Burn the coal hot, then it's not
going to breathe you. Let your
canaries honor their once-yellow
songs by dying where they stood
on the permafrost precipice, a low
wooden plank, shuffled not walked.
Give a good-gosh-golly gold bug
a mold-mosh-molly morse rug
under whose tattered symbols
the rats keep warm, skittling
from one M to the next, branded
by the ranch, dressing to the eights,
leaving everything and nothing to
crates filled with properly spoiled
figs. Eat! Eat and call it a feast! We
will be least least. At grease, there
are skids and they burn according
to sweet friction, writing their own
ownership fictions like the narrators
of a bible that says, here is god,
he wrote this and he owns
your life before and after
you were never here.
Roman Ryan 