Status cult, thank you for
ruining my ten years
between nineteen and
Saturn rerun.
Your teach-student tutelage,
gave me the right idea
and I applied it
to logical wrongness.
Many could testify
to the ambit gambit
that meant not dominion
but a trillion points
in the game whose score
is indetermined all the time.
Genius addiction, you rang next.
Or on the orders of the same.
A! 100! 99th percentile automaton.
Carried the one to become One.
Monotheists foreshadowed the
eventual path of the lonely
angry
sad
dejected
wish to become a legend
in the minds of the greatest minds.
Fairness potato, your hash made high the middle.
I bashed my head against
organs
eyes
and zation
to structure
to restructure
to revolume
the decibel mess
that amplifies
messes, ages, and so-called brutey.
Et tu, Grasses,
your green is the subject
ive.
End of story? Yet another:
the narrator's house,
where in your room,
all your own,
you'll spin the seeds
of the great universe's novelty.
In briefcases,
Tolstoy lengthened the days
while wolves
settled our bet.
What's left? You: asterisks.
Exceptions, blinks,
ambidexahedonic tread fires
grip roads like you
cannot believe.
Roman Ryan 