Tyler Flynn Dorholt

Tyler Dorholt is a writer and visual artist living in Central New York. His first full-length book, American Flowers, will be published in November of 2016. He is the author of four chapbooks, including Modern Camping, recipient of the Poetry Society of America Chapbook Fellowship, and two chapbooks from Greying Ghost Press. His work appears or is forthcoming in The Los Angeles Review, BOMB, The California Journal of Poetics, and others. He co-edits and publishes the print journal Tammy and is the founder and publisher of the film and writing series, On the Escape.




Around integration each family plays the child strangeness, interrupting comfort in a pot, rattle in graceless hear—can we start being like the other?—an acceptance letter saying well done with your pathos, sport, well done, tender slip of feeling come round itself to damage thought, daggering motorcycles kept at a lull, creeping past bison with pipe poison, slurred incisions from the ennui, perplexed effigies like drowning in elegiac banter as judgment freezes over tongue, this stiff scratch of mind that opens teeth for the start of an inquiry, raving deep behind hope, and so we dress in whimpers the style of whisper, entryways to envy or interest past glow and bone, suckle of clothes thrown out, flown up agency—low down and in the open—lighting up for stern hearts and opera, attire that drags floor up and out of selves, new instruments in wood panels and cracks of scalp, that water is bottled and poured over your face, a sudden stag on night


from forgotten ideas and rain, tall places for small say, grinding out season for full plates at our doors and this doing more for others as we are not enough in ourselves, form in pre-show sound of simplicities, this puckish and insurmountable feed for jealousies at the feel stadium making radius for fact— stuffed drawer—an insult like silence with stare, dogs of lost voices stalking trees, barking beyond relief, that we take on desire in order to accompany and administer embers for the elsewhere fires, abodes like stance and glance in our nodes, glare and care, or how lifted we become thinking of the universal, this local showdown with allergy and deprivation, bumming for inclusion or fix, as we ride back and forth on American hours asking for plains and marrow, a train and an arrow from the heart toward the narrowing pain of our arts.[1]


[1] information forgotten

we other in tender


incisions for fact


trees for inquiry

stance in the open universal

floors for inclusion

a drag on heart



Seeing as though the world clusters stardom, I think of poetry as an immediacy and prose as resurgence of memory, threaded sting and nutrient or that cities have suffered us into stalemate—why must the line be defined?—inmates rushed out of belonging, this tong for syndical escort, being so city it hurts to transfer or emerge on a verge of grass, as solo as we’ve ever been eliding grime or springing for aperture in sprung time, an immeasurable arrival such as announcement or intermezzo, flexing the credit and video to represent need, to stay where nobody will ever belong, the whole grand otherness around us while we’re failing ourselves in getting along, and this morning the world kept lighting up from pain in dreams and we grew narrative out of living up to youth, smacked success and shellacked digression—because first breath ends in last—


from suburban stress this trestle of curbed decision, sight, what we might be exalting if not bent under emotionless credenzas of news, to be here or for more hours bruise the getting-through, midnight calculations thumped up sigh, that I yank sight out of ardor to get after color, the way we come out of headaches forgetting life made us shoulder resistance, onward every minute with consistence, and where wide tunes brood in our mood and where music gets good settling in bones for bump and how up we are from impulse on groove—to roll over is not to continue—shaking floors and walls away, this new day with old pang and a cure for staying drunk on reruns, that we must roast all breath to remain a semblance of the role the world was once bereft of, what we must do to excuse idiocy or amateur carnations aside immediacy, stepping into hallways with fashion and dumb bells strapped to shaved calves, independently-owned air we keep buried behind perception.[1]


[1] immediacy curbs


to be rushed out of color

to emerge forgetting arrival

brooding in credit and

impulse failing in walls

bereft of narrative

excusing youth

with fashion

we perceive


Share This Post!