Tim

I spend my life trying to close my hand over a token and keep it an apartment a talent cold rain and dry feet perfect pitch, quarter tones my cats peace the warm sun with no burn cool shade without the warm sun with burns clear nostrils and the loose wet air from the end of a downpour all money, free experience joy exuberant the soft crying of repentance an idea that's good self importance freedom and identity wings of a pigeon slap against each other recovering from a tall fall I spend ...

My brain is a poetry brain I like where it goes not hung from the better boughs of nonfiction not tumbling through the short story whippoorwills but upside down curled up then calico stretch on the sun deck of poetry the words float hairs on the oily top of my coffee cup beans from a farm in San Ignacio freshly roasted, brewed on science scales grams, grounds gravity, my close friend pulls the juice I pour the cups equal to sit in a poem and pick words off the top calico, tabby, tuxedo, black...

Wolves are white I saw one on a leash in Squamish as high as I am tall The rope because she wanted it Her master elected Squared between my daytime running lights Wolves know where the life is She looked at me through the steering wheel Into my eyes first then down to my thoracic bundle If I unfold from the bucket seat would she still submit? Or follow drone with flying fangs claws switch to fur spit drop from the air and wrap me in bone fully consume due to lack of marmot and fowl She, drunk...

I am a bird a little one one that if you squeezed it you would crack it crack it open one with a speck of sand beak and plastic eyes a bird that sings to speak sings to demand help and food and geolocate I am a little bird Do you know me Would you crack me Would you stop and pray for me knit into the road honor the speck of God's time He used to knit me in my mother's egg I've fallen from the tree and no one's here to feed me my cats would kill me stop to pray and honor me...