Marsh Hawk Review is an online poetry journal sponsored by the Marsh Hawk Press collective. Marsh Hawk Review will appear twice a year, under the revolving editorship of collective members. Each issue will offer a selection of poems solicited by the editor, in addition to new work posted by poets in the collective.

Monday, February 16, 2009

Tim Peterson

Tim Peterson

Painter's Cap

We assembled the structure at a juncture
aerosol placard logey individual
to make us visible to one
another the appearance of freedom
between vats of oil,
muscle, blubber, charred flesh
according to the brute design of
collage. The heard word to the
line yoked, the chain bus depot
interconnecting distant fields
cardigan walled a prospect mulch
to instantaneous copies
the vain point is about over
and overness, the light of day
intermingling in thinning hair.
I rolled up my sleeves, to convey
a kind of getting ready, a serious
ness. I covered the paper with
a coast. A strike occurred between images.
The camp exploded with an air of
camp; silver, slivered. I loved those placards,
their exchanges for other names, for all
the untrodden grass of a billfold, distinguishing
us from the inner drama of non-writers
living through the urban non-winters
covered almost entirely with the new, textual snow.

* * * * *

The Barometer in My Neck

I love this scroll bar, increasing in density
your paw on my shoulder a gentle, foggy
offering. Meanwhile, I'm hunched
against some crooked shoulder-length wall tones
trying to determine how Leigh
Bowery can see out from inside that full immersion
wig. In the Bowery, there's this cobbled
Salvador Dali, leathery together
but then suddenly this moat appears
around my voice. You should come over,
you should try to be my cobbled life
says the worn-away toe of the boot, as it turns
back into a lucky nightclub. "If we'd stayed there
two minutes longer, you'd have been the filling
in a sandwich." In this poem, I'm spread all
over town. You can take another's voice,
and mock their lack, but Dali will get it back.
Polluted creek, I'm setting down some roots
in a non-elegiac context, without piazzas
dangling from the scenery. I'm reaching
toward the rough-smooth line of your chin.

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