once-a-day, three pages of beat poetry,
you get it, streams and reams of conscious
ness, dividing lines and reticulating splines,
can't those memories of SimCopter and the
metropolis you didn't really build come together
in the second person and stage a first run-on-and-on
sentence: thirty some years and what's kicking but
the last in a long line of birds, assured that their
place in the paragraph-pantheon will rest better
than the forebears whose migrations dealt cards
that no one looked at, less than wild jokers,
under the rod and bane, could a remedy have
been found at that stage in generational development,
don't question it, would have been the comma response
to the concerned child inside everyone around, who
did not yet have a philology to explore reality,
get back on the road and dip another ten toes
into the misty blue-grey dawned river-rise
Roman Ryan 