Today, when hungry pen brokefast to page, this happen.
Her Way Never Lost
By Tyler Lucas Mobley
Her body a sound garden, storm swept sea
passengers afloat, humming her vibration.
Carried and tossed, her way never lost
cosmic gyres full of glee, winking out reality.
afterthought: simulation, consciousness, energy ladder doesn’t seem all that off. Maude; extremely vaginal.
She’ll Be Right
By Tyler Lucas Mobley
These mistakes go on to make themselves,
worthwhile experience registers of confirmation.
Hear a buzzing hive, your best has yet beecomb.
Nest away elixirs spices jewels and devices,
you’ll need a good starter when space cowboys
barter, with stows of intergalactic loot.
Holes of my pocket, carry the flow
I always wanted.
Forgone conclusions sit still in the past,
swan pond gift of reflection.
A running bet held through stranger
danger, purpose vows to day,
how to keep your wager?
Beating drum day finds jazz into night,
rhythms we praise with everyday change.
The Prophet Jeremiah
By Tyler Lucas Mobley
The prophet Jeremiah blends in a crowd, mustard brushes his sleeve,
out on divine parole, the stall line at Coachella proved larger than his bladder.
Tomorrow’s chariot of hope was nonchalant while asking for a plumber,
civilization’s trajectory oversight required Narcan resuscitation.
Washed up messiah got lost on the way in,
late for his last supper he broke a thong jaywalking.
Over the hill Lama, didn’t read the terms & conditions,
world bearing shoulders shrug off would be miracles
like water down an armadilla’s back (a W. Bush “armadilla” as seen in Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 9/11 when Barney chases one down a hole).
Humanity’s reserve chute slipped the mind.
The prophet Jeremiah holds open the door,
the willing take a noxious step off
Hook’s threshing world, into a tooth
fairytale matrix of loss as gain.
The prophet Jeremiah didn’t ask much,
let your eyes wander and your heart
speak, together the world listens.
Monster’s Wading Room
By Tyler Lucas Mobley
No need to follow my path,
don’t know how to live with
instigating death.
A brown torrent five meters across
appeared mild as tea and cake.
Being eaten or becoming prey,
not fond of finding oneself on
the menu.
Timeless terminators, in need of
minesweepers for submarine feet.
There on the beach, sandals in a fist,
we’ve all heard of Russian roulette
we welcomed the unknown.
The phenomenologist SAT,
a religious act of faith, a
declaration to life and its
persistence.
Breathing axioms, in up to our
chests, a steady forward pace.
A year later a surfer at the
same crossing caught a bite in
the leg, he didn’t make it out.
A conscious choice, to allow
the world to unfold as it will,
to put your life in the hands of
something beyond yourself.
“To dare is to lose one’s footing
momentarily. Not to dare is
to lose oneself.”
– Søren Kierkegaard
Inspired by an afternoon at Glacier Point.
Lever Room
By Tyler Mobley
Recrossing the boundary
hit by murmurs of stupidity
there’s no getting there without
self assurance, same spirit of
those who opposed.
Why?
What if you fell?
there is no answer,
falling would’ve been very stupid.
Looking over the edge
at all the air below
the body reacts, flooding response
as mortality is sensed.
One small weight on worldscale
mystery connection complete.
All things looking of You
By Tyler Mobley
Ripples trail a seaward vessel
spreading curves, a rhythm we
rolled once or twice.
Dewy garden mornings find web woven
portraits by Picasso legged spiders,
“a fly for the effort.”
Birds gather in honor,
Roman starlings perform under twilight,
fluttering human forms sing songs
of dedication, they knew
you always listened.
A name glimpsed in bubble
breathes held on a tub floor,
before bursting nevermore.
A lasting adieu with
all things looking of you.
For frame of reference: https://youtu.be/I0rVovLWCXw
Cosmic Lottery
By Tyler Mobley
The initial burst of laughter startles, plexiglass didn’t see you there.
Jumping out of my seat at the top of the track, reaching for the
volume knob, the worst passing before appropriate reduction.
Why is it every time the engine turns over laughter fills my cabin?
Spooky technology, a street thief affair, pocket picking entanglement.
The phenomena has evolved, Aces High had its hour, RKL enjoyed
a spot then Ache with Me was out alphabetized by Dane Cook’s
Abducted. Comedic concrete, cementing the three minute bit into
my mind is worth the occasional inconvenience.
Nothing better than nailing the spaceship landing sound effect
in real time, not confusing it with the summoning sound of the blue beam.
An idea forms, shaping a path I didn’t realize I was on, becoming aware of a
tune being played on my most personal strings, Ahab’s lampoon,
spotlight meaning. How “Sometimes I’d just go hang out in the woods,”
becomes “God damn it they’re huge Indians, alright good game America,”
hits home in inflection alone. A long ago listen at gas station along the
Gulf of California I snapped my fingers twice and said, “country country,”
a friend in the car shouted, “Spain” thinking he’d been put on the spot.
No, just reenacting American foreign policy.
There is no way of knowing who put this flying saucer on this shirt.
