Tyler Gobble (you may know him from such awesomeness as The Fullness of Everything, these poems, this poem, this one etc (I could go on)) is shaking the walls of ILK THREE and coming up roses with a war-cry / remix of Josh Kleinberg’s ‘The Whiteness.’ GET IT GET IT:


Anything may be repeated up to four times:
When all else fails, dig a hole.
When all else fails, build a hill,
and climb it, and stand there.
And lay there on your back.
When all else fails, type the phrase
“a glut of anarcho-communal despair.”
When all else fails, fuck I don’t know.

This isn’t a villanelle of the villanelle form!

Every time you write a poem
you are rejecting the pertinence!

Most stars are an argument against
whatever you do with your rocks.

It’s a well-known fact that fabulous dreams are satellites
and most satellites wish they were your days, still.

When you are sad, your eyelids gain mass.
When you are sad, you do not need to shower.
When you are sad, .9% of smokers die.
When you are sad, Dre farts in a Folgers can.

A cast iron skillet was not made for you.
It was made for this guy Josh knows, Devin.

The world will outlive you and do more for your family.

By keeping on, you imply consent.
By keeping on, you imply consent.
By keeping on, you imply consent.
By keeping on, you imply consent:
disasters everywhere, mining accidents
hurricanes, weight gain, breeding.

Three in eight car accidents
occur every time you write a poem.

I do declare a tiny war
between logics, for hardcore albums
you no longer like, against any yahoo
who declares a certain decorum is customary.

Your unbuckled mouth is like a fire.
Place your hand in and spread the palm wide.

Every time you write a poem,
it doesn’t really smell like anything, does it?
It doesn’t even feel like it’s winter.

Every time you write a poem, there are boats
who survive by eating human waste!
There are probably children that are sinking!
There are birds that are not even anything,
and the sky carries disease.

This is not my poem.
This is not my poem.
This is not my poem.
This is not my poem.

“But when I re-read a book that once made me cry,
I admit what I feel is not hate.

And when I set the book down
before it gets to the good part,
and sign in to something and look,
I’m learning my position in space-time,
accepting my deficient attention.
And the truth is there’s no one there scowling,
but whenever I dream of my childhood,
I’m always stuffing my pockets with Skittles.
Now we get texts that say, “Please, don’t ignore me.”
We pull them from our pants like mysterious flowers,
and study them for a long, long time.”

This is my poem.
This is my poem.
This is my poem.
This is my poem.

You fall asleep and dream about it—14 rays
but whipping the whole joint up into a frenzy.
In the night, electricity sleeps in the sockets.
Something to reach by becoming—
tethering you to the center of the room.
Not by popping strategic balloons on oneself
of misty white, stacked in ghostly twos.
We think that we’re nowhere on a screen.
And know that there must be somewhere to be!
Your lungs inflate and droop like a battery indicator.
It’s the dissipating feeling that fools us,
only filling and collapsing
the limbo of whiteness between where
it’s just—it’s only that: things are never transforming.
inverting levels of life,
electronic shifts in the gray of the brain
between the dream as it ends and awakening.
Lightning pouring from ground to cloud!

This poem is for you.
This poem is for you.
This poem is for you.
This poem is for you,
when all else fails.

Every time you write a poem,
you trample through the knowledge of all of the others.

When you are sad, sometimes in the autumn,
the white sky stands and stares at your wavering gaze.

By keeping on, like a wall,
the treetrunks are orange and thin.

Every time you write a poem,
I’m tired of having to place you in rooms.

When you are sad,
the inventory of hand gestures is endless!

By keeping on,
your crossed-fingers are making me anxious!

Every time you write a poem,
the birds all go back to before they had cages.

When you are sad,
please kiss my stupid lips and be gone!

Every time you write a poem,
account for the width of your stance.

When you are sad,
so are the tank-topped students, bro-like in the grass.

By keeping on,
most of the time I’m just partly awake.

Every time you write a poem,
the tv’s static is a different sort of silence.

When you are sad,
you can call the wind chime the world.

By keeping on,
you say hello to me, needing just the one word.

Every time you write a poem,
we kiss with four months of chocolate staining my teeth.

When you are sad,
in the house, I make nervous decisions.

By keeping on,
I say, Please O Maggie, you’re all that I know.

When all else fails,

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