All text and images copyright Tim Myers 2008

That Mass at Which the Tongue

                Is Celebrant

                  by Tim Myers

                                  Pecan Grove Press 2007

                     To His Tongue

                   by Tim Myers

Like baby crawling you can't stay still.

Conductor's baton, you orchestrate me.

How easily twist yourself, oh contortionist,

to make the sounds, how rapid, my dancing snake!

But wholly without opinion on the words I choose:

I stupidly scold when my four-year-old spills dinner;

I recite seraphic poems.

Old opportunist, as willing to assist in sex

as decry injustice or sing a lullaby!

Dog in your kennel barking my body your own,

bell of this temple of self,

demagogue rousing my flesh,

I suspect you are more than a servant--

part meat, part bird--

how did the Emptiness ever construct

so odd an archangel?

“My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach,

With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of worlds.”

                   --Whitman, “Song of Myself”

Order at your local bookstore or