Monday, June 29, 2009

Three poems by Tyler Cobb

by Tyler Cobb

The Pixelated Prophet

Watching a movie and adding
to an empty beer can pile
as clouds trace the sky, marching
into sleep, these simple tapeworms,
I ignore them and grind up a piece of gum. If I'm being honest
this movie is moving at a snail's pace, the inside of
my head contains memories moving like jetlagged rats.
The day becomes a logjam of light naps
and smeared sludge of peculiar dream.

Questions come straight into the
shade, the portraits have cracked
into inexpressive desires missing
links, the eradication of safety
with laminated chill, a regiment
of ugly sweaty sunsets. The
is a mother of sorts, she
fixes my IV, fuses my problems
together and has an opinion
about every one of them.

New dreams rise up like
balloons, fake coffins
for the ones that survive
until morning.
I am defiant inside this organized
machine, write paragraphs
for the mob. They
send nothing back,
spectating from their
own chairs: protection from

creation. Everything leaking together.
One distorted movie falling in place.


Grave Fashion

this guy named Mark, he ran track and had
big bug eyes. "Did you hear who got arrested?"
he said to my friend Susan. "Yeah, can you
believe that creepy janitor was caught robbing graves?"
I knew the creepy guy they were talking about
but as they sat eating from a bucket of popcorn
a list
began flowing through my eyes
and began as such:
Washington, Columbus, Michelangelo, and Blackbeard;
mainly because I thought pirates were badass:
Elvis, Jesus, Andre The Giant,
Marylin Monroe and Kubla Khan
rounded out my initial thoughts.
I wanted to compile this crowd
of coffins and sit engrossed as the
sockets stared back, eager midnight, just
organisms passively pinched into various
boxes of faded pine
or tarnished metal.
Mark said, "I guess the school
is beefing up security just because
of one weirdo. Like his weirdness is
a disease or something."
"You never know." I said and pretended
to stab Susan with an imaginary knife.
"I have to go to class weirdass."
she said laughing.
Mark left to go take a nap before
his next track meet.
it was just me and the day, and at first
I grabbed a pencil and forced myself
to do homework
but the day continued to inch along
like a slug across cold pavement.
the lunacy was indeed

it was done.
all I had really needed was a shovel
and an old flashlight
to make
my bizarre dream
into a tense little

I found Mark stretching in the grass
taking swigs from
a bottle of blue Gatorade.
I showed him an old ring
and told him I had found it in the grass
and although it was never worn
by Elvis, Blackbeard, or Andre the Giant
the owner had disappeared into
the earth just like them
only to find the surface
through me.

while watching a movie, I gave the ring to Susan as a gift.
other girls began to buy rings
that looked just like it.

I think it is the only fashion trend ever started
by a creepy grave-robbing janitor.


The Moment Forced In Reflection

I am wandering into deception derailed:
tiny holes in hired guns
leaves time suspended in fast
my mind eager in your
mirror and
marking the path
to success.

let in the primitive
let in
clear the way
through this fractured
flesh problem.

the mouth was made for
dropping secrets.

easily enticed
without warning.

my hands trace the invisible

a force
of habit.

Author bio: Tyler Cobb is a poet living in St. Paul, Minnesota. His work has appeared in BlazeVOX, The Blue Print Review, Poetry Midwest, and Read This Magazine. He should be looking for a new place to live (lease is up) rather than writing.

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