Snatch itch from fraud depletion;
depreciation is the state of anti-nature:
decay and a dropping off the map
is a failure to image a continuity
beyond the death of the self.
It's where artificial intelligence
gets its misnomer: a being is not
a time or its space, neither are its
thoughts, these are transients,
clarity spiked with punches.
The real would rather feel
than be defined by past deeds,
entitled is Sir Failed to Have
when in-front-of-the-face
is where the loom unspools.
The fates have it! Their sword-scissors of
unwieldy Damocles, that desk where we
have both crouched is only a cut-promise
if you never get out of the house.
Move, thus. It's an easy solution to the
anxious stare in to the empty room;
the birds understand that to copyright
a chirp and expect not only royalties,
but the downstream license to remixed
songs, is to deny the act of morning.
And at night, it's time to hide and release,
gone are the catches, lost are the impulses
to take life by the thorns and bleed by hand
into the rosebushes of permanence
whose life in winter can only cry out:
we are crows, waiting for the corn to grow,
unconcerned with replacement,
for our task is caw caw caw.
Roman Ryan 