It’s true that years later I will meet
the ghost of red heated handprints
enclosing my trachea. It’s true that
I will reconvene with long, lost
bruises under black lights
at the bowling alley,
because invariably I will again
smear that particular
until it, like me, is unrecognizable. Hitherto,
it is true that love as an utterance
has been the fire escape
from my darkroom, but lately
I waft in smoke as it stands poised and
exposed; gone forever is the acoustic thrill
of trekking some uncommon clanging stairwell;
I have been biding so long for the right moment
to erupt that I could shoot myself out so suddenly
but I’ve settled now so deep.
Conversations on the Subway
When a stranger confronts her, she remarks his beard is impressive in that he’s mustered up enough smarts to cover his dumb face. Truly sleight of hand when words whir past like throwing stars, and he snapshots her blueprint. If at long last he meets her gaze, her glare swats flies like him. Before then, however, he considers himself scientific, unfurling
a permutation of sayings which he’s irrefutably proven one night at
the club. She has seven stops to go, but she considers leaving
the train, calling a cab— until she clears her throat but into it he discerns his palate and she feels like a red balloon tethered only by his string and she strains to bear in mind they all
aren’t like this nice men exist somewhere if only one would let go but he won’t he won’t he won’t
If Capping Your Lens Is The One Choice
When I went limp this time, I knew the protocol:
the frantic grind of car seat leather rubbing out my face;
the open hands clamped motionless in his claws behind my back;
the sublimation that hollows this china doll petite to the touch.
I shut my eyes to spectate my gaping space unfilled:
my stoic Earth, flaming round with no managing ear or tongue;
my pensive sun rolling small like a baseball down the mound;
my rising moon whose fullest wit is a pale coin yet to be flipped.
When it ends, I will animate in slow, certain bursts:
I will fold my arms like an iron gate when leaning brick walls;
I will cast my baitless hook so far that it will sink silent in the sand;
I will jog these densest woods until these foreign prints make sense.
Tyler Earls is an aspiring poet and musician from the small town of Roscoe, Illinois. His poetry can be found at plankstand.tumblr.com.