Tim Earley

A first level thinker with a gun. A lump of oil on the baby's belly. If bad powers are truly a concern, then fly-face in a bottle, then sun face and fuck face. Sweet paregoric, intoned mutter, a flower sewed into the fabric. Mother said the natural world is tender before crawling inside the oven inside the white building with windows painted white confluence of pulleys and boxes packed with lures their rusty hooks puncture the lobes of my imaginary sister her face a wild onion of heaven and air and how else does a child imagine a face outside its own that does not mar its own with such making a borrowed coin a borrowed voicing a deadwood god filters the perimeter and I raise my hand to identify myself as coerced subject comprised mostly of post-natal slime when I carry the caskets of others over the blush of my grave the brain case bird song stutters a cancellation of green, dandelion fetus, averted citizen festooned with spider hands and vertical pillager abloom with happy dog feet and the speech of my neighbors is an excrescence. Did I once hear the phrase 'the muskrat advanced upon the cornpone like a swain upon his courting partner's pablums'? Did I once hear the phrase 'robot sex'? Many ways to dress a paramour. Many ways to undress the dead. If the fever billows quickly, bear it to the end. Daddy's brain gurgles like a cow's fourth stomach. Daddy cares not for the living and their ostentatious headwear. I climbed Elvis and I climbed velvet. Ten fingers in the purposeful register he took out his eyeballs and placed them in the soup is puritan nightwine around the maypole and to lip the belly outside is inside the August blaze a bloated animal.