Okay, it's after eleven. Warmed up.
Now, to the writing. The additional
writing. The words that are the real
words. The falling concepts that come
down the page rather than across the
rage(?). Rage!? Where did that come
from? From is a place where things are
from. Do not question it. That is the
first rule of write stub. You don't get
a stub if you don't write those toes. And
if you say nos (no's?) then your plural
pronunciation puts an sp in (). Those
sweet parenthetical poignances, helped
along by the checkers to an easy move
through the chess, one board at a time.
May these instructions find you swell,
not swelled. May your hypofunctions
be operating regulated. That is not
metaphor cancer, but it is the next
calcium thing. Bones, and such. Commas
where they do not belong. Belonging
where it also does not belong. Subjects
objecting to the subjection that the world
cannot help but seem to seem across. Seams,
I mean. Those places where the stitching looks
more like bewitching, but don't chase me into
the definitional whirl. There are too many
letters here to ladder up and down to the
Fendi's more than mockery of Lawrence's
Eusebia. Oh, but the dirt will consecrate
the sand, as dryness is a kind of wiseness,
as long as your second person is beneath
the star of the magpie. Oh, is that a concrete
counter next to those efflorescent wings? I
think so. I am deep in the speech that does
not end for eighteen years, the soliloquy of
the parent, specifically, the father's run-on
sentence. Sentience has appeared in the eyes
of my sun. Bright yellow, or in fact, brown,
with the riddles of desire coming through
that four-toothed mouth. Metafauxesis
is a long word for a short synonym: pre
tend. Before tending to the garden, one
tends to the sun. And yes, this is a Galilean
world now, where the stars are where they
belong, for now. And they will go where they
must go, with or without permission from
any given mendicant or bore. Borealis life,
with a vacation day and a bicycle and just
the right amount of coffee and thinking about
coolness, the shaded kind, and wondering whether
it's worthwhile to create the kind of diffidence that
leads another person to respect, hotly, the things
that one does not do. There's a definition of
fool's hardy molds, broken over the knees
and the needs that we must breathe as we
out ourselves to the world, a little wrist
and forearm at a time. Once again, time,
set against the spray of the sun. Seconds
cannot stand the first cause, however.
And there are reversals in them thar
bills. Dollars in them thar spills. Oil
in them thar wills. Greasy bears,
you could decide for us, that
our time would come earlier,
and you then would have
lasted. But I would try
to stop you. Will try,
unless the subjunctive
diverts my reality
in the direction of
a bearing too far
west for the ship
that I have rebuilt
to sail and fail and
whale until the
ambergris smells
like a Melville
and a half,
refusal
and
all.
Roman Ryan 