James Tyler


I like raunchy poems, poems about farts
whistling in the wind and women with long legs,
long as a Tolstoy novel, but definitely something Russian.

I like poems that highlight the underbelly of life
like something Bukowski dreamed after drinking too much wine
or what the man says under his breath, standing on the corner of Broad and Second.

I like poems I thought of on the drive home,
but forgot before I could find a pen,
most certainly about my ex-wife or baseball.

I like poems that end with a bang or a whimper,
that begin with a good hook or a boring metaphor,
that sing like a song, but somehow out of tune.

I like poems that are raw yet refined,
that rap like Tupac or croon like Sinatra,
and see too much of the future, hear too little of the past.

I like poems about vibrant petunias and dead roses,
the unpredictability of reality and the certainty of insanity,
but especially this poem that simply ends with a period

James Tyler earned a BA in English from Austin Peay State University. He has been published in such journals as Chiron Review, Cape Rock, Doubly Mad, and Poetry Quarterly. He currently resides in Nashville, TN.