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Withering Cedars, Georgia, United States
My name is Tim Morris. I currently dwell in Northwest Georgia on my estate, Withering Cedars, nestled at the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, with my lovely wife and two beautiful daughters, where I teach high school American literature. I have been writing poetry for the majority of my life. I write about what I see around me. When asked, I describe my style as "realist romantic surrealism". The environment, sex, jazz, religion, politics, family, etc., are the subjects on which I tend to focus. When I am not writing, I play the banjo, didgeridoo, or drums or wander aimlessly shooting odd objects with my camera.

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

"the last apostle"


on his knees and crying
was how i found him.

his feet little more than bloody nubs;
his hands broken below the wrists;
his beard ripped and matted
with charcoal and dung;
his eyes - two ravens
with murderous intent.

the last apostle -

forced to wander the back roads
of obscurity,

he babbled of bribery and deceit -
of lies propagated for 2000 years -
of carpenter’s nails left to rust in the rain -

the last apostle -

broken and battered in the dust
of a north georgia mountain -

looking more like one of eliot’s hollow men
caught forever in the trenches
of a gunpowder afternoon.

the last apostle -

whom i now keep chained to a dumpster
in my backyard,
charging $3 a head for a look-see,
$5 if you want him to sing
"when the saints go marching in."

i’m doing quite well,
if you must know.

next week we do letterman,
and then a brief stint on the surreal life.

the last apostle
should have kept his dirty little mouth closed.

2 comments:

leigh tuplin said...

'surreal life'... now I would turn my tv on to watch that :)

The Junkyard Poet said...

Thanks!