from The Point

BY Tyler Flynn Dorholt

The point of liking is the point. In particular, anticipation is invisible if I say hey before kissing you or ask you if you’ll join me outside. Liken it—the drive—to being speechless. Liken the fortification of my inflection to slowly removing the scarf in a pace from which your nape shivers then smoothes back into the blood. Specific enough, this non-conversation, though mega too, the bones uneven and again this skin as water these bones as rocks the absence as sky. It’s simple, or it develops like denial in the throat to cover us outside of surplus. And I like you; I unpack my restless references to start a word out in the refinery of lips.

* * *

The point of sameness is the point. In particular, you look too local for the vacation to mean anything. I actually want you with all of your clothes on and the cluster of an outline I will spend all night training myself to replicate with acrylics. Reference is the thing upon which knowledge surfaces, the thing speaking reciprocates. That dress looks miles away from its fabric’s source. Laughing ourselves into consumption, valuing landscapes by taking the outside table to talk to ourselves, we song here too. I will handwrite distance for you. Our lakes line up our river will be consulted from the moment in which I say I, meaning us. Cities, at closeness, know how many breathers they hold indoors. It’s just that they lose them when they must choose themselves.


Tyler Flynn Dorholt is the author of the chapbooks Dog the Man a Star (Scantily Clad Press, 2009) and the forthcoming What I Cannot Recall (Greying Ghost). He is the co-founder and editor of the print journal Tammy. More work can be traced at He lives in Manhattan.