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Ty Muehler Jun 2014
Nobody can force me to drink
as much as
I can drink alone. Company
loves misery. So does
pleasure. God
had a revelation
that he likes candy. Nobody
held it against him. Hymns
all around: 99 Bottles,
George Thorogood, Ernest Hemming-
went away into the Paris night
or New York or ******* Bakersfield,
the leaves or the sand or
my hand clutching
my other hand. “Write drunk, edit...”
never. The land
is laid like a sheet of paper
over a gravel road. A toad
has it right when his neck
bubbles to hold his secrets,
and pops. Hopping on cops
is what happens when a pull-over
pulls me over. A job can only be held
with callused eyes, with fresh breath,
and a friendly-ish smile. Don’t hawk up too much bile
until you know
your boss’s rules. Your boss doesn’t rule!
Anything he says is an apology
for sinning, cheating on his wife,
and it’s your fault. Who else
would conceive
such a beautiful child? Who else
is there in this world? When strings vibrate,
they vibrate everywhere, and elsewhere
they are. Sound commences
and ends within a second, but
that’s much longer than my life,
my name. Nothing
strings together if you use metal. A block
of clay melts into you.
Ty Muehler Jun 2014
Get up
into light, monotony.
Careless ambition attributes
Summer winds outside the skin,
aimless…

Where into a coma
she just jumps
Graceful. Sarcasm was
Always. A favorite
niche growing…

A song is stuck
on a head
Where hair
Follicles toward
the ground flow…

In bunches incantations
Spend their time
on blood sport
Playing with it
Until it clots over…

Under certain circumference
edges are unsure
To the point
of a point
exactly…

Some splat
some smear
some swell
some
Adhere…

A back
Is a carrier of weights
not waited for,
Or brought to a
Close…

Any body
can breathe
But what wears the wreath
of unending sadness
When you know…

The swells
Come as far as Hell
in an order
By the man
To be still…

Still hard to look
into eyes
that belong
And move around inside you
like flies…

Among holy computers
harps harmonize obsolete
Chants. Maybe a chance
That there could be another you
where people line up to…

The lottery of love
scratches you
With a quarter or a penny
no matter the metal, the friction
reveals a winner…

Won’t you brand this
here on your boiling *****
where the fur will make a shape
nonchalant like a flowing cape
In my wind of breath…

I barter for every beat
of blood again. Bankrupt
Of contagious happiness
Thank God for alcohol
beautiful nonsense and the rain…

Every poem that comes
breaks. A line that didn’t
Have any part of you
Trailed off and in a way
became you…

These letters don’t spell
your name or you. Better
to number your passions,
remember the probability
Of you...

— The End —