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tyler gobble


Tiny Storm


But by milk I boiled
Dressed and couldn’t garden it

It meaning lust

No repulsive lust just these manly pants
Beside a sad moan sea

Life has slick hair

The pink rose rips through wind
A thousand peaches with us were tongues

My blues music pounding tiny storm dreams


Squirrel of Intuition


who vined happy through this wither
wild peace or off by some brown cloud

say long live sacred murmur
spirit followed dawn to a lake

the sweet and ancient above
my beautiful prairie can let you

thrive and leave between breathe
every color berry be dark

covering a fresh green feeling
soon rain nature’s water  

the rustler must know how quiet
a wild love sanctuary only see night

blanket of daffodil after the cycle
fullest bloom squirrel of intuition

I shade the thick grass then


Tyler Gobble Poem


How it is and what I'm wearing. On a clear day
you can see forever. Long johns because on this day in history once
I was cold. For a poet, they say, you sure are literal. I was not
particled to be particular or even practical.
And certainly not paracrine. Literature is ancient and so
are my palest ancestors. Even the ones
who preferred to live in Native American society.
Which came first--the shunning or the acceptance
that these are the stalks I’ll be eating
until my death? Not the call and response into the forest
but the call for a response, the phone ringing
and the other end singing,
Tell me your answer, now please! I need this! Will we
get married? Vegan cheese or 17-meat pizza?
Who really pulled the trigger? What? I was having sex
but could only think of a year. It was 1968. A birthday
cake shaped like a hearse. Uncle called it a light-hearted joke.
Sometimes it is impossible to be louder, so it is
necessary to bring your own karaoke machine. The only bird
watching I've done is those Sundays after slaughter
when the latch wasn't best closed and the chickens
they'd flutter about the yard like the last clouds of May.
Some we could catch with our sprinting. Others would have to wait
snagged from a branch, or if we were lucky, the bucket
seat in a rusted Ford northwest corner of this yard. Colony collapse
disorder is when it all starts dying, but no one knows why.


Tyler Gobble is chapbook editor of Magic Helicopter Press, Editor-in-Chief of  NOÖ Journal and the host of Everything Is Bigger, a reading series in Austin, TX. He is currently a poetry fellow at the Michener Center for Writers. He has plopped out a chunk of chapbooks, most recently Collected Feelings with Layne Ransom (Forklift INK), and his first full-length, MORE WRECK MORE WRECK, is out now from Coconut Books. He likes disc golf, tank tops, and bacon. More at www.tylergobble.com