corned-beast-speaks

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Sun, 09 Aug 2009 23:13:00 +0000

"Maybe you should just do it tonight so you can sit in a box all day tomorrow."

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Thu, 21 May 2009 18:22:00 +0000

Burn and Burn and Burn

for Megan Shay

First she was a late autumn breeze
coming through a café door
surrounded by
a phalanx of ebullient guards

Curious with her eyes wide open
glancing at the contents of the room
as if it were a ghostly pantry
of beeswax candles
and dried old mystery herbs
jars of dust preserved like patient guests
by buckets and deserted brooms

And as she left
again in the centre of an undulation of flesh
blown like orange and scarlet leaves around her
I felt the blue breath of her speechless passage
and asked and asked and asked

And as fixed winter came down
Her candle gaze of snowy attention
sparked a fire in my hibernating furnace
found in the locked basement of memory
and I could not hide
from the burning of her waking cold
or frostbite of her perfect touch
as sideways like the ghost of snow
she went and came and went again

And often I could not see her through her blizzard
but only hear her voice as it floated on
electric wave from Christmas
in the valley of sweetly frozen grape
or five blocks up the steepest street;
her words written down as wind inscribes
on banks of drifted paper snow
or tiny runes on shifted dunes of blown sand

And once she arrived large and sudden
as a wall of affronted weather
wafting some paper scraps before her
like a fallen dove’s shattered feathers
And in a sudden gust called my name
and indicated that my supposition
had offended her growing care
and slim modicum of human trust

And once calm as horse latitudes can be
her whisper seemed to say
(as it tangled my brain in a dream
of soft Sargasso sea)
I love you you will never lose me
but as a wind without edge or ropes
she moves and moves, is always there,
but like her subtle soul, always she is air

Her whispers and trick hunting whistles
tell me she wants me near but far
here not there or there not here or be with me
But you can’t hope to be
beside me when I cannot be held or hold
contained unless you’re as patient
as a canvas sail on a still lake stalled
then someday I will arrive big or small
and move you here to there and touch you
as a breeze across curved landscape
and through the stretching trees
until you start to smoulder then
leave you in the centre of that water
to smoke and sputter, wave and yearn,
leave you where I can discern
your perfect heart
burn and burn and burn.

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Sun, 19 Apr 2009 19:38:00 +0000

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Tue, 10 Mar 2009 19:20:00 +0000

ANGEL OF BLIGHT

Song Lyric

for Megan Shay with love and invariable respect Timothy Shay

"Maybe you should just do it tonight so you can sit in a box all day tomorrow."

While the world ended

in florescence and phony white

some chose to clutch thin candles

at the fall of interminable night

Some chose the bleak announcement

of rattling party horns

to pronounce their tiny crumbs of joy,

brief sunshine in a storm

Some fucked like no tomorrow

and some didn’t fuck at all

while they waited for the orders

and cowered within their walls

And while the world ended

one sat in a room alone

dreaming of bridal veils

the soft song of a groom

A groom and his celebration

a bride in her flight of veils

circled the sky as black birds

tossed like ships with sails

And while the world ended

all danced and danced again,

some sang like dirty angels

in a choir of the pained

Their voices of cardboard and ribbon

sputtered to false dawn

and the Angel of Blight directed there

with the hook on his baton

While the world ended

some still bowed to their ancient dreams

and begged their gods for the magic

of some forgotten former scene

And while the world ended

one spoke on a dead telephone

calling for bridal veils

in the sweet voice of a groom

Sad groom and his calculations

cold bride in her flight of veils

circled the sky as black birds

tossed like ships with sails

And outside in the corridor,

way down a deadened hall,

someone took their hardon

and beat a heart to hell.

7.III.09 Timothy Shay

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Fri, 06 Feb 2009 09:14:00 +0000

LOVE POETRY & EROTIC POETRY

READINGS

VALENTINE'S DAY SATURDAY NIGHT OPEN MIC

FEBRUARY 14 2009 730PM-10PM

THE VIENNA

NELSON BC

HOST - TIMOTHY SHAY

READERS & LISTENERS WELCOME

THIS EVENT HAS NO COVER

AND ENDS AT APPROX.

