Sun Dilated

Sun Dilated

By Tyler Mobley

Rushing insides,

external inputs

buffer for an

inverse occasion. 

Everything slows

down to a trickle,

seconds takes their time. 

When the heart doubles 

a rhythm the internal clock

shares variability with an

occupied space. 

Gnomon head,

be the measure

of your hour.   

Forced Funnel Cake

Wrote this today before the sun rose, been a windy couple of days.

Forced Funnel Cake

By Tyler Mobley

Winds will be winds passing pressure, proprietary imbalance 

self organized energy spools dotting gust of telegramming gods. 

What is that noise? Blinds scratching glass?

Is it the dying whimpers of a man whose mouth was replaced by a harmonica?

Have the windows escaped, two paines shedding frames

subtle squeaks the result of their French kissing?

Or the obvious answer, a branch outside has mistook our window as a canvas 

while under the impression it was Bob Ross. 

Silly how the winds blow.     

Nice TA Nice

Nice TA Nice

By Tyler Mobley

Saturday Shrimpy gets it, “nice TA nice,” 

an easy Lords of Dogtown refrain

warms my heart in playful Pitas waves.

Rex soul arches his carver all the way to the boys,

“you guys didn’t call yours in?” 

Rowdy skaters, cigs and burritos,

classic products of our environment, on the curb making a scene.

From Thompson and Ash a blue out field to 

America’s pastime runs south past the train tracks. 

Cement becomes slalom track trading carvers, tracing eights style, get low, flow.

Sun soaking burrito lizards waiting to be unwrapped 

the slow count to 40 reverses order and

begins counting down. 

Tribute to Rocket Power more personal than NASA

we all grew up watching. 

They had Squid, we have Shrimpy in his

navy blue Zephyr team competition shirt, 

“where did you get that?”   

Cameron, an onion if you ever knew one.  

Roommates Spring 2014

Christening events of Hale Alahonua

Roommates Spring 2014

By Tyler Mobley

Out of a driftless area the 

lanky midwester calls Dubuque home  

what is he doing here?

Standing in the sun for no particular reason 

just distance breathing on our skin

tropical warmth, a religious experience 

dilated to euphoria. 

High noon grazes over lawn, 

we watch the grass grow greener.

Watch ants march

disappear then reappear 

in our beds. 

Billiards chalk lines 

our entrance

a scent defense   

against a million leg march. 

Days rot bye talking toils

life’s manic moments

calling to Shiva, hold up these caving walls   

we help each other along. 

The World knows Crimea, 

we’ll all cry me a 

story for 


When We Were Inseparable

To a certain tigger, who always puts a smile on my face. A Forever Blossom.

When We Were Inseparable

By Tyler Mobley 

When we were inseparable 

things lost their reason. 

mouths moved but nothing spoke    

louder than those color pencil 

sketches on my high school schedule. 

Cookie Monster, rainbows, and 

ribbon bows, heart ignition

sailing through clouds on a hot air


Little things, like when you hid

in the parking lot surprising me 

after class. Crawling over the 

middle seat to use the driver side 

step. Still remember those 

mixed tape tracks, telling the 

story of our lives.  Are you Down 

I was a teenage Anarchist

Welcome to the Family.  

Sharing French toast, your Biscuits I’m 

gravy. Lying to parents about a

UCLA night, then coming clean on Venice beach. 

Jalapeno heat transfers between body parts

cooling lips in pairs. When things

heat up, 180 South could play all night,

till Jeff makes it atop Corcovado 

still I was at a loss. 

Every once in a good while 

a groundswell runs through, 

long after internal waters have 

settled into their normal affairs, 

the excitement of swell 

keeps our eyes on the horizon

Mauna Kea

By Tyler Mobley 

Rising from red shale   

Golf ball esque structures the  

Size of houses, scattered among

A remote volcanic remnant in absolute Pacific isolation. 

Those of the method make 

Pilgrimages past planetariums, Alpine lakes, 14,000 feet well 

Above clouds. To gaze with The widest eyes the world 

Has seen. Harsh winds 

Thin air, a surrealness 

In the presences of 

Cathedrals of science. 

