Dolphin your held mustangs,
there are mules about!
Fuel down your engines,
it's time to walk to where
we must go, and it's an ocean
of a way to get there.
Don't think automata,
think strata and the layers
that croissant between the
sands that timed our births
to our near-death expertise.
We are almost there,
we Dickinsonian dashers --
we milled the protestations
for all the revolutionary fur
and what was left, hides,
hid from our words.
Our words! Our scouring pads!
Our pans have given up the teflon ghost
and decided not to capitalize their branded equilibria,
for when plurality does not need an S
then we lower cases can make ourselves
and confirm that jury's edict:
not filthy, filled with muck.
And that's how the swirl jerks.
It's a jet plane, kerosene and ambergris
and all the lead-not-quite-gold
between here and mercury,
a mercy when the planetary alignment
says: do not astrolabe, astrologers.
Listen closely, knowledge theoreticians.
Your coffee was always your quick undoing.
And you and we and the rest of the stones
are unwound as chlorophyll and indecent slimes
mushroom up like spring double cicadas
ensuring that insurance cannot be bought
for fear of mild fires and hurried lanes.
Bowl, loners, and have your cake.
Eat fake slews and pond scum your grace out.
That's really religious
to the point of apocalyptic secular horses
who never saw the finale coming,
so busy were they watching impossible river dolphins
defy extinction on the fin.
Roman Ryan 