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Tim Botta lives in North Carolina, and teaches at a local community college. His work appears or is forthcoming in alice blue, GutCult, Kulture Vulture, Shampoo, Unpleasant Event Schedule, and Word For/ Word.





I liked sea salt, it reminded me of
sleet. I liked sleet, it reminded me

of lemoncello. The box spring, a flight
of geese. Mercy benzocaine, draw these thorns

from my built jaw. Sips at a time, social
little bullet. Motion sensor/ nothing personal.

Wax nude, museum of witchcraft. Blanket steam,
the good glue. Through damp to buy throat anesthetic.


Oona's prism. Dressed like a tanager,
your catenary, your sunken skull grail,

you wade past the cat-tails, the gelid scene
and their laughter, lamprey. Path etiquette.

He never brought the placket stimulants.
Escapology through hexagonal

mesh to non-smoking. Foolish fire
grovel, another rift-gapped offer to him.



Attic garland, agave pedal-steel.
Megrims dismantle the solar house

and almost twice. Who is this? Magneto Feldspar.
In pelisse, "You'll never know the percussion of

my intarsia headboard." A storefront church
without the church, but with

a lady of lazy tongs, hipbones,
knurled heart, swept by the passional rain.


Tim Botta 2006.


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