Hey there, just to let you know, this poem is semi-biographical only in the sense that the main figure shares my name, and has experiences inspired by, but not necessarily equivalent to, my own. When reading, try not to import what you know about me into the poem itself; it needs to stand at least somewhat on its own. Form, style, and intent for this poem were inspired by John Berryman's incredible poem "The Dream Songs," which you should absolutely check out. I'm including parts I and II in this note, the next will be an interlude, and then a note with parts III-VI.
I
Tired Tyler
sleeps too much to tell
what day it is.
The weather snaps him
mid-nap. He
stumbles into unknown air
unprepared.
Sunlight sapped of heat
steals his.
Why didn't
you spread a jacket
over your skinny frame?
You are cold iron
young man,
scolded, rightly, by morning sighs;
you'll be blown away
young wicker man;
in this wet world
you'll never burn.
Tuckered Tyler lies,
lays his hours
under bruised eyelids.
Black smothers his best lays,
his most musical song-thoughts
know dream-death's un-writing.
All he breathes
are fragments.
Swept as he is,
eyes open and shaded
by veins,
Tyler grasps at
flowing filaments
and fallout.
II
A smile seeps significance,
seems like something
however transitional
as passing teeth, glanced briefly
can be.
The even porcelain squares
brand smoldering heat
from small lips lightly broken,
barely upturned.
He presses these
white fire-rocks,
the warm pseudo-promise
of curled mouth-corners,
to his slender
neck.
His willow whittles away.
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