Steve Timm
about Owed Timid Rations of Mortality
These poems are from a series of 25 25-sentence poems, which itself is one of 4 25-poem sequences making up a work called Op. No. As the title suggests, the conception is somewhat musical; each of the 4 sections has its own "tempo." "Owed ..." is the "largo" or "lento" section--each poem was composed slowly as well. Though I wasn't aware of it at the time, the acts of writing the poems became gestures of reverence.
from Owed Timid Rations of Mortality
“What you know” begs the question. Aid to walking soaking in an animal’s-water dish. I think so. By the time you I does as well. And that is how something else has to be, who knows. Who does the beggar ignore? See? Consider the trampoline. I keep expecting her to wake up suddenly, in need of some assistance, a bad dream, a capacity met. The next sigh heard, series indicator. If I’m not careful one of them will mark my words, all literal all the time. Contention’s bone, is it all right? How about a bout? Job security writhes in the fear of the holder. To return. 10 something, pale as acquisition, be still my heart (I’ll have none other). If it’s felt easy, why, why not, it can or it can’t be helped. If I’m not the one who’s up, will she somehow sense the towel mishap? The point is, what about the birds, sky? What about them? Them. Night, simply put, precarious, my night now. In a dream writhe. I’m holding up. There was supposed to be a blank.
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Lying in a room is a distance, which way. In to & from, in to & in from, if head is turned, head where, tail whom? What is the word for the constancy of sound presence, hum, pulse, scratch, depend? Even if it’s from inside the head & back, kept. The time of the day, the what’s wanted at it, at it. Certain sound but the listening (not the hearing), but not the hearing. Back when, I heard, (I could hear), the wax of my ear moving, in my head. A nurse (or?) had to wash it out, how else could I go on teaching, standing the small & packed waiting room TV? Deciding about seeing if she needs helping outside right now, that room, the predicted temp, the seizure like. Many East Asian students depend on sayings for support, easily they agree to stop. The it of a dog’s life, is it? The narrow consider. Pantomime, whether or not, or not whether. Deciding just now, this, & this. Here she comes having gotten up, beginning her day, checking the window out, the cat having come in through it or being let out the door, she is, loved, putting water in the coffee pot. Awake, waking, wakefulness, I tried to say yesterday. Where did you learn to lie like this? I am so strangely earnest, I think. I wonder if it is, this, practice, what else? Even now dark, the percolator going. There is waiting, here there is, there is here, too. Sharing has its frequencies. Lately. Lately. Some remove, now not, “in my hands!”, man, about to go, & see, be doing, the snow crusted, she walks on it, each foot of mine through it, at least part of the way, through.
***
The answer is I like rain because I like water. She adds a color to her name & then can be kidded gently about it in that she is likeable. By then it had returned to snow. From such informal gathering it is no different, leaving one by one or two or so. I never once saw a falling rock to this day. She didn’t slip where the snow’d been obliterated, I asked the question, I hurried, they dwelt otherwise. Partially shared the language changes how it limits, a riot of vectors, it is funny. Lost the track for it, pave away, walk through cake, as if it were a test of the likely. The shifting parameter. I’m heavy, “you know,” gravity was not mentioned. It can be appreciated now. Who would be sent a birthday card poking fun at bullcrapping? Or is it kept, as a prop in a repetition? It is probably commonly thought of as sharing cum empathizing rather than a fascinating episode, just as well, silence enduring isn’t very well, is it? Just one example. It feels so slow. I keep an eye on the imperceptibly moving level in the bag, responsibly, controllably impatiently. The pace of worrying, the paces, like in that other one we live like that. How do you wait, if I were at someone’s feet. Silence rises in the form of an issue. I do not find it possible. Combed sound. Near time far time. The ships on the large lake made no remarkable impression then. Perhaps it was just to be with them, regardless.
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