Scorn wings bear faces from fact to fiction:
the imagination pretends that reality
is written in stone on the side
of Mount Shasta, a Hollywood sign
for the gold hurry, an omen that foretells
that open-armed end
of the world and its linguist members.
Consciousness scrapes the foreground
to convince its theoretical underlings
someone is in charge here;
no foliage could cover the executive function
while it burns and salts and eats.
Articulate raccoons tell the sewers:
this is our forest now.
There is no metaphor to make
anthropomorphic claims
sound any truer than false.
A California heat makes wild
with fire and waves and wind
while jets streams over the mountains
bringing the bearers the news:
our civil discourse will survive
the pain of most everyone else.
Roman Ryan 