Tag: freedom

Big Jar Dreamer

Many ways to slice it,

Big Jar Dreamer

By Tyler Lucas Mobley

The big Jar was a dreamer he said without a doubt,

unmatched in all but thinking he was somewhere else.

Then it got the best of him one day the other week,

those around couldn’t pretend to know what went down.

Sprouting lilies as he was a nickel for a share of the dare,

laughing all the same when the sheriff showed his badge, 

he made spaghetti out of town and never looked back, still 

no word was spoken about whose wifes he’d been poken. 

As luck would have it they serve him up a spike, soon it

was turn in or take a hike. How they tell it now when Jar 

refused to come clean is with a wish to have intervened,

because what happened next was something no one had ever

seen. Loaded diamonds for eyes the dreamer gazed thunder, 

with a flick of the wrist their badges were stripped under, 

to where geese critique wakes and wax bellies with jellies, 

found on discrete display with berry unknown origins, their 

hands pat the fabric they hadn’t seen since service was sworn, 

stripped of sacred identities they dissolved to the realm of

forgotten memes to hang around and reminisce about 

bygone relevance. A chariot pulls up Jar staggers in, sirens

give way to night, no phone home in a red and blue snare,

the window reflects the cold steel around his wrist though 

he knows nothing of it, to Jar they are soft, pink, fluffy, and

full of excitement, like what’s in your head, merrily merrily

merrily…  

Notes to Generation Fortunate Son

Spawned from a memory of Eli’s 4runner.

Notes to Generation Fortunate Son 

By Tyler Lucas Mobley 

Fuzzy flags carried off planes

no one needs to ask about. 

Spare my eyes the sight

society says to itself. 

Protest read aloud the writing on the wall, 

a cousin, a brother, a father ties a nation 

in a knot no one is sure they should be in. 

Growing pains diagnosed from the comfort 

of their sacrifice, 40 years later teenagers 

returning from a high school lunch at Chipotle 

hang out car windows, hands managing the recoil 

of machine guns mounted to the chopper they’re 

clipped to, because Creedence is playing on max,

Lieutenant Dan taught us to walk again. 

Covered by the freedom those died providing

colors fade with the fog of endless war.

Not that anyone notice when times grew slack,

media removed vulnerable to reality’s attack.  

Down Ain’t Out

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.