I am a prisoner of my politeness.
I live in these bars, with thanks
and apologies and sorries, plural
sorries, my lorry from one end of
a chat to another bat that I stand
down so as not to hurt the ball.
A polite without earned runs,
that's the kind of no-hitter I am.
I am kind even to baseball, and
I try with golf. Sports that I, in
side, dislike. If I were being forth
right, hate. I've been hit by too
many of one and saddened at the image
of that much green under that much
chemistry. But I won't say it. And I
will consider going back into all my
contractions and extending them, so
that you, reader, do not believe that I
do not respect you enough for the long
game. I want to be together, all together.
And perhaps I will not keep it together
since that feels a little possessive. Maybe
we can come together and gather our
selves and determine that a hard phrase
is not a maze, it is merely a place where
our gaze can rest on the part of our minds
that grinded out a real bean, hot water,
electric coffee, mate. Let me wander
Australian. I can shorten my pages
and state it sharply, hotly, and
quickly. A knee's jerk, that is
what I fear to become. A
prepositional fragility is
what lives in me, along
side all these too-simple
verbs. Let's noun together,
just see objects, and develop
a case for the just-in-liminal
spatial terseness that will
strike any solid with a
solid of our own.
Roman Ryan 