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 ...
A Splendid Brand Of Man
We logs were once alive, they reveal in smoky whispers.
It was a healthy, exciting celebration of the bored, eternal sickness.
It was the end of the week, just in time for Christmas break!
The temperatures had been diving all month.
I picked up five cords from the trash store
and went straight home to get the fire started.
I got home and even before taking off my shoes
went straight for the paper and just started ripping.