Thus incorporeal Spirits to smallest forms
Reduc'd thir shapes immense, and were at large
---John Milton, Paradise Lost
Hell's cape wears too tight
Sending the might to the light
To try to take heaven
Of course, by and for force
Never the worse for the snare
That guarantees ambition
A circle seven circles deep
In the bind of the mind
Of a derby hat and a goddish
Line of seasoning, oregano
And a halo, an angel and
A vibrato, song only as wrong
As the right to its left
Accordion to the stretch
In the spring of the spring of the
Things that ring, ringing the
Forward progress with
Associative, cheap economies
Sell that manufacture
As cheap as the ocean
May allow in April
This is a stormy pacificity
A city of broken water
Tilting toward the down
Always at the level of its level
Hoping to keep this door
At the expectation fountain
Drinking the little dribbles
Until the so-called windows
Become thus-fallen minnows
Babies bound to reseat
Themselves in the seat
Near the aisle
That will flunk out
Of this plane
Always down
Always nosing
Toward a more imperfect score
Kept by the big dude
Up in the louds
Clouding the situation
With the vagaries of omnipotence
And the magic of change
Each conspiring to unseat
The other's mystery
Bringing slow satans
To a rose closed
From this evil apple avenue
Roman Ryan 