Join me at the track. 0500 hours.
We will do a hundred fours:
Lines broken by the silence
Of our sweaty dawn.
The sun will rise on our brows,
Beaten by language and light;
We will find a new word,
Mash a new bird,
And sing its song
At the tone-breadth
To stand up the stair.
Run, run, walk, run,
We know how to breathe,
It's an oxygenation,
A social relation,
Our promise to magic the word.
It's back to that, the letter
Is too little too fated,
We must manipulate!
Cry! Speak! Sprout!
It's fragile, it's immortal,
Our inevitability will writhe
At the feet of the coliseum
Surrounding our histories
And futures
And monochromatic nows.
We are once again together,
In haiku,
In comma,
In and,
In or,
In vertiginous chance,
In luck,
In will's essay.
In the end, war, peaceful coexistence,
The blood on our hands,
Identical to those who come beyond,
And we meet in this holy moment,
To show time who's boss
And space that management
Won't brigadier
With generalities
Or the specific art of decay.
We are the home for dead elms,
The raven's crow;
A corvid by another hum,
Birded and boarded
To be identified by the analysts
Of a future age's decadence.
None of the above
Can describe why we train
To articulate the dreams
Of the wakeful universe
In the hearts that know by knowing
Without thinking, no therefores,
No wherebys and certainly no limitation
To the liability of our bodies,
Fully thrown to the wolfish Romulus,
Dealt a hand that cannot err
In constructing our empire
Of sentence and break and jam,
We will be canned
And spanned
By bridges that engineers spread
As we defy rivers and their steel
With our wings
That on this morning
We spread and stretch and strengthen
And in our fortitude
We are the meek
We shall not inherit
An earth or moon or sky
As we are already
Of the ground and light and green.
Roman Ryan 