To begin as if found, these grounds of life and cups that startle each day out of the past’s fountain, that we believe not when but where we can, cycles of doubt and fervent appearances of a beginning called out by itself—if you lift up, are you left out?—to move away and years later need us to remove what we left, signs of a city more important than it has ever been because of forwardness, an instance like crash and learn or what auto industry we pertain to just in wanting
to remain local, knock on door or memory stammering for more appeal, longevity in reveal, that choice and mix is fresh and deserves to win, drum kits and thrumming visions pre and post concision, in all ends a window that is open, air too, or we are conscious about what has already occurred, relocated like habit buffed by routine, memory getting off the bus here just because
of sun—all roles lean away—a trunk for delirium or a punk in the exception, voices from all around where we’ve found ourselves soundless, marching with coarse bells and mint sticks, vibrating like reason, as it’s long to have forgotten and forgetting is not a long problem in all the life around us, radius remaining within us, turning around for wonder or slow focus of worry,
in approach toward stumbling in chats past wind, here for consistency or range, resistance or change, that it remains the same but with one more problem sucked out of truth, or it is stuck in our head again, song or thought, no button and so we run another word off the tongue, temperature taking us back in view, what pops up in wanting out of rhythm or avenue, boots
and motion—one notch short of snug—as we get to ourselves all the time in not dying for others, bundled like rejoinder or soft-term packaging, a blanket at embankment, what there is to take up when smoking is over, entirely different in question, dragging on float in prairie, yes, all steed for how we do what we do, throwing the whole down, tilted for temperament and back-scratch, poised for drug or reflect, portaging each significance. (1)
___________________
(1) startle of reflect
we can throw years
in steed to remove
soft want
we get ourselves
local tongues to drum
truth we are range
buffed within
exception
soundless
with reason
To row where it is rowing, gunshot life or high rise relapse, in a reflection so too the night gone through lights,each item a death when shelved, a shelf when finished—do we stack to fit the outside in?—produce still a priced thing, unlike grass we filter through dairy for children to collapse on mark, if everyone and everything is the sum torch on steps unsung, if we’ve done
these things what else follows, corrugated ledge and external scamper, wind keeping up punishment and facts, but still we open into the middle and sing and if I can do more with myself today I’ll start with never having been gone or out on lean with birds tucked in low careen against the cars, how saintly of us to get here without suggestion of fear, studded like salt in a
bath of cream—the world continues its work on itself—at first the cup of caffeine, prescription pills parting feels then the place from which we see ourselves expanding, slammed below time, on way to rewinding for memory’s sake, cop-out of slink-in we drink in, so too the semblance or another shift for passing out on the corner and into distance, mountains like buttons
wind collects while zipping across air or were we looked at or funneled through, stopped in track or tracked in a stop, all questions some equivalent for panic and heart bark—art beat and stagger—that range too is pulled out of view and runs gruffly askew, fragrance in the panorama review, all gathering floss and equipment to select oneself out of, mystery of tinkering inside light as I
repeat for details and doings between a conch for sample, of holding-onto or a grand march back from light in a bucket, faithful scurry of word if we have come out of reason, if what we stand for is starting off as demand, dressed for occasions that do not occur, what choice we’ll have to take it on. (2)
_____________________
(2) relapse as demand
we stack faith
a price between
collapse and light
these ledges
in panorama
middles through stagger
bird through saints
passing out
in baths
below semblance
And in all waver we rerun suffering or in steep grade lapse into shorter passions like seeing, before touch a color, flowers emptying out of poise or prowl—is light a fall on the night?—more ingredients or stick figures moving in museums, to be a favorite song owner near radios sliding phone calls through decades, to have that swing-thing and forget the way toward apology, shortened as in rubbed total for plus as we can go coastal in post, drive this valve of grapes for
release, so too energy in keeping art active against residence or precedence, another election but between them all promises of past on open scroll, as I am told nothing when I arrive eyes open, only to close them and pretend it’s time again, or that stakes change and importance crumbles, mini attitudes like furrow, hills keeping on and then on and over, clawed at and grazed by stony
fortune—furniture looks field—as remains plain and grass rides down itself into dry ground and god, that I used to want to keep the self full and station each move wide, border and aside, but now a high drifts in, cutting out my vibe, believable books in our pockets with no trace back to where they first cracked us away from dread, that we can be up and blow the lead but so too can
sky if we always remain below it with grief, to let everyone out once in a while and then again, or what to reach out for if not to frame in-between—details and waiting to run sleep—and to set a tired mind into a moving day, that we are something else if not okay with ourselves, a room opening up but always from having closed far behind us, bills that bounce and so we trouble
back balance, storming from memories to get by or by getting on overcome what has gone by, snow smothering and an envelope of unknown photographs, a restless fire panting out of cloud, playing itself proudly upon bells and rips, colored for the quieter thrush, a remnant of gestures from the heart, whispering on by. (3)
____________________
(3) we run
whispers empty
and rip radios
and photographs
through apology
to overcome release
opening ourselves
against frame
I am told to
remain mini
to dread hills
my vibe
rides borders
Tyler Flynn Dorholt is a writer and visual artist living in Central New York. His first full-length book, American Flowers, was recently published by Dock Street Press. He is the author of four chapbooks, including Modern Camping, recipient of the Poetry Society of America Chapbook Fellowship, and two chapbooks from Greying Ghost. Other work from American Hours can be found at Territory, Public Pool, and Denver Quarterly. Tyler co-edits and publishes the print journal Tammy and is the founder and publisher of the film and writing series, On the Escape.