If It’s Time We Must Bear

George Harrison’s Living in the Material World… comes to his son in a dream.

If It’s Time We Must Bear

By Tyler Lucas Mobley

Untool mind to spare time those steps 

never taken. Relishing difference the 

song of new eyes, a respectable space 

comfortable, not overdone. An orbital 

perspective feels the pull of a world

willing you back to cuddle up and listen.

All was a trap beyond our hitherto existence, a

collection of shapes behaving as one striding being 

with the sum of human efforts playing out in precisional 

tattoos, till accusations arise about an unacknowledged

separateness between two arms on one body driving 

the operator mad with itchy skin, deciding best march 

for Andromeda, agonizing surrender.

Arriving before we’re ready if it’s time we must bear, 

recline to find it’s not there, hatching then a chick of

eternal incubation, cute, fluffy, and unchanged. 

Surprised to notice those baby steps were always

at your feet, a breadcrumb trail for mice of men. 

Our Own Devices

An afternoon of adventure.

Our Own Devices 

By Tyler Lucas Mobley 

Dip into nothing

skipping town, 

Hawaiian slice 

pineapple underground. 

Arms no longer arms, 

but propellers motoring 

into any desired ripple

for a more simple eternity. 

Ocean collaboration

with visual dilation, no

hermit left unshelled from 

an encompassing meld.

Every stone turned from

Bikini Bottom. 

Wooing day satisfies night, 

their love a sight for our eyes.

A light reminder for the striving, 

be back tomorrow for the same 

lesson said the golden teacher.  

Forever Sweet Caroline

 words of gratitude

Forever Sweet Caroline

By Tyler Lucas Mobley 

Don’t be surprised when the lady on the bench says into her phone,

“What do you mean my jet can’t land?” then tells her assistant next

to her to look up the flight authorization number, “no I’m here see

that’s unacceptable,” and she’ll go on bulldozing then garner 

sympathy from people with name tags knowing full well no one 

can relate to her problems. 

Fighting off expectations of a pocket full of money, happening

with such regularity in the occupied role, reality becomes another

check out. Glazed reproductions of the same interaction with

different faces, these trenches are hard to climb.

A bass line everyone knows, hands reach for other hands or

pull up a dress for a dance floor dash because they understand

it won’t play again. Inclined to soften the eyes to the memories 

being made before them. Mental barrier to how this band’s cover 

doesn’t hold up to the week before, when there’s cake, eat. 

Because once you may be asked, “Can you take us back to 

our rooms, we forgot our hats?” when they return in bucket hats 

with Turkish House Mafia stitched in you’ll find out the groom

is a DJ and witness years of ridicule for his questionable taste come

full circle in a heartfelt gesture. “To the afterparty?” 

Discovering the woman to whom the lyric is directed, who for

decades the collective voices have congregated, will need your help 

and you’ll come running to her door to find a Kennedy out in the 

cold prone to the same faults. Exchanging smiles and a set of keys, 

never a more endearing normal than from forever Sweet Caroline.   

Clicking Reel

Clicking Reel 

By Tyler Mobley

Letting out line, mind a clicking reel, wonky

film projector tempting realities to

sprout from skull and politely ask the present 

for a dance, only to ruin her and take her place.  

Sea surface storms about how the heart wants 

if skin would show it, left with throwing rocks 

to ripple the calm, trusting it will return when 

our minds are ready. 

Marble monks on city hall contain all things and 

none with how they hold themselves,

conversing behind our backs, you’d swear on

their rolling eyes, unmoved movers of sacred bust.

Falling as a precious drop onto vacant dune, 

giving life to dust in a flood of visions, that

may last the next rain. 

All things looking of You

All things looking of You

By Tyler Mobley 

  

Ripples trail a seaward vessel

spreading curves, a rhythm we

rolled once or twice. 

Dewy garden mornings find web woven 

portraits by Picasso legged spiders, 

“a fly for the effort.” 

Birds gather in honor,

Roman starlings perform under twilight,

fluttering human forms sing songs

of dedication, they knew 

you always listened. 

A name glimpsed in bubble

breathes held on a tub floor,

before bursting nevermore. 

A lasting adieu when

all things looking of you. 

Down Ain’t Out

Down Ain’t Out

By Tyler Mobley

A corner crowd across from pier 39 in the bay stands in puzzled admiration, witness to a king of pop cover performed by an unlikely pair of troubled souls. These men hadn’t just fallen on hard times, they defined them, yet here they were bearing it all to anyone who’d stop to notice. From a lone weathered acoustic guitar played with hands disgraced by society, and a gruff voice from a scruffy face came the tune of Billie Jean. A sloppy chord change here and there, perhaps due to the Bud Light seated behind him, the song looped from the first verse to chorus, anything beyond was either forgotten or not bothered with. His performance partner, a dynamic fire to his structured ice, repeated a series of dance moves through the circle, theatrics poured out as Bud Light was poured in. The grizzled man flowed in what were probably the only clothes he had, commanding the audience with a repertoire of Michael inspired moves. Tall can in hand the man of the streets danced like nobody was watching, in rhythm with the high hum melody, flaunting shoulders, crotch thrust, and jelly legs. An awakened inner star destined for the spotlight. His unrefined moves only enhanced the charm and confidence perceived by the crowd, or maybe when one has been down and out there’s nothing left to lose. Captivated by the pairing of the familiar from the derelict, arose a humanizing moment across boundaries of have and not; or no longer. The meeting on musical grounds bonded those around in life’s simple pleasures. Yes, his dance moves were more comical than choreographed, but therein lies the beauty, not there to impress only express. Yes, his voice would never sell records, so he played because he could. They gave all they had, making of life what they could, and found the enjoyment was mutual. This was freedom.    

