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An Addition Of Blank Spaces

Tyler Gobble

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The webcam is a family man
which makes the teenager

a shotgun answering the chat
request in double-clicked pow pows.

Sometimes a better solution
is to buy a leopard or hide

yourself in a blank reflection
of the moon. This is a hint

towards the survival of 2011.
I can only slaughter a virus

so many times, a lesson a father
should teach. Sturdy, imagine a tarp

over his bald head. Shucks about
how guns really work, the smoke

rising out of the kickback like vapor
that lumps souls in the grim eyes

staring out the monitor with that
sudden awareness of a fetus.

Squeeze the bruise on your shoulder.
A distance unwinds the night in a room.

Online something you’re capable of
is an eventual defect, some cluster

of warm foam eeking itself out
the pores of your poor body.

A boy’s back-road flab is no one’s
business, but you’re sure prone

to be a single-mother finding her
son’s dope skin copied and pasted

on message boards like a woman’s
asshole. And what are you to do?

From the weight of the mind
you are double-wide startled.

A thumb-tack pinched memory
of your baby swaddled in belly skin.

Later in life, be sure to trigger
the slush uncovered in the network.

It doesn’t matter if growth is stunted,
crooked HTML code says terrible things

a man couldn’t surf on, but finds
buried at the deep end of the ocean.