate. Swimmer's ear turned out to be the least worry.
The Long Sojourn is viable. Here is the brackish pillow. Potter and field.
Once: energy numinous. Once: energy among avenues.
Shed the cycle. Void mendicant.
Here is the fathom box.


          Glorious etude. The lyre the lyre is a kind of idyll in itself. The parchment
goads russet and abundant the lessers to their life of lung. Passage notes
cleanse the air, insert an anything or an ever. The trees over there are a green hum.
The lilt is up. Outfitters may paddle the 24/7 stream.
Body rangy. Soapy brethren. Communicado.
The lilt is definitively up.


on "Actuaries Poem":
Gore Vidal is Thomas Jefferson. Phalanx, anyone?

on "Melancholy Poem":
When I first wrote it, the poem seemed inordinately small.

on "Structures Poem":
I cower daily from a variety of implements.