Another pop goes the
money weasel, snap goes
the dollar dragon, dragooned
on hoarseback, greenbacked
into a corner bar where the
flowers tickle the vermouth
into leisure class conspicuous waste.
May we all be so laid to waste.
This world thing got organized.
These followers sought this place.
A place not to like, it's a ring
to bike, cycling the circle
like Saturn, dipping two toes
into the urn and the other
seven into the murk. Lost
a little pinky a few years
back. Don't miss it. It gets
a little stinky, a little winky
when vague nouns noun
around, hounding the textual
among us with their naked
desire to nakedly retire and
die as old as a fold in an
encyclopedia's spine --
don't open and you
cannot close -- don't
scope and you will
not pose in front
of the mirror that
shows everything on
the other side as if
it had never been there.
Roman Ryan 