Tyler Martin Poems
What Day Is It?
That would be today, but according to the vaginal data this would be might,
and finally the adjustment is boned. A looming silence fingers the air,
until a shattering clack of vertical blinds alerts him to what's in there.
The distance is subdermal, for gravy’s got the hematoma. Here
comes the part where source transmission blunders through the line,
for finally does it feel like it might be fine without it, a lock,
sitting sillier still inside the hole of the key of life.
Transmission: bodies, corded like moldering wood in a sleet storm,
steaming still ...
The farther away you get, the dimmer you do appear;
Telemetry’s burden’s bet, as telescopes taunt my ears.
Parallax vision shows that double the pleasure is not;
The light from your eyes like snow, landing on surfaces hot.
Weekends will come and then go, as friends with new ostriches sleep;
I wish he’d a brought me some blow, that I could then toot off your bleep.