#tim keane

[zombilenium]

Robert Corless, “Untitled” (1961), 

Watercolor on Paper, 12 x 13 inches,

Photo by Tim Keane, Courtesy the estate of Robert Corless

[uutpoetry]

Dead Letter Office

Tim Keane

No GPS where you end up going and lost isn’t the half of it.

You make everything from nothing and after another missed dispatch, and a rerouting, something ends up filling nowhere.

Starts with the slack-yellow-on-whites Snowed on to a dull foundation.

Outlines tension with cutout epiphanies.

The studio’s castaway supply of squares and the waxen squeegee transcribe an approximate plank in muted luminescence.

Difficult, wasted days increase the dishonorable labor, the push-and-pull tick-tock, an accelerated deforming, and the final delivery due to the wizard-fish.

Art by Tim Keane

[uutpoetry]

Shattered Interlude

Tim Keane

in fugato delicto, speckles, and irregular voices answer a blue dirge of corallites and imitate the entry of the next voice, the yellow hippocampus parting from the striped and spotted colony gliding among the gorgonians feeding on parti-colored pods alighting near the graptolites cooing dendroid to dumb Lorelei as if the word could be a countersubject, announcing an unconfined theme, the shattered interlude and the instrumental coral

Original art submission, also by Tim.

[uutpoetry]

The Slippery Process of Christening

Tim Keane

That’s not gale-blown marran grass Not a trembling perp’s finger-press It’s not sleep-messed tresses on a satin headrest Not a blood blotch suspended in white emulsion Not some would-be bullet trace Nor a hypothetical comet Not a wind-catcher hewn out of broom bristles

There are, obviously, affirmatives in these negatives You can’t unsee whatever words make visible And no one’s here, God knows, to smarmily riposte

No             or   Yes

To whatever you Claim you see In the unnamable

So nominate anything’s is-ness for yourself, and grow properly stoned on that slippery process of christening.

Call this the heel-print of Pindar’s sandman Or streaky arithmetics shaded in by some philistine Or a cloud making a sidewinding, pseudo-Vesuvius Or funny sedge, or barren reek, or a precious terminus.

Or go for a plagiarized, teacher-pleasing rhapsodic flourish Name it a trace where the wind goes weightless in the leaves.

NB: Three phrases were lifted from Ezra Pound’s Cantos and Jonathan Williams’ “Ovid Meets a Metamorphodite.” Art submission by Tim Keane.

[uutpoetry]

Beyond Denier

Tim Keane

denier measures the thickness of fabric; but why leave the skin’s countless undertones like ‘moon-glow-under-netted-shadow’ or ‘foamy-white-under-gossamer-blue’ ungraded and undescribed, and so, too, the hosier’s errancies, the quotidian damage, the runs;  the obnoxious motes pocking a patch of black cotton-sheer, the ugly conical tear in glittering, utopian nylon, the ghastly seam-flaw in the azure cotton, the frayed anarchy of the brown wool’s snag, the wretched slit in the rose-pink rayon, the jarring slub in the creamy wool

[uutpoetry]

Intaglio

Tim Keane

Don’t eulogize the tyranny of some no- king court. Go ahead. Get on with it. What other ritual produces such an absorbing, ink-stained lotus? Whose lust enlivens both the algae and the perch? What can best the vertical calligraphic stem? Watch the nude diver with her chestnut-colored hair particulate the flower-and-gill motif and watch drop-out literati make a stony frieze of colorful bream. Look at how the blood-red watercolor resolves the paper’s contradictions and see how the gray aquatint shipwrecks a schooner in soapy lime. Don’t knock the painter’s promiscuity. Get over it. You are not a fish, how would you know the happiness of fish?

Art by Robert Corless

[uutpoetry]

A Flexible Recipe for Seven-Bar Monkfish

Tim Keane

kitchen air is all the metaphysics you need to lose your tired hang-up on the literal and see how imagination photoshops memory turning an otherwise tedious biography into a sea-green melody; Brilliant Corners is communicating more urgent news than your NPR update; technically, (or usually, or loosely) speaking, “cooking-form blues” and “sesame membranes” are nonexistent melodies that rational producers reject, but if you rehearse both phrases six times each, they gradually braid the glassy splash into the pulled tail, the throaty chorus into the reedy bridge; critical acclaim is a long-harvested, conventional flavor but the smoked masterwork knocks unexpectedly and shrinks from whatever that hive-mind wants and its oil-burning pan-fry deviates from rhythmic B, trading in delicate browning, pink music, eight-bar corners.

art by Marc-Anthony Macon

[uutpoetry]

Andalusian Compass

Tim Keane

in the north, ivy-dotted estuaries look like clouds next to crocodiles, and in the east, unblushing dahlias shoot up at some designated rate, set in the earth-core; in the west rancheros’ pan-foam turns inshore and its ugly rivets and scummy puddles furrow the mud; in the south, saetas fade as players pass out, leaving silence, until starlings, concealed in jacaranda, answer the rumbling sky with faint coos.

art by ms. neaux neaux