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.

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