We Stopped Just to Hear the Silence

Went for walk today, you may call it a hike, with my mom. We take our time to indulge in the beauty.

We Stopped Just to Hear the Silence

By Tyler Mobley

We stopped just to hear the silence 

see the sky a blue we’re thankful for

a radiant pure blue 

essence of blue 

a blessing blue 

our defining act blue 

atmosphere filtered for our delight blue

life blue 

birds singing blue 

fluff spotted blue 

kiss giving blue 

savor blue 

a reminder blue 

life our gift and breath our work 

each day blue. 

Happy blue  

nothing but sky blue 

watchful blue 

heaven blue 

tip toe in from a late night dancing blue 

your eyes singing blue 

raw genre blue. 

For blue 

of blues 

we know because it is 

a blue for all. 

Oyster Jollies

Oyster Jollies

By Tyler Mobley

At it again an ole used to be somebody’s sailor goes walkin between a pair of century old dampers carryin martini olive eyes, soot curls, and a dirty mouth she’d put to use if it weren’t holdin such a cute little grin. A lump of wood at bars’ end lifts a shout, “ain’t you got some business somewhere Ms.?” 

The jingle of her boots fade, silence arm wrestles the room and wins, her head snaps to the call quicker than a wave in a whip nearly drawing the air from the room with the unanimous gasp it demanded from the crowd, silence pursed either as an effect of no soul dare speak or because a vacuum prevented sound to be carried throughout the room, nobody knew nobody cared.

Each step squashing peeps before they happen, she arrives face to face with Lumber leaned up against the bar, rising for a moment from his seat as if a flame were lit underneath his teepee.

Madam looks up, catching him with even more of a crack in her lips than before, “now what business would that be Mr. Forest?” leaning in she could smell fear turn to shit. 

Log cabin falls into convulsive stutters emanating from his lower chip spreading down his race circuit. Mumbles of, “ma ma ma ma ma” again and again interrupted by sudden jerks stifling each proceeding attempt winding up like a little car about to be launched across a kitchen floor.   

“Ahh hell!” she slaps him not too hard across the face breaking the broken recordness arresting his body landing him back in his seat and before he knows much of anything he spat out, “ma acorns!”

A sigh of relief escapes from his chopstick mouth as though having needed to lose an erection before a passing train could knock it off, that sent vapor spittles into her face in a bourbon breeze. 

Throwing back her head in a great “HA!” forcing anything not nailed down into the walls. Tables and chairs slide into leather breeches, glass explodes and falls in subtle applause about the room like an ensemble of fairies hitting pots and pans. Olive eyes narrow on Tinder Box with regained composure she reaches into her vest. Eyes shift around the room curious to the fact that her hand had passed up the shooter astride a rather well rounded hip. 

From the vest she pulls a small bronze cylinder and removes the cap in a slow twist. Holding it before Match Stick, in a way he could note the color, which was unusual. Containing an element of glitter magnified by the truest amethyst, emitting a spectrum such that anemones would fight for it’s hue, lilies tell petal-tales of it’s shade, it drives monkeys bananas, and sends unicorns out shopping where they discover in passing a mirror their horns’ held the color all along. 

“What they servin you here, seventh sin?” Arms a measure animated. “How bout I freshen you up?” 

A gleaming nub grows under her touch, then guides the rocket stick towards Saw Dust’s face.

“Hold still now, you haven’t want me to get this wrong.” Reaching behind Splinter’s head to keep fast his shuttering chin.

We have touchdown. From a deliberate hand eights roll onto his wood chips, a trace resembling a trail of a psychedelic snail after several crossing of his balustrade; inducing a most peculiar spell. Building with each completed pass Plank’s corks pucker ever more. 

In a sudden pressure release eyelids flutter his harmonica hums and steam blows out his ears. Withdrawing the wand and placing it back in her vest, she takes a step back to admire her work n play horse. Block’s head a ringing coo coo clock, his body a black and white image against the vortex drawn on his castle. 

Placing a boot in his dividers then before going any further she turns to address the room, “now if any of you ladies want a ride you’re gunna have to wait your turn.” Pressing on his stirrup her legs swing over his shelves for shoulders she saddles on his music box, taking up fingers of each hand as reins, feeling like bark bits in her grip. 

For an imperceptible amount of time her business carried on in such a comfortable manner you’d think she were alone. Wedging into a joist her charged body expands a field of static potential gathered from forces present and beyond.    

