Puzzling. Puzzling. Puzzling.
It's like an hourglass flip-flopping
across the computer's blue screen
hip-hopping from space to a dandified
wait. Crates filled with crates create
the sense of a snake filled with snakes,
all too aware that its own tail is out of
reach until digestion becomes more fully
decongested. Not exactly images appear
in my head. Not exactly ideas. Conceptual
staircases, as nude as a toilet, descending
my eyes to the landing, usually not soft,
where the front door meets the notion
of an additional yellow door. Meta non
sequiturs, nonsenses, nonaction. Blank
tracings, gracing our pleasantries with
ambient energies, royalizing our wheeze,
as natural as not being alive, dearth dries
on the line, clothespins and gallstones
and one kidney too many, not yet kind
enough.
Roman Ryan 