One day,
today,
a present in which
I don't know how to live
there are not enough twigs
in the nest of my razor's edge
of time, that shaves the expectation
from the memory
and brings up the question:
who is god and what is
the(ism) but a method to
madness so called by the
fearful-(powerful) and yet
the myth of how things are
is a con written by one's self
copied off the blackboard
at a school that trained up
so that you'll go down
into the mines with a smile
and a beer, dreaming of a
glass of wine on a sunnier day
intoxicated with the dulled tip
of the blunt instrument that you play
to make the most of the vaguest sense
that now is a myth too
and your insistence on obsession
is a walk into a basement
under a house that never was home
until it burned down
because ashes are what's for dinner
on a table that that someone set
as an asset class in liability management
credit to the victors
historians called it a war
while the individual involved
called it the sunset
last night before the final day
where the end made friends with the beginning
and deliberation gave way to intuition
which didn't require language
but somehow it got used to it
contrasting a comparatively
relative adjacent notion with
the silence that precedes a meal.
Roman Ryan 