Timothy Leland Shores

on the curvature of Schwarzchild Justice

Timothy Leland Shores

do I have more than you? cross the delaware.
don’t fall in and drown on my compassion.
in a moment, devils lurching from the waves
dressed over flamboyant burgundy,
companions to the riddle
of boundaries so wrongly drawn.

I feel ashamed to have become
just another freckled bum in mindful robes.
broken under the freight
of a science in fractured light
that sings like a river of glass,
a mudstone fox, a plaster maiden,
idyllificent, and germ-free.

Pacific dragons, lions, thieves and servants.
states of enrichment where merchants try
our wartime for its restorative comedy,
frail love for bone, stones for currency.
to make a sacrament of foreign tongues,

and how shall we divvy up blind Milton.
we’ll distribute his talents this opening weekend.
we’ll shatter all records, an unburied billion
in promises, in ruses, and rose-colored bruises.

if you want our redshift peacetime back,
and if you have read the laws,
then show me your face that is not the ocean.
nothing can freeze this degenerate motion.
let your labors and your colors drift.
core elation does not imply incaution.

if you lift the robes from our dark stars,
then you’ll untangle this rotten delta.
a nutshell of infinite, curling space
would be no prison. black robes for sails.
it’s seaworthy, and it’s a part of me,
and you alone can make the victim whole.

Mistake the Map for Innocence

Timothy Leland Shores

silhouetted profile of a little bird.
a kissing instrument
like a teapot drinking from my sermon.
skin trembling to lead the expedition
over bruised & mystic ink,
earned for the night under balmy heaps of august
when i peeled bare the apple of your fight.

A small word, neighbors, cousins.
bargain sneakers tearing up chemlawn.
dust remote, salt of saturn,
& the pepper smoke of oak leaves thumbing lifts
on school night winds, over the rooftop,
tangling with the tough crooks of Malus ioensis,
where a mean gang of apples don’t yield
that bitter green serum to tender
tooths, neighbors, cousins.

we climb across the autumn’s inky dusk
to scratch ways & means into the bark.
tickling limbs, shaking apples loose for scrawny worms,
and birds,
and eavestrough curates,
and the neglected wheelbarrow
that collects a concentration of modest, battered apples—
seeds pool in the philtrum
before diving down the barrowmouth of winter.
swallowed by a gullet made from, yes, november rain,
digested then with gizzard sticks and stones in winter’s locket.

When the depilatory season soothes at last to sphinctral spring,
we are forbidden from our tree by a bouquet. cider devils,
fermented in the peristaltic barrow, cloak our trunk
with the prohibitive stink
of trickster winter’s
dying chuckle.
In mystique’s parlor briefly
before innocence had yet learned to haunt me.
the map disentailed its percipient.
the trees took their leave.

The skirt of rot would fade, we knew.
while the tenor of offence
taken at sermon’s end
would outlast all perfumes fashioned.

Salt Mine

Timothy Leland Shores

when we reign,
it’s war

(Nineteen eleven)

the common year on sunday, punch guns computing,
tabulating, and recording fiat holes
drilled thru the hollerith meadows of Binghamton,
where stuff never gets too metaphysical.

and the big blue snap of eleven/eleven
arrives at the prairie to civilize the indian summer,
yanking the sky down from an imperious eighty fahrenheit
to Freezing death by nightfall.
hot saturday distorted, memorably, into murderous
tongue-twisters & wreckage pockets
in the blizzard pinch of night

& Bingham the third at Machu Picchu and the dissolution of Standard Oil
and Chinese Republicans and, and

while Browning’s forty-five caliber Colt mod was the innovation of choice
for the islands under Manila,
where the formerly standard United
Stateser army thirty-eights were inept
for civilizing charging Muslim breastbones to jungle deckplates
& keeping them there
to secure the spoils secured from the spoils
of big sister España
where the precipitation settles
mainly on the

umbrella darling petty
nymph, your lightly
salted booties jig, dig
their way by grains into
the ion-channeled salary,

glands slaked by lottery,
in the fits of ordnance storming.

Incredible Tales of the Accretive Bone Market

Timothy Leland Shores

I’ve been taking a powdered drink with breakfast
that gradually replaces me
with a person who will excel more superbly
at the assorted values of a given age,
only to discover that the stocking-footed Nemesis
has been dosing the regional watershed,
salting shipments of fuel and coating radio towers
with the same raspberry dust.
If I understand correctly, the theory
as evangelized by our village Leibnizian,
that experience is irreducibly complex,
upon which your identity is contingent,
harmonious, but otherwise incalculable,
the armature of consciousness, and not to be dismantled
for the pleasure of a finer understanding.
Such would be lightly
to propose
stabbing a person while he sobs, clutching every perforation,
or to split up a people with mortar and tariff. How brave–
that’s what they’ll tweet about me. Gave
himself up to a sugarfree partnership
with the more obedient beneficence, quickly,
Darling, I must to go, my economy needs me
to extract myself, qualia,
bones and all, so much improved.

Year of the Hare

Timothy Leland Shores

Year of the Hare

Ancestor

Timothy Leland Shores

Ancestor