Breaking from her rhythm for a look at the faces frozen into the wall, some still pinned by furniture. 

“Do yall really wanna see what this pony can do?” 

They weren’t sure, nobody answered. Madam twists his ear shooting a puff of steam down the bar, Jenga teetering on edge. On a well lathered face glimpsed between flickering hips patrons saw eyelids batting at thousands of rpms, a pair of bee stung bruises blowing hard brass, a tongue zapping that could turn a toad envy green, the corrupting color covering his complexion resembled a tumbleweed turn tropical fish. 

The lights in his jukebox went out right as hers finished, both rattling in opposite ways. Leaving, months later, suspicions in those who witnessed the event as to whether his spirit had been sucked out by her answering machine like some phone booth in The Matrix. Only this here is the nineteenth century so make of it what you will. 

The ride met its end, in dismount she leaps off brushing against his chopping block, the force of her impact jostling a dead Stump loose from his seat falling to kindling on the floor. 

Giving herself a once over she smiles down at the Pollock piece between her thighs and runs a finger up her seam front. In passing she drags the dabbed finger across the cheek of a still giant, neither spoke. 

Within moments a jackhammer awakens inside the giant inducing in him a tapping twister with rumba manners, the bright cheek streak metastasizing his body through Tasmanian whirl.  

The audience fixed on another transformation hadn’t noticed her slip out, and let out a still murmur when a cow hatted and curled head popped her peach back through century old wooden doors, “Y’all be careful with this one, damn near lost my pearls,” with a yodeling chuckle, “so long.” 

With that patrons peeled off walls, and found themselves dumbfounded around the rutabaga vibrator they knew as Earl. 

Most Thoughtful Camper

Most Thoughtful Camper

By Tyler Mobley

Developing over time is how most things go, this collection was no different. Retrieving a blanket to be laid down in a starlit park I consider the stickers placed on the back window of my camper shell. As our minds do I created a story for their arrangement. She brought a blanket too, by the time things buttoned up we’d rolled our way onto the grass. Our next meeting I shared the meaning I’d seen in the stickers that night. 

“You see it’s really a college of human nature.” 

Here the central Octopus tentacles spell out “soul,” with nature on one side and the industry and creation on the other. On the nature side are two trees, one I bought myself, one given by a friend. Symbolizing Ventura’s Two Trees, the prominent landmark of my hometown. On the other side of the soul is an Iron & Resin sticker with a separate black n white anchor in the top corner. The new local brand whose market niche surfboards and motorcycles, their downtown storefront always full of the hippest crowd. These were the first stickers I’d stuck, now created a symmetry to my back window. Done without any deliberate thought I’d made a representation of ourselves in the world, caught between nature and industry. Our souls trapped in bodies bound by natural urges and needs complemented by the ability to manipulate our environment through our imagination. 

“Does that make sense to you?” 

“That is the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever said to me.” 

Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for, but kind nonetheless. Her phone rang, time to go. 

Photo by Lost Snorkel

O Holy Night

In May 2018 I was walking downtown with a show to go to that night. Originally composed for Brad Monsma’s Non Fiction class

O Holy Night

By Tyler Mobley

Arriving under the marquee when we did by reordering our mural viewing up Main street before a premeditated pass by the tour bus parked in front of the Ventura Theatre. Just as the former frontman, now frontwoman of Against Me! leapt off the last step of narrow tour bus stairs and turned toward us. Still a recognition through the transformation to when I’d first heard a long ago live performance of “White People For Peace” on a network that no longer exists. “Hi Laura I’ll be at the show tonight” blurted out in a single breath. “Awesome” she returns with a smile, never breaking stride. Find it odd that all those years, all those times I heard her voice and screamed back the words, would lead up to an encounter in broad daylight on a street I’d traveled all my life.  

Later that night the crowd was what you’d expect at a punk rock show; plenty of patches sewn into jean jackets among a herd of black leather. I moshed during “I was a teenage anarchist,” then was overwhelmed by nostalgia at “Tonight we’re gonna give it 35%” catapulted to a Tokyo balcony where those lyrics whipped up my world with latte burns. I began to recognize the same patch on many of the leatherbacks was a peaked cap with Turbonegro written below, a sign of what I was getting into. Waking up in the lion’s den. 

A spotlight illuminates a man with his back to the crowd putting a load of energy into his keyboard, giving little over the shoulder teases to the crowd. The lead singer commands the stage brandishing the same black cap as on all the jackets and what appears as a leopard shawl. The bass player is in a sailor’s uniform rhythm strums away in overalls and a straw hat, and lead guitar frets about in a sequence onesies. The dots began to connect themselves, before I knew it the bear holding the mic was leading a chant of “Wooooooooooooo oooooooooooo oooooo, I GOT ERECTION” and continued for some time. Admiring the spectacle and my personal space their antics lead into the closing song which left a crater impact in my head because it was one I knew and loved. Used as the theme song to the MTV show Wildboyz, “The Age of Pamparius” occupied my playlist for years under false title thanks to the days of Limewire. Distortion resonating through my past I dissolve in the crowd then am struck by insight into the line “clock strikes twelve” as we enter the bridge.