kimball

Jack Kimball

Three Sonnets

1. Sunken gardens with a fountain at each corner, the colors of bones. Rationed compliments appear w/ secret ballots that float into a mathematics of situation (sons), foam under rush-formatted steam disappearing like factions of perplexity, contextual affects (procedures) — more fearless (less indiscernible) a cappella — Have you an online will? Travel well. There’s product on the loose. The cubicle is in your head. (If I can’t sleep I can’t dream.) Side effects could occur. I saw you on television. I saw your name written on a wall. 2. Untold on both sides, a grisly rendered as future photo realism or whatever you have up your sleeve please find a way to get me the info. You’ve passed the second-cousin stage of wretchedness. We’re good to go on & take up any theory to sever a head from the vines. Further out descriptors are pains faintly reeling like spiders’ pant legs descending into moaning nonentities (the Ralph Vaughn Williamses), still squinting tho Within representation. 3. Abhorring vacuum, a jet gate opens to a drawing room, where snow and sunlight close their distance. We never saw it coming, old and new strung out on sectionals, an untapped atmosphere of oblique pup scents and puckish flair. Someday all this will be yours. Five hundred blocks that lean socialist running with snappy dialog, steeped in a plaited glow blending mythologies of casual reading and living chronologically to under-simulate the senses. My fly is open. I look thus tired and I forget big words that suggest under whose thumb. The pink rattle is a stretch of dark matter, and the glove puppet’s a trap while bitter wind angles down shifting one thing at a time into the present. Right, icons are produced by something heated, promoting sea plankton. Only television counts.