10PM. WARM UP HERE

AND CONTINUE WITH

THE MANY LATER EVENTS

IN TOWN... AFTERWARDS

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 02:34:00 +0000

READINGS

SATURDAY

January 17th 2009

730PM

THE VIENNA

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Wed, 24 Sep 2008 06:29:00 +0000

POETS/WRITERS

CALL

FOR SUBMISSIONS

HORSEFLY

LITERARY

MAGAZINE

is accepting submissions until December 2008
of poetry, (5 poems max.), and prose, (5000 words
max.). Submit by snail mail to:

HORSEFLY LITERARY MAGAZINE
c/o #308-507 Baker Street
NELSON BC V1L 4J2

or by email or word doc. to:

horsefly@netidea.com

No handwritten mss. Attach SASE for ms. return.

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Sat, 13 Sep 2008 22:29:00 +0000

THE REDFISH GRILL

I saw a man who looked like he carried

death the weapon

he was standing inside a café window

and looked at me like a cia poster

I saw a man who may have found me

vulnerable, well studied

by some masterful predecessor.

So if you find me murdered tomorrow

it was the man with very large eyes

inside the window of

the redfish grill

10.IX.08ts

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Sat, 02 Aug 2008 08:10:00 +0000

JUST OFF SHORE

I cannot yet bring myself to

gather bread crumbs

retreat to the mainstreet bench

most recently occupied

by old Ernie the suicide

(remembered with

his halo of frantic pigeons

riot of dust and feather

demanding manna)

So instead

I sometimes sit alone

on a bench by the river

along the waterfront pathway

as it grows dark

and watch the slow river run by

in the last dribble of daylight

as darkness supersedes sight

A small trout breaks surface

then another and another

until myriad small trout

leap and fall like raindrops

A clan of duck swim by

dragging a remnant of light

like a thin satin ribbon

across the water behind them

and now it is almost night

Another small creature

surfaces just off shore

submerges again and

resurfaces swims slowly along

I think it must be a beaver

so shift my weight

cough and listen for

the sharp slap of its tail

-Timothy Shay. July 30 2008

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Sat, 02 Aug 2008 08:08:00 +0000

RESOLUTIONS

A new chapbook of poems by
Timothy Shay
available from
Chameleon Fire Editions
Box 151 New Denver BC V0G 1S0
www.chameleonfire.ca
25 pages - $12
& shipping

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 05:19:00 +0000

all abject in corned quartet

We were so lovely then

all abject like a

force of morning light

And eagles are so

far up they vanish

in and out of cloudy

sight and you abject do not

hear the cheering teams

of surrendered fools

gold sparkles

on the surface gravel

Iron pyrite eyes look up

glazed with an eon of running

water over them:

subject.. yet watchful

We were so lovely then

all abject…a force

of morning light.

Timothy Shay 10.III.08

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Sat, 16 Feb 2008 02:01:00 +0000

THE MESS

.one.

I feel empty. The world was

a mess when I was born

men shooting men

men shooting women and as I grew I

was given a toy gun and all my young friends

received toy guns and then the children

shot the children and I also got my mom

right in the eye I poked her and

shouted ‘gotcha!!’

And she had a black eye for a long time

and removed my toy gun

and the children said ‘that’s ok,

you can still play, we need an Indian”

.two.

I was always aware of my growing oldness

and that I had started with my first breath

breath by breath step by step

growing older and now

on the edge of the old the fluttering collapse

of a deluded angel spinning from the sky in

the universally shared choreography

of return

of the helpless

folding in of wings

of delight and surprise

as ochre dust and an open palm of earth

or fire greet us

enfold us remove us from the mess

.three.

A fool I hate writes letters to the editor

wastes words

says we all know the problems so well

theyre not worth repeating and

then repeats them and tells us

solutions are what’s needed and

Silence fills the blank page of solution

the place he asked to occupy

I went to the new movie

The one with the Sondheim score

and could not sleep after

witnessing the usual solution.

TS 22.I.08

OATMEAL POEM

I was born this morning.

it was the first thing that happened.