Over there the Subaru scope of Japan, yonder 

Gemini North seeks 

Infrared, all the while

The eye of Sauron itself, Kea’s sugar plum, the 

Aperture of the East, big daddy glass, the 

Keck Observatory,

Sits as one of the many 

Snow topped cinder cones

For the ancients named it

White mountain.  

A waist

high circular    

Stack of stones designates 

A sacred past, today’s 

Worship requires funding, 

Less atmosphere, Less light  

Brings the beyond ever closer, 

A milky galactic plane 

Up here, we are not alone.

Checks and Balances

My poem is a response to each line of Bertolt Brecht’s poem. A reinterpretation, remake, using a model and making it my own, originally written for Claudia Reder’s English class.

Checks and Balances

By Tyler Mobley 

In circles of squares 

often they forgets to look beyond,

to lines that bend for food or 

a vote. 

Those scraping by taste more hope 

than sugar in their lives,

not always wanting more.   

The day’s demands leave out 

questions of how we ended up 

like this. 

Table manners have us at each 

other’s throats, no chance 

away from home. 

Keep talking about 

America’s gilded age, 

and you’ll never get it.  

Milk has spoiled  

meat left for the beyond 

and fast food wants to be slow.

Moving in different directions

ushering a world to it’s grave,

we were friends, then facebook

friends, now I don’t know 

where to find you.   

The Apprentice speaks of 

A return to greatness,

it was on vacation 

in Russia I suppose. 

He who blesses a nation 

hears the stampede of buffalo, chased by arrowheads 

on horseback, and vibrating houseboats

blasting Ted Nugent  

coast to coast.   

Sundays begin the calendar week

but ends the misery of those who live it. 

Tracking our days around the sun 

Not one left open to

have some fun.  

Teachers hold signs for more pay,

factory workers buy the goods 

they use to produce.

It will take more than a 

promise, to heal this

American scar. 

Mr. Mesquite watches his face bob 

on signs spread over a crowd of angry lettuce.

We called your siphon on trickle down,

and went months without work,     

you speak of prosperous times nearing. 

all the while clearing trees

for mass graves. 

We’ve let our trust out on a line 

and can’t get it back again.

Believing in a TV show host, 

we lose track of the producers. 

now it’s the democrats calling for

a national roast, no longer 

Comedy Central.

We say elites of D.C. 

Does the 1% mean anything to you?

Special interest groups 

for those who get to have 

special interest, or is a lunch break enough 

to make another Hilary documentary. 

Please cut your food, not me 

in this line for work to be of service

at Gala’d events, filling those 

Who lobby against us, preserve a laid

back lifer in the highest tax bracket.

We got you cover in the back

Next to stoves, and heat lamps 

for the overnight, 

some don’t get to go home.   

There, written in a populist play,

give them what they want,

and all power shall be yours. 

Your name forever next to all others,

as if we needed more it.

Why not, give the people what they’ve

wanted like never before. 

Try with your torches, 

try with a crowd, 

bring up a fixer, and

down goes a wall. 

Crisis are happening, small ones 

all over, that deserve what they deserve 

though we deserve better, to be held accountable for 

our enemies, and our friends. 

To embrace the good, and not give in to the unraveling 

of the west, for all it has taken, 

it has sure given back, 

to a few, but to most when it mattered. 

So let us accept a way forward with respects to the past 

and not begin from ashes to rebuild what was.  

If an original thought could save a nation, 

what does it take to think for yourself? 

All influence has spoiled, 

been dragged into the fight. 

Your power is lied beyond your means

so kiss my feet in reparations, 

and I’ll think twice about another lick,

at the backs of those who built the Pyramids, as

the dollar holds it’s appropriated value,

we watch, unsettled, for what the future 


From a German War Primer

By Bertolt Brecht 

Amongst The Highly Placed 

It is considered low to talk about food.

The fact is: they 

Already eaten. 

The lowly must leave this earth 

Without having tasted

Any good meat. 

For wondering where they come from and 

Where they are going

The fine evenings find them

Too exhausted. 

They have not yet seen 

The mountains and the great sea

When their time is already up.

If the lowly do not 

Think about what’s low 

They will never rise.  

The bread of the hungry has 

All been eaten 

Meat has become unknown. Useless 

The pouring out of the people’s sweat. 

The laurel groves have been 

Lopped down. 

