Saturday, February 14, 2015

Jen Tynes

Jen Tynes reading 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. 

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

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