Music carries a music all its own tune. I did not learn to hear it
until well into my late lates. I was fated to the game, in today's
spot of ties to notes, to notes, to notes. Take note, make note,
become note. That's the circumspection, the music section of
this notation that I will probably never be able to read. The
matter, of course, is not of ability, but of commitment and
discomfort. I would like to become shorter before taking
such a dramatic step. Not to be in other words. Cliche shakes
without the accent park. I will ski the flats, not the chutes,
walking across the ladders, never up or down. I do not need
a roof, Brad Pitt, a Hollywood of any sport. That's the length
and cord of it: a burning palate, turning toward New Orleans
until the city of dry whisks becomes an onomatopoeia of poiesis,
a majesty of liberation geology, a rock-mound with significance
beyond the massive mass. Lists lose themselves in the listing, finding
sideways to their liking, making again, no latitude, no attitude, no
nothing at all in the offing for the coughing for the syrup, a chain
saw of reasons, last seen under a falling tree. Anchors sway when
they cannot reach the bottom. We will never get to the bottom of
this side way. That is the plane of normal geometers where the
abnormal dare not tread. Lead-lined hats hate beavers, for the
mercury prefers to never be dammed. Venus, on the other band,
will play to the system until the now comes home. That's a joke
about the sun, a bun without an oven, an overcooker with the
notion that oceans are meant to be evaporated until the base
becomes a vase for the world's final kelp. Yell pell-mell, until
hell wheezes, turns over, leaves through the book of the head,
and quotes the Corinthians number two pencil: at Ticonderoga,
betrayal is always rewarded by plenty of well-taxed bees. Or was
that a porcelain, Bavarian, a head full of yellow hair and mariposa,
a dedication on the second page, after the publisher, telling us that
we were the ones who mattered all along, until our heads were
shattered and scattered like my father's ashes in that frozen
marsh, where one can only walk in February, under clouds,
with proclivities and crust ice for all.
Roman Ryan 