Eye Finality
is a tome that insists
the best days only happen
in dreams.
Manuscript version one
was without a title
and the mind only wrenched
weeping from the rusted bolt
well after the beginning.
Draft animals in the first round?
Note to self:
Remember to stitch phrases together,
so that football players are not mixed up
with the before and after of mules
and donkeys and oxen.
Are arbitrators listening?
It's clear that machine learning
steals the public's imagination
in order to shit out a brick
that smells like it might be a house.
What justice! Carried by the wonderful
power-taser-tasters, who submit to one
weapon in training, but always play with
guns.
Back that stick titular question
(because eponymous is a word
that I love to have an excuse
to wield);
--shard of brass?
--cardigan mass?
--too chilly for fillies?
--marred by potent vowel boundaries?
--incarnate emphatic quotidian zephyr?
--dragon myth god contusion?
--police skate?
--phantom scrimp?
--beetle noose?
--shame, sham, farts?
--imagination rainbow random racketeering?
--seventeen counts of enunciating words that ought to be numerals?
--badland?
--induction spoils?
--wart hawks?
--plurality and the ten thousand things?
--a list that might take the afternoon and turn it 90 degrees?
--tangent victimhood?
--Bilious Bargeson?
--river monster noodlers?
--at the end of the day, clichés ache as the world turns?
--coffee dullard?
Hand me another pint of ice cream,
it's going to be a long night.
Roman Ryan 