Gold lettering always leaves
me below the fold. I tried the
fashionable glasses and fashionable
glasses, but I got too drunk, too cross-
wise, too attached to the attack and
detachment, according to the
trainings. I now would rather
dwell toward obscurity,
digging my home ever
deeper into the side of
this hill that is not recorded
on any of the popular maps.
I develop this rathering
on a daily stasis that,
with a little work, does
not feel like death. Sometimes,
of course, I feel like a coarse
zombie, a brain without a mind
over-defined by every definition
that no longer applies. That's
called nostalgia by the attentive,
a gross emotion a hundred
and forty four miles from
the obscurity I speak. Do
not listen, that would
ruin the effect that all
my causes have bought
with the pauses at my
garbage's disposal. Let
yourself eat the cake that
was left behind, I am no
longer a frosting person,
a sponge person, or a
personal person, I am
in stead,
a poet.
Roman Ryan 