nathan martin

If your looking for the smart guy in the corner its me.
using the comparative method of etymology you will
find the definition of poet is me.
if i was a dinosaur i would be a thesaurus.
...

it is the atomic weight of it that matters most.

violent barbiturate toungues empty coffee cups
and deliver the insight.
...

before the hemoglobin rush's in parting life from life.
empty abdomens swirl from the dust. born to die,
their parasitical humor is a terror in the ear.
...

she told me a few variables then
kept nine secrets for herself

she asked me for three words
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so sterile the keys as they
punch, knock out their given slots,
each standing upright in line
like good roman soldiers do.
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small old house with
blackberry bushes
gathering in the backyard
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gently under concordian hymn's, drifting through handwritten currents.
where willows weave their lengthy signatures drawn across the calm collection of a bristled pool. a library of leaves lies around the trees knotted trunks, dry and crumbling. tossed carelessly and thumbed through by the knowing wind each one placed indefinitely like an obscere character in a dusty warn old novel or myth.

they tell in their darkened shades secrets of the ways of the squirell's. who gather from treetop canopy's climbing down to rocky shorelines to lower their heads in an early morning baptismal reverance.
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surrounding objects each with distinct names
dizzy and blurred.

consumating witnesses in a pair of
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I know i'm not a saint
but i might be your martyr
even if just for a moment.
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when it is all to easy to follow
after darkness, follow after a little light.

even if it is in lower cased gestures,
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gardening back the perennial shade,
no time or reason to follow the wholly
mammoth into his grave.
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Pencil character sketches drawn on napkins,
greasy finger prints on doorhandles.
with the smell of diesel
in the vest of the stations attendant,
...

wood and strings turn the clock's
involuntary response.
hands set in motion with
the turn of a wrist,
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prophetic verses set like smooth stones
past the camels dry chiseled steps.

next to a parable and a jawbone.
...

deep in the sea bleached white
whale bones sing in thier chains.

chamber music in the depths
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he in his elegant black sits in the corner

will he touch... tread.. lightly between the rows
of the american gothic families
...

far beneath the steeples of cobble stoned london,
he moves without the parting of a shadows grace.
from morning to morning he carries no longing.
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when once my clay hands began to harden
under the potters wheelded sun
i turned to reach for my shadow
but found only a basket of dried
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where i go you cannot see or know,
because familiarity has lost its presence
or calm stature.
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paper mache boat's of noah's ark
made in sunday school,
imperfectly sailing gripped
by little fingers.
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