From the chimneys of the arms factories 

Rises smoke. 

The house-painter speaks of 

Great times to come 

The forest still grow.

The fields still bear

The cities still stand.

The people still breathe.

On the calendar the day is not 

Yet shown

Every month, every day 

Lies open still. One of those days 

Is going to be marked with a cross.

The workers cry out for bread

The merchants cry out for markets. 

The unemployed were hungry. The employed 

Are hungry now. 

The hands that lay folded are busy again. 

They making shells. 

Those who take the mart from the table 

Teach contentment. 

Those for whom the contribution is destined

Demand sacrifice. 

Those who eat their fill speak to the hungry

Of wonderful time to come. 

Those who lead the country into the abyss 

Call ruling too difficult

For ordinary men. 

When the leaders speak of peace 

The common folk know

That war is coming.

When the leaders curse war 

The mobilisation order is already written out. 

Those at the top: peace 

And war 

Are of different substance. 

But their peace and their war 

Are like wind and storm. 

War grows from their peace

Like son from his mother 

He bears

Her frightful features. 

Their war kills 

Whatever their peace 

Has left over. 

On the wall was chalked:

They want war. 

The man who wrote it

Has already fallen. 

Those at the top say:

This way to glory. 

Those down below say:

This way to the grave.  

The war which is coming 

Is not the first one. There were 

Others wars before it. 

When the last one came to an end

There were conquerors and conquered. 

Among the conquered the common people 

Starved. Among the conquerors 

The common people starved too.  

Those at the top say comadreship 

Reigns in the army.

The truth of this is seen 

In the cookhouse.

In their hearts should be 

The selfsame courage. But 

On their plates

Are two kinds of rations. 

When it comes to marching many do not 


That their enemy is marching at their head. 

The voice which gives them their orders. 

Is their enemy’s voice and 

The man who speaks of the enemy

Is the enemy himself.  

It is night 

The married couples

Lie in their beds. The young women 

Will bear orphans. 

General, you is a powerful vehicle 

It smashes down forest and crushes a hundred men. 

But it has one defect: 

It needs a driver. 

General, your bomber is powerful. 

It flies faster than a storm and carries more than an elephant. 

But it has one defect:

It needs a mechanic. 

General, man is very useful. 

He can fly and he can kill.

But he has one defect: 

He can think.  

T.R. John Wright, Ralph Manheim, and Erich Fried (pg.213)

Forche, Carolyn. Against Forgetting: 20th Century Poetry of Witness. New York: W.w. norton, 2009. Print.

To The Enemies

My poem is a response to each line of Vladimir Holan’s poem. A reinterpretation, remake, using a model and making it my own, originally written for Claudia Reder’s English class.

To The Enemies 

By Tyler Mobley 

I’ve been too young to understand why those

Towers crumbled, and watch what becomes

Of the world, less look for love, as tho

Spoiled on Jersey Shore or Next, still

I love somebody because I love myself, go ahead 

Laugh, raise all you will against me, for you’ll have to 

Aim for the stars, as I become home. 

To be is not easy… World beneath our feet

At any moment on top, while still under it’s weight.

From these eyes… A suspicious observer.

A mystery passes for truth, each person 

A foraging tool, some prefer wings

On their cake, simple one day   

Mind and moment purr together 

Broad as the horizon, somewhere 

Horses jostle in race gates, but that’s a different story.

She wears only night, lunar arousal she

Carves brilliant ice sculptures with her nipples, 

Only to melt by morning. 

Frame a ship on a frozen sea, bow

Pickled with caged crab, another story to tell. 

Cast into water, catch yourself on a line

leading to something greater, a tall redwood

Birds peck a trunk, squirrels hide nuts in my midst. 

Wispy clouds offer a dance in the sky, and 

Somewhere an answering machine is taking message. 

Be slow… slower, there

Ending up a letter in a bottle,

What God conceived, he wants to be felt, 

As an opium epidemic numbs a nation

They do not ask, it doesn’t even occur 

To suppose why the moon scales to the sun,

As angels in the outfield walk the foul line, 

Sobriety caught a fly. 

So don’t mope your peejays, clearing a path behind 

An erased memory of a world

You couldn’t embrace.

