Better sentience comes with a better sentence:
life, with no possibility for a paragraph that does not roll
off a swimming tongue, speaking in itself, a glossolalia of perfect diction.
I am not talking about grammar. To be correct is to be correct.
I mean to be fluid in gas. Liquid in dance. Solid in space.
Too far from a sun to reflect anything but the heat of its own core.
An internal motion machine, I mean. A language so natural
it must be artifice. I am beside my self when I read lines that say it,
spray it, and give it another coat for good measure. It is cold out there
for a jacketless tome. A wrought preposition equals the ideally menacing
poker next to the perfectly logged fire. The genuine article
represents the apotheosis of the literary canon, Milton's Satan
with a light powder keg of beer. The natural sentence cannot be
tamed in a classroom; it must nurse on an appropriate wilderness,
cursed to autodidactic survival on the bloody, fruited heath.
Roman Ryan 