I was in a very long birth canal

for many passing years

I held my breath and held my breath

The world was snowing when I was born

but the dishes were done

and the kitchen possessed all the ingredients

for oatmeal bread

I am making some now because

oatmeal makes me remember dreams

of horses

and the Scots

all robust and farty

but in possession of pasture and glen

highland, brusque wind

I will eat some new oatmeal bread and watch

as it rains and rains

at the end of my first warm day.

TS 9 .II.08

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Thu, 20 Dec 2007 07:39:00 +0000

haiku

Waterlogged wood

Spins slowly in shallows as

Fresh wood rushes past

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Thu, 20 Dec 2007 07:28:00 +0000

28.XI.07

Who to cook for who to please

who to speak to when

the others leave

No song to sing for small audience

No time spent with her again

comfort and quiet

at easy rest

Across the snowy mountains

with her caged cat

to the coast and new hopes

And I am exposed

to a winter that is no friend

1.XII.07

I do not want to be in a state of belief

I do not want the vacuity of non belief.

Somewhere between these

Is a fence to sit on

which simply does not exist.

-Timothy Shay

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Mon, 03 Sep 2007 07:54:00 +0000

ACTIVE LIKE

POMPEII 23.V.07

When I was a young child

I warned them of the

arrival of the unravelling

of the world

and they laughed

ascribed my outbursts

to an active imagination

So I returned to my backyard yoga

and dug a hole to china

through the molten centre

of our limited globe

... emerged out

the other side

upside down - stuck hanging

enunciating my grievance

like a fly on sticky tape

pleading with the varied gods

in a buzz of foreign language

my hot words sorrowful

and filled like Pandora candies

with a syrup of forboding silence

at the centre and

suddenly the dogs want out

songbirds fall silent

absent themselves to the cooler distance

And ominous silence

always the new echo’s answer

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Thu, 24 May 2007 03:17:00 +0000

haiku

Like an old dog's bark
from which a host of birds flee
my surprised voice shouts

-Timothy Shay

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Tue, 22 May 2007 07:52:00 +0000

WE SAY THE WIND SIGHS

Now i've sentenced myself to a window
high above the commerce of the street
it is the place i sit and yearn
and hold the sun like a missing cat
in the open nest of my lap.

-Timothy Shay

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Tue, 22 May 2007 07:17:00 +0000

SPECTACLE
[fr styx]

I cross the river styx
and fail to understand
why the windows
are so thick
why like a turtle
my safety rests
in a shell of sleep
my memories dangle
so many ornaments
just beyond my tiny reach

The swim was very long
i failed
to notice my own arrival
and the walls are nothing
but old calenders yellowed as
crumpled petals of dry roses

Incomprehensible
this new literacy
since i lost
the broken spectacles.

-Timothy Shay

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Mon, 21 May 2007 16:15:00 +0000

cherry bowlge haiku

a bowlge of cherries
a few left in the bottom
one really red one

-Timothy Shay

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Wed, 16 May 2007 18:10:00 +0000

NOT TODAY

It was a strange and bright

morning

at first i thought i'd died

but then realized i had

arisen

earlier than usual to think

of my small beginnings

one noisy insect on a

blindly building hill of ants

A strange and bright

morning

the light of the forenoon

piercing like a needle in an

emporium of acupuncture

and

i am healed by the hours

of thinking without

realization

half my brain massages my

inner skull

in an act of random

buddhism

It is a woman weeping

who finds me

long after i'd gone missing

we have poached eggs

together

and see a big rainbow;

no flood today.

-Timothy Shay

8.VIII.01

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Tue, 15 May 2007 05:48:00 +0000

THE GAMES

I have not spoken up

because you would rather not hear me

and I should be fishing

in a valley between empty mountains

somewhere on the Yukon border.

I have not spoken, at least not loudly

I do not whistle during furied hurricanes

or ape the patience and silence of an

arsenal of waiting bombs

when I meditate on the lotus and the lily pad

and carefully consume

the finer things at this last supper

this elegantly catered end of sense.

