Oh, the system was always
broken. You could smell it
in the pipes. But before, the
paint was kept dry, watched,
and re-touched with a regularity
that indicates, if not care, then
respect. The chips are peeling,
down. Former chief metaphors
are standing in for stone duty,
receiving the blows from a
wind that only threatened
to shake the house before. How?
As matters stand, minds have left
their hearts at home and feel that
the heart is broken up enough to
keep the hand from steadiness. Whole
groups have thrown off the shackles
of shack-denial, and that's what systems
are build from (see: belief, webster). To
carry water demands faith in the
desert to re-dry and respire; it's
rain and humidity on the conference
room floor today. Electricity demands
nothing, but it won't flow without
transistors from from wet. Umbrella
carriers refuse, and remain shut in
spite of the ask. Old hats point to
holes in themselves and ask: how
did we let here become this? To
become was a bounded thing, and
now that the sides of the river have
fallen out, it's lake land, indistinguishable
from the ocean. Frustration flagellates
cilia who used to only wiggle when
there was another amoeba next door. Lights
distract from motion and emotion floods
the zone with tone and bone statistics, p-
values desperate for reference across the inter
netty pot; sinus candy might make the face
feel better, but everything behind it will
likely suffer the bounded, heady
consequences.
Roman Ryan 