Country Music
an online journal of poetry
Home Issue 8 Contents Author Bios Archives Manifesto Submit

Tyler Gobble

 

 

Poem  

after Dean Young

 

THE GOAL IS TO PLAY
OH BABY YES IT IS YES IT IS
Often, affection defines itself as resistance,
kind of like a wage, but not quite,
kind of like flipping a coin, but you've got
way way way more control.
Any way, that's all bullshit.
Baby, I can find the right word
the exact word to tell you how I feel
about your sweet dimples, hankering
to see which fingertip best fits
as I tell you a joke, the same joke
for the 34th time and still you laugh.
Socialization some would call this,
but I'd be apt to remind them that
I have yet to meet a reasonable person.
Everyone flashes their chest
on the Internet, yells fuck you
through tinted windows
at 40 miles per hour.
It is okay to be goofy
with the lights on.
GO FOR IT, TRY IT
have an HELLYEAH outburst
with windmill arms,
your voice shrieking
like you've just won the freaking lottery
BECAUSE MAYBE YOU HAVE.
The self does not exist wrapped up
in nonbiodegrable baggies.
The ruin of imagination is a steamroller
flattening your existence, is your ship
safely docked and full of boring people.
I'M SAYIN' MORE WRECK! MORE WRECK!

 

Next>