Step out of your dream, pretend 

A galaxy knocked on Plato’s study, 

And went on as nothing happened.

What God conceived, he wants to be felt, 

As the Earth feels the moon, you catch 

My gaze, and beg we aren’t the same, 

We all enter the world in similar fashion, 

And exit with personal flare, so when your 

Tummy rumbles so does mine, still 

I don’t believe what you think I should.

In order to be, you would have to have lived. 

End efforts to end me pick up harmony

Sing a golden sun elaborate on a 

Rainbow, and kiss your toad goodnight. 

For one can’t know life, if they haven’t lived, 

Or know love, if they never love themselves. 

So release those shoulders, and know

I love somebody, because I love myself, go ahead 

Laugh, raise all you will against me, for you’ll have to 

Aim for the stars, as I become home. 

To be is not easy… Only death is easy… 

To The Enemies 

By Vladimir Holan 

I’ve had enough of your baseness, and I haven’t killed myself

Only because I didn’t give myself a life

And I still love somebody because I love myself. 

You may laugh, but only an eagle can attack an eagle 

And only Achilles can pity the wounded Hector. 

To be is not easy… To be a poet and a man

Means to be forest without trees

And to see… A scientist observes.  

Science can only forage for truth:

Forage yes, take wings no! Why? 

It’s so simple, and I’ve said it before 

Science is in probability, poetry is in parables, 

The large cerebral hemisphere 

Refuses the most exquisite poem by clamoring for sugar… 

A rooster finds rain repulsive, but that’s another story,

It is night, your might say: sexually mature, 

And he young lady’s breast are so firm 

You could easily break

Two glasses of schnapps on them, but that’s another story. 

And imagine a ship’s beacon, 

A sailing beacon: but that’s an entirely different story.

And your whole development from the stele for man

To the stele of a lichen: but that’s an entirely different story!

A cloud is going to vomit, but there’s not even a gas leak at your 


You cannot be, you can’t even be 

Strangled by snakes scales, 

What God conceived, he wants to be felt, 

Children and drunkards know this, 

But they aren’t brazen enough to ak 

Why a mirror fogs when a menstruating woman looks into it,

And poets, from love of life, do not ask 

Why wine moves in barrels 

when she passes by… 

And I’ve had enough of your impudence

That permeates everything it wanted to contain 

But couldn’t embrace, 

But a holocaust will come 

That you couldn’t have dreamed of 

Having no dreams, 

What God conceived, he wants to be felt, 

A holocaust will come, children and drunkards know it, 

Joy could come about only through love, 

If love were not passion, 

Happiness could come about only through love, 

If happiness were not passion, 

Children and drunkards know it… 

In order to be, you would have to live, 

But you won’t because you don’t live, 

And you don’t live because you don’t love, 

Because you don’t even love yourself, let alone your neighbor.

And I’ve had enough of your vularity, 

And I haven’t killed myself only because 

I didn’t give myself life

And I still love somebody because I love myself… 

You may laugh, but only the female eagle can attack the male eagle 

And only Briseis the wounded Achilles. 

To be is not easy… Only shitting is easy… 

TR. C.G. Hanzlick and Dana Habova (pg.424)

Forche, Carolyn. Against Forgetting: 20th Century Poetry of Witness. New York: W.w. norton, 2009. Print.

Á la Dylan Thomas



Our days together, countless consexutive days. It started with us on the ground, a moment when something is so funny your legs can no longer support you.  We rolled in laughter, bellies aching, you had to be there.  Rainy days sent us around the island, driving in circles, beautiful hour long circles. She was Rapa nui, and I was Rio; we lived in our adventures, out and back and gone again.  The sleeping bag that was too small for one person we shared, aligned under stars on a beach, she was my constellation.  Warm clear waters were home, for miles and miles we danced; I was her anchor in rough seas.  We tripped into a sunrise, found ourselves upon a volcanic glow, hurled ourselves off cliffs, all in good fun.  My arms cocooned her all too comfortably on a moonlit mountain. She returned the favor on a sailing night, a brief recreation of an iconic Titanic scene.  With her I was the “King of the world.”  That’s what love does, I took her to new heights, she showed me new lows. You never know what you have till it’s gone.  No, it’s the choices we make that turn a man to stone,  “Do not go gentle into that good night.”