Jen Tynes reading from BAFFLE
Whatever you sound like
is some fence,
bottle what happens,
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.