Showing posts with label image credit: Wayne White. Show all posts
Showing posts with label image credit: Wayne White. Show all posts

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

"One Massage Therapist Massages Another," by Tyler Gobble


"All That Fake Laughin' for Nothin'," by Wayne White

One Massage Therapist Massages Another
by Tyler Gobble

after Kenneth Koch

One massage therapist massages another, and she dove
Face first onto that chair she hovers over
Daily, blue with a slight hint of other body.
One barber trims up another, both quieter than usual,
The one in the chair glancing

At the large-mouth bass and stuffed quail he’s seen a thousand and three times,
But now, the first from this angle. One mathematics
Tutor instructs another. And here age is important for the first time
In the poem—the old woman in control, her white hair soaked
In equations, tutoring the boy in Calculus, driver’s license still wet

In his pocket. He drives his mom’s Corolla
Down Cherrywood, reinforcing the times table to third graders
Waiting on their teeth to grow back. One construction worker builds
Another, out of spare two-by-fours and a tarp, putty
And a hard hat, to recreate his friend Earl,

Eight years on the same crew and poof! Earl is gone, transferred
To Wisconsin. One state fair food truck worker feeds another.
She trades a hand-breaded tenderloin for a rain check
On a jumbo lemonade and deep-fried Twinkie. The boy consumes
It right then and there, Mavis of Mavis’s Loins staring

Down at Steven, his summer job at the stand across the way,
Deep frying everything—Twinkies and Oreos, bacon and Coca-Cola.
She waits to make certain he is appreciative. One truck driver
Drives another. Two fellas from two states, one south, one east,
Their trailers of difference, the one with a load of balloons

And a flat tire. The other, the chicken hauler, pulls behind the flares,
Ahead of schedule, and takes the lead on the tire change,
Which takes him longer than he expected. Both now behind
Schedule and together, the chicken hauler decides
To show the balloon boy, as he calls him in his head,

A cozy, cheap diner stashed away in the hills. One ultimate fighter
Ultimately fights another to death, but the death comes
Much later, after they’ve both left the ring,
After they’ve both showered, after they’ve both drank champagne
With their spacetakers, so stoked to still be alive.


***
Tyler Gobble is currently a poetry fellow at the Michener Center for Writers. Alongside Jennifer Whalen, he hosts Everything Is Bigger, a reading series in Austin, TX. His first full-length collection, MORE WRECK MORE WRECK, is available from Coconut Books. He prefers disc golf, sleeveless shirts, porches, and bacon. More at tylergobble.com.

[Image above by Wayne White]

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Life of the Party

Life of the Party

A loud party, ten feet to your left,
through your wall. Stock-still cars
quadruple-parked, overflowing
the driveway, spilling into the street.

The host has his guitar out, they
are singing, they all know the song,
even you’ve heard it. The floor
roils with bass, grabs your feet.

They’ve got a gong over there,
it bellows like a grandfather clock
at 2:00 AM, twice. A drum set
and a drummer from a band

and in all 14,400 square inches
of that place, which you know
because it’s the same as yours,
people. Sitting on the floor

and piled onto chairs and sofas
and leaning against the fridge
in the kitchen, on the edge
of the bed on top of the coats.

It is officially the best party
in the world, in the galaxy,
there has never been another
party during which the guests

loved the host more, or wanted
so much to exist together.
This is it, it is happening now,
this is the party that every party

dreams of becoming when it grows up,
you can live alone in an empty field
and even then you will hear the party,
its life charging on without you.
The Storialist. All rights reserved. © Maira Gall.