I still feel the need
to make myself
useful. Language's art
sciences the mind
into grinding teeth.
I am currently between
molars, toothless myself,
wishing I could eat another
shelf to ensure that I might
never become obsolete. The
Absolute haunts me, yes, while
resolute ghosts me. We must
have been in touch once. There are
letters to prove it, compiled in the
annals: my banal resume. All those
jobs, Sobs Into Stories Man perforced,
a super zeroed-in harmless,
a bee stinging and stinging
the same brick in the same
old, long-standing wall. Redundancy
did not foil me, my ill-fitting and improperly
wielded stinger was the foil. Always an epee
never a saber. And I stabbed and poisoned my
self with the selves that I thought I must wrought.
Tense was also a problem. I was tense. I am in
tense. My wings were made of clay and the
acceleration of the day was always too high
for me to get off the sound. The sound of
ruses tried to vampire me. I even got to have
the taste for that heart-basted wine. Unchaste,
truly. And the truth was so many unfree sets,
unplayed by the rackets of the doubles whose
troubles went out of their way to show each
fraud that failure would not have been so bad.
Flat, tired tire. May I perspire? Always permission,
never permissive. So dramatic, this stage. And rage,
thankfully, always took the bait, lending the angry
fate accompli. Still, accomplishment. A tent in the
desert, no water. Shelter without water is like
feeling without diary. Words unclouded by curds,
birding more like a dog than the hair on binoculars.
Roman Ryan 