Poet: Tyler Gobble, Muncie, IN
Smalldoggies Poetry Feature #12: Tyler Gobble, Muncie, IN
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On Photographs
I wish that whole art display case, the one with the pictures of somebody’s golden
retriever and someone else’s sweaty boobs, was filled with photos of me. When you
walk by, I think you would notice, analyzing the light glaring off my beard. I want
you to take the time to contemplate the contours of my chin, the curve of my smile.
Then, you could stop by the gift shop, down the hall and to the left, to buy wallet-
sizes of your favorite shots, to take me with you wherever you go.
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On Masculinity
This seahorse, like 2 cm tiny, just headbutted another one on tv, pissed off, a
territory thing, the microscopic baby seahorses hiding in their corral racecar beds,
dad will take care of this, they think. I can shoot all the guns into space that I want. I
can break mirrors, sure, but watch me struggle to swim up and lunge my face at
yours. The cops with their taser rays, like electric eel arms, and their neck muscles
saying, HALT! And I wonder, Who polices the sea? The sharks of course with their
extra rows of teeth. Still, you can punch a shark in the nose, but you can’t even find
that sneaky seahorse that just smacked you on the head.
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On Friendship
I don’t know much about friendship, but the dog with the short tail and the shaggy
collie always lick each other and take turns humping and that seems alright.
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On Secrets
I saw a man once slap his chest and shout I AIN’T GOT NO SECRETS. I doubt that
buddy! A secret can be like the hornet nest under your patio table, the one you feed
sugar cubes. Look at these bumps on my body, these scars, and still I am opening my
palm, sneaking treats to those I shouldn’t. I think we all do things that are worth
getting stung over. I’m listening to the couple next door shout about how one never
listens and the other one says, I would listen if you said anything that wasn’t
horseshit. Some secrets are like horseshit that no one kicks off the path, because no
one wants to touch it.
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On Sex
I was blowing up bottle rockets the first time I found out what sex was. In between
striking matches, this older kid, I can’t remember his name though I remember he
always wore a leather vest with a POW MIA patch on it, says hey check out what I
found. There, a picture of a penis, partially inside a woman, who looked sad, like she
ran out of bottle rockets, and the man, whose penis it was, had a moustache like my
dad. I said cool I think, then went back to shooting fireworks into space.
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Tyler Gobble is blog editor of The Collagist, the lead poetry editor of The Broken Plate, and a contributor with Vouched Books.
His work has appeared or is forthcoming from Everyday Genius, Metazen, and PANK (online), among other places. He is probably stoked about something.
Find out more about him at the Tyler Gobble Official Website, through Vouched Books Online or here, at Vouched Satellite, a small press what's new column at Smalldoggies.