Tim Kahl

Gold Country [Dec. 17]

Dutch Flat
Hurry. The people-mover is a food processor for passengers, pre-treats
the morning hole in the magnetic field until 1 PM, a satellite for a word puzzle.
[Post: the donor of the transplanted face was declared a full service
lender.] Animal control officer reports credit card claim jumper, cemeteries
of fed rates. The surplus lands advertise online video. The invisible hand revealed,
generating ten thousand trips by car on the weekend. Then resume the burials.
Resume the burials.

Slate Bar
Hustle up. Finally, a butcher’s education front-end crash tests with a Swedish cookie
tradition. The Emergency Foodlink appoints a winter ambassador to white food.
[Post: Kohlrabi, onion, jicama, potato, and shallot, please report to
the patriotic display against tyranny.] Blue dies in prison while red disciplines
the bad apples within the firm.

Negro Bar
Giddyup Go. When I was younger and smarter, I took great pleasure in exposing
the world’s shortcomings, its twisted categories, its logical missteps, its sinister
misalignments. But now I’m just reeling from the effects, existing as grist from
this life’s vicissitudes, gratified whenever I can hang on and pluck a nugget
before noon.

Mormon Island
Vamanos. Chemical spill of Sundays, cable pirating strategies, citizens with
no hamburger awareness. Whoa! we need to know what’s in your recycling
and your news conference. The Department of Swiss Watches measures risk
of dark matter at mile marker 126.

Ford’s Bar

Mississippi Bar
Get the lead out. My senses suffer through their own pollution. I am buried up to my
neck in the gross weight of the language that is playing carrera de gallo with me.
I am not a good swimmer, so I stay close to the shore where the gold can be found
more easily.

Beam’s Bar
Rápido. A tube skylight ads more beauty than anti-seizure. Slickens continue
in the form of tomato products. Pollution monitors in stormy weather.
[Post: Husband sale, no interest payment and heating system, we explain
the installation.] Win or lose Saturday, the Man of the Year will press his case
for federal dollars.

Charge! I’d like once more to try snatching that half-buried rooster while galloping on a horse.

Farmer’s Diggings
Chop-chop. The magnetosphere faces accusations of anti-trust. The original
design contained the magic of Macy’s. But there were birth defects. Each chamber
in the legislature needed a replacement window. Please note: dark energy keeps
galaxies from getting too fat. The largest grave site is named Colonial Village.
Safety improvements are made in this year’s marching band, but it’s still bipolar.

Texas Hill
Andalé andalé. The machines of discipline have pronounced my name, and I am
interested in their workings, their catalogs of parts and interior mysteries. Often I have
the feeling I could build a separate metal claendar in complete mechanical detail to
the steel plant’s gantry crane with what I have left over from today’s afternoon walk.

Sailor Bar
Shake a leg. [Post: A “black box” warning lives above the lighted slot machines.]
The selenium in mushrooms is subject to racketeering, the elevated price of new air
from the utility company, instead of a holiday ham. “I’m not kidding,”
says Rock Waterman, Carmichael. There — the history of the universe in
the Delta. There — a platter of carrots, the final slice, and bright bell peppers.

Tim Kahl [http://www.timkahl.com] is the author of Possessing Yourself (Word Tech, 2009). He is currently cursing the arid climate of the California Central Valley for conferring upon him yet another bout with kidney stones. With his wife Kristina, he has co-authored two children [names unlisted, ages subject to change]. The Sacramento Poetry Center, whose reading series he has coordinated for a number of years, has made him interested in how texts are performed as much as how they appear as sterling artifacts on the page. He is a veteran sorter of the bins at Goodwill where he takes great joy in being an archaeologist of American consumer culture. He is learning how to be a fan of soccer but wonders if this can be possible without a childhood favorite team on which to pin his hopes and fears. He snores if he sleeps on his right side; he dreams of being a hearty terrier if he sleeps on his left. At one point he was known as Victor Schnickelfritz on a blog called The Great American Pinup, but the purveyors of malware and Google put an end to that . . . and only Google [née God] can resurrect him there.

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