Were I driving something, the soft green
landing voice on the north side of the trees
makes for a concerned citizenry under the
visible hand of land ownership, taken as the
motor vehicle you confidently chose for your
t-shirt, and don't fight the second person,
look at the third, for objectivity is its own
imaginary, abstraction is a garden in front of
a bank, holding your tension as well as your
rank; mulch and the leaves and butterfly
minutes, fading to eyesight and wood sidewalk
tenets; haircuts and dogs and quitting common
sense, facing the music of cars driving rents,
watchful the sentences ran on too graph't,
boxes and dots and sunglasses eyes: for gone
contusion on earnestly high, waiting to
honestly terribly lie, frightful the shouting and
buildings in distance, raiding the plenty for
gentry and fixtures.
Roman Ryan 