The recognition of

the fragility of our props

the phoney liquid of

the painted sky

Shakespeare composed by committee

while lucky monkeys

pluck the perfect dictionary

from a keyboard

Someone thinks they know the truth

But struggles with the most profitable packaging

So we are the fish-like skeletons

of the collapsed, the ravaged,

picked clean behind this yard of defunct

automobile parts,

rust and wavery white

flags on each horizon.

It seems like more than enough

yet I understand

the games are just beginning…

-Timothy Shay 14.V.07

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Mon, 14 May 2007 08:02:00 +0000

PASTORAL NIGHTMARE

Eight weeks without rain
clouds of dust rise up
as my shovel explores
in the name of next year's garlic

Stellar jays eat stink bugs
my old house older now
the dog, deaf
barks at slight movement,
now surprised, now bewildered

Winter wood almost ready
food enough for the dark days
bottled and preserved and the
usual prayer to
the saint of leaks

And what do we pray to:
This ground that will hold the dog?
just a dog..nuance in the neighbourhood's history
legendary chicken killer of wightwick road
terror of free range farmers and
breezy low hung laundry.

And what do you pray to:
a song that made you feel good
on christmas
your mother's hypnotic concern
for well being in the unknown
environment of afterlife
or a hidden nook
ignored by the bowlge-like gods
of the limp patriarchy

We will hold..we will encompass
we will enclose you
nothing will arrive..nothing leave
like wally said
no prayer . no song . no dance.
and even when the mystic calls out
some pastoral vision burning
across the late autumn hills
before the long winter
this new winter that will not end.

Pray tell pray sleep and well.

-Timothy Shay

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Sun, 13 May 2007 18:38:00 +0000

REQUIEM FOR

THE VICTORIOUS

My mouth is too dry

the sun victorious

because its g-d is crazy

like a big nasty kid

focussing a magnifying glass

on squirming ants

the sun a ray gun

of focused light, pinpoint

inescapable on the winding

ant highway

They have me on drugs;

One makes my riotous heart

slow down to the muffled wave of

a sleeping cat’s breath,

one has agents, armed to the hilt,

ambushes the languid sludge

of bad cholesterol as it festers

and tumbles toward the limited parking

still available along

my crowded arterial highway,

one decreases my

angry blood pressure

as it knocks over

letter boxes after

too many nights on the town

and another, the thin one,

has cut me off pie

and coca cola

and all the sugary goodness

of western culture,

yet another quells

volcanic acid eruptions

before they scald my throat,

while one other makes my blood

thin as a jogger

and finally there’s the anti depressant

which knocks me out all day and

causes me to laugh at

slapstick tragedy;

the prat fall of America,

our ass kissing prime minister,

and the discovery that all the food

in the store

is killing us, eating us and

extracting our breath

to carry us on to the edge of mystery

the rim of some continental saucer before

the enigmatic sea:

The world is left behind

like shards of day at nightfall

and memories rise up, smooth dreams,

their corners soft and shiny

from time’s perpetual erosion.

-Timothy Shay

12.V.07.

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Tue, 08 May 2007 07:19:00 +0000

RED THEORIES:
[four voices & siren]
[chanted & repeat...]

If they are red
we will call them fire trucks
and children will like them
so will dalmatian dogs
and houses that are burning

If they are red
they are houses burning
and the world is full of them
this very instant
burning red
from cerebral movement
or single incendiary
sets of eyes
or simply
the sleepy dropt cigarette
in the darkness
its tip glowing
red and spreading
across the carpet
through the bedding.

Timothy Shay

timothyshay@netidea.com (bob-the-goat) — Tue, 08 May 2007 07:19:00 +0000

PRAYER

To be not bemused
by great wit conceived
on the lap of decay
at the breast of disease

To not be enslaved
by the buy or the sell
in the city of sadness
the temple of hell

To resist the contrite
on Gargoyle Street
when burned and abandoned
minus retreat

THREE MERCIES SLEEPING

The body is not merciful
in its aging progress
like a highway filled with potholes
my spine becomes a torture test

The mind is not merciful
in its method of forgetting
a madwoman cleaning offices
disposes ordered documents

The spirit is not merciful
in its keening to continue
like the sister of a cripple
she runs and darts and laughs

-Timothy Shay