You can make two by fours
or kindling, a face cord or
particle board out of this
lumber yard, this former
forest hard, a wooden face
obsessed with wooden legs
and their cetacean causes.
Revenge, my boy! This is
the thing that gets you up
at night and down in the
morning. The ring of the
forbidden blade, rising and
falling in time with the people
who did This to Us. And now
we will have our sweet melanoma,
our time in the sick sun, our moon
shots into the stark place where our
brewed softness has fermented into
the Frankenstein curse, the blood
feudal serfdom, surfing our surging
emotion into the idle lich, the devil's
pitch, a fastball from the shell of what
our civilization could have been, if
not for our superb, dirty rage.
Roman Ryan 