tyler-lynn-pulliam
American
Neatly Primly Null / / I am Tyler and I am something resembling a writer. / / I live in a small, industrial city. I live in a robin's nest. I live behind the old car wash. / / wklv lv rqob d whvw, wkh uhdo fkdoohqjh lv ilqglqj wkh phdqlqj / gbovi obmm kfoorzn szh yvvm wvzw uli bvzih / / Cuttlefish are sometimes referred to as the "chameleons of the sea" because of their remarkable ability to rapidly alter their skin colour at will. / / "so desireing you to bee good to concealed poets" - Sir Francis Bacon / / Goats have horizontal, slit-shaped pupils which allows the goat to see at least 320 degrees around it's heads with no blind spot in front of them.
tick-tock motions colliding with still-beating carrion
carrying itself to the back of a ninty-two Toyota Corolla
cracked window crack smoke with the gravel and gum wrappers
specters radiate their hue and render ol' Baker Boy into a heap
there is a shaking on the surface.
wet gravel and neon dance through squinting eyes
passenger pigeon with nocturnal aspirations
you're in that place now
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 3:21 PM UTC
the sunday crowd wait in line
in their pretty sundresses
in their buttoned up shirts
in their sunday best
unbeknownst to them
god can be found in the filthy gutter
as easily as the chapel halls
where the potlucks draw the crowd
when the sermons run dry
and the coffee gets cold
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 9:55 AM UTC
She only needed three fingers;
one for demands, one for insults, one to show love.
Her pinky made her feel too prim,
and her thumb made her feel like too much of an ape.
She had no need to hold on to anything,
and no reason to open any doors,
she just wanted a little silence from the thunder
and to see the cracks in the ground on a hot day.
One set of clothes for the doctor,
one set of clothes for the preacher,
and one set of clothes for the home.
She still has a forest green rotary phone with the ringer cut out
just incase the stove gets angry or the roof caves in.
She hated the Beatles and probably hates us,
but that's okay, we're not all that special, are we?
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 6:04 AM UTC
The man who can't read came to visit today,
he sung along to each song that the radio played.
The track marks and scabs wove a story of bother;
of a life cut off short, my uncle, his father.
The man who can't read can fix anything:
a gasket, a hinge, a lever, a spring.
He pedals his bike and sweats up a storm,
no lights, no water, just part of his norm.
The man who can't read used to play in the yard;
we'd catch crickets under bricks, and skin knees til they scarred.
Garter snakes hid under the walnut tree
and we'd catch one in each hand and grandma would flee.
The man who can't read has been told that he's dumb,
that he smells like an ashtray and looks like a ***
He still owns a picture of when we were young,
when we lived in the house where the picture was hung.
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 5:53 AM UTC
here we spin the synchronic dance of the fluids
that dribble down in aesthetic perfection;
free-flowing from the gullet of creation
into the palms of the frenzied flock.
the grim etchings left by her in the signet
reflect the proper terms for glossolalia,
but the honeyed tones are lost to primitive organs
and a piteous gurgle is all that emerges.
here we were, eaters of shale, chewers of dirt,
warmed beneath the blanket of her shadow,
paled by the protection of her casting murk
that hid us from the vile stars.
pollen, pollen, pollen, pollen,
showering, soaking, deep down in the gut.
Bezoar of my bezoar, heart within my sleeve,
I am waiting for my emotions to return to me.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 3:32 PM UTC
Parental love could shatter the eggshell persona of a rascal young man
who carved ***** rhymes into the boy’s bathroom stalls,
who doesn’t understand the point of deadlines,
who saves his milk money to spend on strike anywhere matches
to burn shed bark from the maple in the back of the park.
He remembers the days before mom rediscovered her vices;
the days when there were cocktail meatballs and Christmas cookies.
Those years he will never get back now seem stringy, translucent,
and barely clinging to the fault lines of a shifting mind.
One day he will think of those cookies and taste bitter almonds
as his checking account becomes overdrawn,
as the fix-a-flat in his tire doesn’t stop the escaping air,
as he slips into the warm blanket of Bombay Sapphire.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 3:28 PM UTC
If you’re surrounded by people in fanciful dress,
who only take advice from peers they want to impress,
just remember that soon you’ll be home in your bed
where the only racket is the thoughts in your head.
The leaves will change color and the skies will turn grey,
the sun will go hiding early on in the day,
the chimneys will smoke, the nights will stay strange,
and we’ll lose track of time keeping track of the change.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 3:26 PM UTC
from mouth to messiah, the words felt compressed
lungs gasping frantic and fever dream blush
the croaking of hymns crescendo in the absence
of pomp left extinct in the burrowing hush
charisma unfiltered, he's charged with a burden
of casting the rhythm away from the strut
horned-god-be-damned, the spittle and curse
that left mark on the imps and ghasts in his gut
by mother and kin, the night would seep in
and by father-in-tomb he'd oppose it,
for if paradise quakes and the bricks wilt and bend,
death would not emerge lest he chose it
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 7:52 PM UTC
esophageal flames.
shots of whiskey with a bleach chaser
on wednesday where the sky is clouded over
and the strays stick close to the watering hole.
pepto becomes water
to ***** the fires from within
while the alarm clock blinks 12:00
because I haven't set the time.
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 4:13 AM UTC
acid pools in stomachs mingling
with melatonin and valerian.
struggling to displace oneself in the scheme of things.
there is no question that Mitchum was the man,
or that Farewell, My Lovely is still too expensive for me to buy,
but I do question the length of time we spent
pondering the truth with empty schedules and JWH-018.
we etched an identity from a corner-store drug era
filled with colorful characters and interesting flavors;
burning spare change and time probing the annals
of creativity for something to pop up and speak to us.
I know I shouldn't have stopped texting,
but you should have let the schoolyard bully stay home.
artsy flicks just don't have the same charm anymore,
and the struggle to stay seated is hard to purge,
pleading, wailing in a crowded cinema,
when we both know you could've prevented yourself
from never getting a chance to see this.
you hover still over the lights lining the aisles.
the phases of the moon have stayed loyal,
chili and tabasco are still great on a cold January afternoon,
and there is still some charm to cranking the stereo
on the stretch of highway out by Rock Springs.
Big Boss Man still asks "do you believe in God?"
before he asks an unsuspecting face for a dollar.
they still put on concerts in the summer over by The Winery,
but I haven't ever heard of any of the bands.
someone else manages The Smoker's Den now;
some kid I've never met, so I probably won't go back in.
he doesn't appreciate the comedy found in the face of Perot,
or the elusive, dark sweetness of the huckleberry.
in passing we exchanged a miraculous favor,
and in passing we managed to become different people,
in passing I walk on top of uncertain footprints,
and in passing you dream of film noir.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 12:29 AM UTC