Jen Tynes

Jen Tynes reading from BAFFLE

from BAFFLE

Whatever you sound like

is some fence, 

bottle what happens, 

several elasticized 

summer animals

raised by record. 

The man swallows so 

I am less likely to be 

approached by predator of 

the month, stone white flew 

at me, an A-cup

at best, a bag inside-out. 

No white Buicks 

in the fog all season

except on the peninsula,

she made something

upwards of a red

plant that freezes 

the squirrels and Indian

pipe that knows the apples

didn’t used to be this way.

It’s a quivering bridge 

with a dirt-bag sister across

the lake, that’s her stubble. 

I don’t know if mummified 

is what I’m hearing, lucky 

untrimmed toenails clack

on the cold spots. An area

in every blanketed animal

home, real tobacco

smell in the barn. I fucked up

bedtime processional by checking

if the bank still exists, cutting

the week short with the business

end of a story. No one else will

answer the phone.

A bright allergy, perpendicular

jack pine. I am glowing 

from the handholds inward,

cleaning the pin 

so that it can’t accept

a gracious send-off. Ignoring the bat

I am bulbing the frozen

ground until we have a baby

again. That slashed drywall 

will make a graceful entry 

point. This time I’m looking

with you, not at you. 

Let it recover by being

quiet types of humidity, half mile

walk between the children

and the domesticated bobcat,

the chickens that have to be

hungry for a few hours 

before I tell you about it. 

What do you think that dark

feeling was about? Two heads

leaving a lot of space to hunt

when there isn’t a need. 

One unresearched set of eyes. 

At the Pleasure of the Pterosaur

This is what I do to warm up

the agitator with its sixth knit 

finger, keep-out signs, the burn

scar. All of the ancient warm-

blooded animals asked to be paid 

by the word. Changing out of something

leathery to activate the acronym 

that means empty ice cave,

hoarfrost on all your tangibles,

foul-mouthed egg beaters flying

south. I am populating the place

with hand written signs against

sunset development, what I’d like 

you to be wearing, all the ways

in which our dorsal pockets 

can accommodate a wide variety 

of stress. Can I burn these four-

legged drawings? Can I disembody that thing

you like to do with your short-term memory?

Integrity is a land animal you’ve welcome

to be a part of; what I’m hearing is

your vocal chords haven’t reached 

a language phase yet. What I’m hearing is

we’re going to have an unspoken 

disagreement. All the up and comers 

will remember me in pieces, in yard

art facsimile, when we want to call 

in a man-sized favor. What I’m hearing is

best practices from the inside 

of a wound. What I’m hearing is more 

a lifestyle than a sexual position. 

I am not articulating what I wanted 

to say about the philanthropy

gene. All my previous partners

had a pretty impressive wingspan. 

They did not lose sleep while they were being 

monitored. Even the duckweed has chosen 

a job that it loves. What I’m hearing is 

you can’t see yourself in six months.

What I’m hearing is if you can’t afford 

food you may want to research 

its rough equivalent. 

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Jen Tynes is slow-cooking curried lentils all day long today. A snow storm is coming and the bird feeders are empty.