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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