The development of a mind
is a fiction that shelves its books
under the letter B. Librarian of
the brain, can you guide me to the
section about pain? It's the smell of
rain, the petrichor in the sinusoidal
creature of ever-pleasant resentment.
Re-send these inescapable feelings
to the sender. And the ultimate
sender must ultimately be the
one on that bender. Do not
drink so much in the library,
the librarian insists. We do not
have the plumbing for what you
are making yourself become. O friendly
wood, make cause with this unpaginated
mind. If only the index could send me
back to a previous version, before that
prejudicial editor, before that certain
eye turned a certain hand into
a certainty angel.
Roman Ryan 