Denial will get you
just as far as assertion.
Neither can remake
an escape that will
always start wherever
it starts. Derivative
destiny, let's say. Call
it what you like, your
fate will never be late
to the gate. The gate
plays the game the
same way you do,
hinging on its hinges.
The idea that the body
or mind could find
a way away from the nearby
bodies and minds and
muddies and sublimes
defies the true nature
of nature:
all that lives and dies
rocks and flies
spaces their paces
in places
the way time
climbs into
assorted climes
according to the
rhymes that always
must have been.
Ten paces and
a shot? Six faces
and a bot? All those
chats, all those transistors,
all those possibilities that
smell like a sand castle in the
irascible middle of a water-cooled
data center, all those
ambitions listing, listing,
listing, each accords itself
value, when an accordion
is only as valuable as the air
and joists and constancy
and hands and where
each goes. So do not worry.
It is a pretty bed we sleep
in, with our pretty heads.
Pretty red sunset? Pretty wild
fire. Do not tire. There will
be dreams. Reams of them.
And they will come from
the dreams before.
Roman Ryan 