t y l e r    g o b b l e

 

 

Self-Portrait As A Pale Windsock


Better Horse Head









































Self-Portrait As A Pale Windsock

 

Everywhere my kin people are discovering     happiness with kabob sticks
poking their fingers     Even after the chicken is sucked
off the skewer     the feathers fly out of the truck
returning to Indiana     Here are the keys to the pontoon
of my feelings     Have you ever thought about the orange juice
you drink right there     how it divorced the orange
how the orange divorced the orange tree The tree was never
alone     There was always Papaw John tending the grove
Everyone here has a cousin named Margo You just might
not know it yet     She has a balloon budget     It is enormous
She spends more time     with the homeblown neon clouds
than with you     All dolled up for the party     you've put fresh
feathers in your hair     There's a fork in the potatoes
and no one claims it     I believe it belongs to you
Of course I can't be certain     but I can certainly try
It takes a lot of anchors     to hold down a tablecloth
It takes a lot of memory     to catch every single cartwheel
you perform in the tall grass     like impossible hairs
on Margo's belly     I'm on the porch with some poems
Papaw John     Everyone's shoes     Indigestible dioramas
He is waiting for the right moment     to pick the cherry tomatoes
from the salad     and unleash them back into the garden
Itís so absurd     like practicing practicality on a house boat
because Papaw John loves cherry tomatoes!     It felt
like such a simple thing this morning     to find a patriotic hat
Margo has popped the green balloon     Papaw John tells you
a group of zebras     is called a dazzle     I know it's too late now
and you've already taken off your sandals     but next time remember
if you arrive before us     you bring the corn     and set it anywhere you'd like

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Better Horse Head

 

Despite the light
in my steps leading the hired help
back to the place where I keep the shovel
there is a way my Horse Head presses
against the dust that tangles the warmth.
My Horse Head comes in many colors—
the color of roasting
the color of the most private parts of withered cowboys
the color of America at sunset—
some more pleasing than others.
May I unveil my Horse Head to you?
Bumbling into the street my Horse Head
without a clue
as to what the traffic signals mean.
Making all sorts of racket my Horse Head
gallops between the poorly parked
cars and their impossible difference
between curb-sat and trotting.
My Horse Head never stops.
My Horse Head at random lets his body go—
into the intersection
unwieldy in the mayor's pasture
plump thanks to the oats.
My Horse Head chomps.
My Horse Head in the cupboard
snarling holes in the box.
There is the point in the fence
where you know you've exited the lot.
There is the point in the cleaning
of the barn when my Horse Head
knows I got rid of too much.
He says, I might be a Horse Head
but I still appreciated the chickens!
I still nod out of the broken window
barred teeth white enough to brighten the day.
In an unexpected twist
My Horse Head will let this body go
after years atop it, my useless racing and blur.
My Horse Head will die without me
and my father will shine up the skull for the flowerbed.
I will die without my Horse Head.
Just a gap in the clutter. And in case I forget
after the years wither my vines, I've written it down
right here:  "Ask not what
your Horse Head did for you, etc."

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TYLER GOBBLE is chapbook editor for Magic Helicopter Press and host of the Everything Is Bigger reading series at Malvern Books in Austin, TX. He has plopped out four chapbooks, most recently 48 Pornos (Safety Third Enterprises, 2013), with another coming from Radioactive Moat Press soon, and his first full-length will be out from Coconut Books in the fall of 2014. He likes disc golf, tank tops, and bacon, and yes, in that order. More at www.tylergobble.com.


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