t i m    r o b e r t s

 

The Painted Children

Even with this Structure




















The Painted Children

 

I little do under have them forming within larger, big plan, escaping like air. Who sense in land of ongoing on that removes ice and isolation, who senses what when to tell you to go exactly now, it results, it takes over the king, relies on, smiles on a smile larger than periphery it was capturable in this cup of early, only nondebatable fact group, grasp of coffee passing commuter, only not real already this Monday often superbowl, argued Trouble unread mis-pronounced, deeply. The children who were painted but placed among bubbling logos, ballooning up unnoticed dangerously close to their gums, now I know what Target does, that is an accomplishment for today unstoppable it is, my knowing where to go what do things look like from there, the ability to read no more than the ability to purchase. Not enough heard from where was and past outcroppings words descending back into and from being raised once nothing was built to house them. At last, beyond argument. Then I adjust perhaps allow third, communal feeling after excursion climbed, falling back seasonal yet allowing argument. Small, after a night's rest, breaking forth from the face. How did it turn out that a conclusion fell forward, a loose facade? Determined loss of function, destined light or fear. Let me not go into the iron bar conjoining let me not go which is cultural hopelessness and the same indication I was talking about in the shelter of who we were buried in. Now, now, now, beyond the everyday, only by being beyond it can we not contribute to destruction. How can I manage to make myself one thousand times that factor?

 

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Even with this Structure

 

Even with this structure of feeling telling us where we were, how else to be absent of a structure of feeling, pure space commenting on what I could develop of a structure; instead it was her holding things up. I was thankful for what could be here, no matter what I was the quick-living, quick-breathing, quickness bird. Then, suggesting light, the other contestants, using love. The sword, with its glint, and glinting sheath, didnít glow. There was no analysis in the sword I was given at birth. To be sacred is part of the structure I thought I believed. Into her eyes I thought I would place my belief in all. The lovely all, first one bird, then another, then speech. Then with speech it was a structure of rhythmic grief. Even the frame, door & window, returns to reed. None of us, the bewildered, account for it, but it lives. The returning lives, the sacred timing, Zing. Structure has been known to wobble, turn to wine, and multitudes who were formally without justification turn back to real spirits, rising in their hospital beds, returning to the polls. Even the switches were happy at touch. The only thing I would say politics is about. Surgeons don't care. In the desert, there is much sun. Iím not sure what Foucault said. I know what I feel. Were space structure, what would be up? Love glows in birth, believe all speech. Seed grief, grief is a seed. Lives spring from wine, justified in their beds of touch. About sun I feel, whatís up with justified grief? Whatís not ultimate about I? If there were any experience through which your experience did not pass, or any experience that was not your own, then the epic would start. The race commence, coalesce. Farm creatures we resist. We toil in this way, in the said. Since of course whatís unsaid, unrequited, remaining still the leaf attached through multiple seasons to its bridge, finally the concomitant beings moving on. The leaf grows.

 

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TIM ROBERTS is a freelance editor and designer, and copublishes Counterpath Press. His manuscript The Beauty of the Caregiver was a finalist for the 2006 Fence Modern Poets Series. The two poems here are taken from another book-length manuscript, Drizzle Pocket.