Lingua Franca 

Spoken over grilled onions,

Lingua Franca 

By Tyler Lucas Mobley 

Falling over backwards 

some truth yet said, mirage lips 

covet a single syllable. 

Strides with four legged

majesty to break the spell, shatter 

stone with a prying kiss.  

Treasured lips form pirate 

smile crescent reflecting ocean

stubborn windward tales.

Sense of what is carried 

branches by day swans by night

shouted whisper emanates.  

Speak mountains of river

coherent flow unbeknownst guest 

as Old Faithful chamber. 

Impressions dance on our

humming minds, rhythms match

between pressing records. 

Mollusk Longings 

Title reference in Paul Murray’s not a lecture in my substack.

Mollusk Longings 

By Tyler Lucas Mobley

How wants are a certain want, unexplained

from a heart full of roman candles, that fly

to what it desires most egging you to follow

their light. The same light seen by nuns who run 

away with visiting recruits from barracks in far 

away places, and not a hint of hesitation in her 

step as she boards the plane because they know 

it to be true. Yes, how true, if it’d only take hold now, 

rush us away to the night that would last forever, 

chew the fat, toasts the stars, for whatever reason

right now life makes sense, because it was all there 

contained in the night, giggling alongside us till 

separation ceased and you realize you are the one

there is no spoon, the blunt is in your hand just token 

for your thoughts. The overlords milking our morphic 

resonance cheers our utter existence.