Tyler Flynn Dorholt


Where is the?  In the tinier home a passing welcomed us into: some jetting took place.  Yes, an elbow as doorknob but what one lane means in the get shall now be a funnier.  Listen, still the thing that in the open didn’t remain.



There was never more.  How lofty the body search became.  I have ten-minute urges that return what I lost to the concealed consciousness.  More cars parked than driven and what exactly stays in them.  Possibly a small distortion of the body’s map when seated. 


The barn relapses, overholds its horses until in neigh-boom the roof scoots up into the space our birds moved through.  In another country on a train the other languages might bother me into unseeing.  Feel the shape of the fist and what key encloses it. 


Fresh beer and sex tournaments.  I took a trophy to your wink.  I am always happy when the deck is being shuffled but then the cards go out and everyone relies on.  Even the dealer is out of thinking, into the boredom gesture. 


Were you going to take a picture of the moon last night?  I’ve sworn off the sun and paid for the rain.  The best section of our bodies together is the wind’s semifinal shot at a better medal.  Hang it up heart side.      
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