Tyren Thompson
Tyren Thompson (he/him) is a Los Angeles, CA based poet who studies cultures and the people who make them exciting then writes about it. His work has been published in the Rise Up Review and the George Floyd Poetry Anthology. When he is not writing, he is a resourceful human behind a computer screen. Tyren shares some of his work on Instagram @_TyWriter.
Far, Far Away
Far, far away
cognitive psychologists convinced the world
that memories are stored
in the hippocampus.
​
It sounds made up,
because it is.
​
My findings,
based on data,
I’ve collected,
right here,
are as follows:
Memories live in lingering laughter,
in the pink cheeks of cheshire children.
​
Memories live in frostbitten mittens,
in imperfect snow angels you create with outstretched arms,
in the coldest winter ever.
​
Memories live in broken bones,
in the slings, the splints, and the boots,
in the sloppy signatures,
in the margins of hastily selected greeting cards.
​
Memories live in the lost dignity,
in the embarrassment and in the shame,
in the way people’s eyes roam to avoid your face
in the public places you frequent
in which everyone knows your name, but no one dares to utter.
​
Memories live in the edible you devoured,
in the garbage can beside the wrapper,
in which, if you read the fine print, you would have seen it said, “enjoy
in moderate doses”, instead you ingest indicia and end up
in bed higher than the tips of raven wings
in the smoldering summer air.
​
See,
those so called doctors,
from far, far away,
with all their schooling,
forgot to make memories,
so they could remember
where we store them.
Angel Food
I eat coral colored cake in my castle.
Nothing catastrophic could happen here.
Just constant charm and continuous calm.
Everyone’s a caterpillar, with the kind of potential to evolve
but no wherewithal.
We’re just all content with where we are,
with what we have, and with whom we’ve become.
We’ve become accustomed to having our cake and eating it too,
to calories counting towards improving our mood,
and nothing else.
Just enjoying each other and enjoying our food.
Countdown
One does not intend to cause such chaos at the beach, yet here we are.
Too focused on my serve to notice
the triple scoop sundae
for your daughter.
The five second rule doesn’t apply in the sand.
I hope that you can forgive me,
and accept the three words I can’t stop repeating.
Of course I replace it, and get you something too—
I lost the game but won a chance to spend this time with you.
From Friday without Love
The worst thing about being Friday is all of the unfair pressure. Believe me, I’m honored to be held in such high regard—but my God, these are 24 hours of the most grueling great expectations! Pause you who read this, and think for a moment.
​
No one expects much of Monday, except maybe Miami fans. Tuesday is for tacos. Wednesday’s had commercial success—all those mean girls saving 15% or less. And honestly, Thirsty Thursday has always been a mess. And then there’s me, who’s supposed to clean it up.
​
When the clock strikes twelve you’re all up and about. Expecting direct deposits to replenish accounts. To fund the night’s festivities. I pray that it’s still pending, and you’re penniless. Empty.
​
You should be in bed to accommodate for the fact that you’ll awaken, suddenly hungry for bacon. A feast that you haven’t had time for all week and still do not. But you pull out your pan and proceed to procrastinate.
​
So now you want the day to start late. And end early. So you can rush off to some 5:30 function and get half off some flimsy fuckin’ French fries. Cursing the traffic, and my name, along the way. On the fifth day God created you feeble creatures who hold me responsible for the next two.