The image of an apple flees the approaching
mind -- mine is not the right word for an image
in the head. To think is to enter the brinks, the
man, the ship, every deep brown metaphor that
sulks in the background waiting to eat the
grizzled second person who claims to be
you. Disposal is the heart of ownership
and ships are the fingernails of the sea,
clipped at the discretion of any given
wave -- hello is the end of the banal,
the oblong, the vestigial growth. An
arc is desirous of more active language
to be certain that, in the mirror, it will
always see a story. Don't concentrate echoes
in the ears of the juice makers, the meditation
skeptics, the poets without reason or cause
or celebration. Joy and gratitude, hand on
another platitude on a platter of attitude,
a spirit whose dispirited airplanes are the
technologies of passive passion. Tilt into
a windmill and run full tilt into the legend,
the Cid, the championship, where half lilting
eyes look at winning, at losing, at cruising,
and only choose the latter. Another page
rages at the sunshine without purpose: the
goal is to cut out the goal's net and dismantle
the posts and then walk around a field kicking
a ball. That's to not have a ball. The loss of that
sphere would be like the loss of a species; just
another extinction, disowned, disavowed, dis
gusted -- the breeze does not mind when it
stops blowing or becomes a full-on wind,
it ceases to exist and while it can be measured,
it is not a matter of mean life or mean death.
Both eyes insist that the other is less important--
only have one then. Three dimensions are two
more than required to be dimensional, and that's
just a grammatical play for prepositional relevance,
the problem with relationships -- they demand nearness
and suffer foolishly when distance turns an adverbial
ear too far away to hear; it's like a whole aorta of run-
on blood, a pumping, sumping, crumping system that
claims plumbing is an end in itself, which has cleanly
never met a bidet. Clarity is another zero sum aim
that shoots at the sky and forgets about bullets and
gravity and instead just hopes that angles wrangle
safety and junk out of range of the head and the
hand that fired. Boiling joints cannot become
candor, for the stream is unconscious of the
heat past a curtain point. Theater is the same
way, a play on days that only goes a few ways
away from perpetual spray. Don't think any
thing pejorative and you will be not be in
need of restoratives. There is a present that
rejects the past, a gift to the razor future.
Picture an apple. The mind tries and moves
beyond an apple to the notions and concepts
and conceits that swallow apples in parts and
in wholes, driving an easy bargain to storms
of juicy red and sweet metaphorical flashes.
Roman Ryan 