Well Thereís That, We Have That


I charmed sixty-six snakes out the exhaust pipe

and fed the bag of money to the goat in the bucket

seat before the officers matched my shadow ID.

Questions of the questioning amount.

Did the book and the worm have a first date?

Do wild things hassle them while romance percolates?

Giving up against the giving tree, the sidewalk ending

in a kiss?  Please, Ines, stop whispering.

Your shrunken t-shirts still hang, steel-wired

in the tenement of longing I keep

a trick candle in. Every night

Giselle, Katherine, and Cindy leave me to watch

your clothes dry in the darker circles

of the room. Remember: in a temple of maggots

they make a moat of worms, jesters for the king

similar to the garbage man sifting for silk-shirt

lotteries. Hands two crumpled bags

till his cup goes full again. Empty the remnants of these

backwards bricked whispers, questions

between leaflets, awaiting the list

of contents on the table:  2 liters of Beefeater,

4 knives, 8 pints of tonic, and 16 letters from you, Ines,

postmarked in a sequence of possible futures.

Each expiring in the manner of blind doves.

This last one recounts the time you fell

through an endless pile of rose bulbs

while bees buzzed around you and spoke Spanish.

How you only knew you were dreaming

because you understood bees to be French. 

Whatís the Story Morning After?


Walk of shambles,

something horror-ish.

Mostly a bad decision you keep

making, a can of Pringles stuffed with razor sharp

razors. Sometimes the carpet cracks

into an ocean of tiny hats, and sometimes

Iím a shipwrecked captain on island Zed. 

Mostly Iím island Zed,

for zebras of unspeakable beauty roam there.

There are no zebras, just unspeakable beauty.

This makes me want gum, or someone nice

who offers me some and I nicely refuse. 

When Iím ON

the ants all stop and turn and 

the ground becomes more groundy.

When Iím OFF

I say things like Ďunspeakable beautyí

three times too many. 

In the city of Me, I live on Awesome Circle

and Iím an incredibly well read poet.

Gin practically flows from the faucet.

Sometimes I drink 40ís of Ring-Bo-Ree

and fumble in the downstairs attic of curved fingers.

The day breaks my promise with a forged number.

Mostly Iím alone.

What I Want to Say


What I want to say to you

is not what I want to say,

rather a half-truth Iíve whittled

down with reason and shame

to a size your palms could hold

in a future freak-set of circumstances,

which Iíve orchestrated brilliantly

while you wash the dishes.

It starts with a phone call from a Jupiter police officer,

the sudden death of your motheró

for now, I bring the bucket up from your silence.

The flock of tight lipped sheep

sleeping in your memory are hobbled,

branded by the fence of shared dreaming.

Even in the clarity of smoke clouds, secrets keep tricky.

Youíre the first thing the house spits out in morning,

the last breath it smells at night.

Between two points graphed, a giraffe.


 Tyler Smith is from Rochester, NY. He currently lives in Boston.