A token to when algorithms began listening in, the shirt advertised
on my feed seemed summoned from Cook’s bit. Blunt, bold
“Get in Loser” over the silhouette of a man being sucked up by his
chest in a beam of light through a grove of trees. There came a day
while wearing said shirt, on a hike through the woods a passerby
would say, “I like your shirt,” insert life achievement notification,
the moment years in the making. Immediately a cone of light
strikes the ground disappearing the complimenter.
Bones say uwww searching for ground, an image of Earth recedes to black.
Familiar with the Earth rise perspective it took awhile to realize this reality
was no reproduction. “Wait, wait, is that? That’s really?” Silence, a door opens
with a hiss of escaping air, words never make it out, shocked stiff locking eyes.
Down Ain’t Out
By Tyler Mobley
A corner crowd across from pier 39 in the bay stands in puzzled admiration, witness to a king of pop cover performed by an unlikely pair of troubled souls. These men hadn’t just fallen on hard times, they defined them, yet here they were bearing it all to anyone who’d stop to notice. From a lone weathered acoustic guitar played with hands disgraced by society, and a gruff voice from a scruffy face came the tune of Billie Jean. A sloppy chord change here and there, perhaps due to the Bud Light seated behind him, the song looped from the first verse to chorus, anything beyond was either forgotten or not bothered with. His performance partner, a dynamic fire to his structured ice, repeated a series of dance moves through the circle, theatrics poured out as Bud Light was poured in. The grizzled man flowed in what were probably the only clothes he had, commanding the audience with a repertoire of Michael inspired moves. Tall can in hand the man of the streets danced like nobody was watching, in rhythm with the high hum melody, flaunting shoulders, crotch thrust, and jelly legs. An awakened inner star destined for the spotlight. His unrefined moves only enhanced the charm and confidence perceived by the crowd, or maybe when one has been down and out there’s nothing left to lose. Captivated by the pairing of the familiar from the derelict, arose a humanizing moment across boundaries of have and not; or no longer. The meeting on musical grounds bonded those around in life’s simple pleasures. Yes, his dance moves were more comical than choreographed, but therein lies the beauty, not there to impress only express. Yes, his voice would never sell records, so he played because he could. They gave all they had, making of life what they could, and found the enjoyment was mutual. This was freedom.
Went for walk today, you may call it a hike, with my mom. We take our time to indulge in the beauty.
We Stopped Just to Hear the Silence
By Tyler Mobley
We stopped just to hear the silence
see the sky a blue we’re thankful for
a radiant pure blue
essence of blue
a blessing blue
our defining act blue
atmosphere filtered for our delight blue
life blue
birds singing blue
fluff spotted blue
kiss giving blue
savor blue
a reminder blue
life our gift and breath our work
each day blue.
Happy blue
nothing but sky blue
watchful blue
heaven blue
tip toe in from a late night dancing blue
your eyes singing blue
raw genre blue.
For blue
of blues
we know because it is
a blue for all.
A free write on 2/15/21 revised and stanza-tized into this, enjoy.
By Tyler Mobley
More than a moment,
Count Cristo starship manor.
More than a moment,
singing circles of soul sayers
let loose from an environ plane.
Gingerbread men praising a recipe,
some frost lost, now scowling the baker.
Street carts sell heart of the city
big lights shine on trying faces,
the weak force as Metallica notes
“Nothing else matters.”
Faint morrow oh sung,
the Sun dropped by for tea,
twinkling mist escapes
mother’s eye. For what,
a dash of guilt produced a
criminal record, says the judge
to Soundcloud.
Quake hath waltz feet
a measure of empire,
felt rumbles of toeing masses
clocked on a standard of living.
Forbear hollow remarks
as wood knocks back
dulled by your patience.
Smash hit vibrations
like the warm beat of
reporters who step
into the world, my office.
Unwrung words told
of stealing the fun.
Heels thrown up
bang bang against
a neighborly wall, the
sound circumnavigates
to find the needle was
never dropped.
Listening for Ray Charles’
The Spirit of Christmas.
So repetitious the world rewinds
through generations,
a slideshow of history.
Explosions tidy up into their
shells, apes devolve to
sleestacks, to a few ameba
vibing over a volcanic vent
on oceans’ dance floor.
“What are you doing down here
James Cameroon?
Titanic is that way. “
Who’s to say it hasn’t
happened already?
A moment imposed like
a waiter who begs for an order.
“Is the shoelace on special tonight?”
Oh how awful knowing
you’ve ate something sickening,
civilization in a nutshell.
Advancements worn backwards,
grown into two left feet.
As miles poo poo
the metric, all lesser
measures charged with
their distinction.
Can’t help but feel it’s
all going the way of
the carriage.
Cobblers out to offend,
I reclaim my time
to when only birds
could tweet.
Hosting The Bachelor
a so called working life,
standing on loose ground
where comparisons vanish
with employment.
Kindness ushered out with starvation,
in the name of progress.
Bow to the mob before the
pot boils over.
Letters of Measure 