Strings of words make themselves
heard. Yes, words come from the herd
hard. Advancing the dust before the hooves.
The wind is stronger and faster than the
stampede. One rule: do not impede. One
penalty: trampled. The sound of one hand.
When will I know what I am doing?
Here? There are confessions in me,
philosophies, questions, articulations,
awkward confusions, guilts. A goat
built a mountain. A goatherd watched.
Nobody believed. Let there be fire
and squares and obsidian and an
obelisk. Let there be barbed wire
and pistols and devastation by
tires. So many tires. Worn down.
Shredded. Juiced. Ready to be drunk.
The chrysanthemums have not been sober
for a hundred years. That is the effect
of oil. Write me a letter. Choose a good one.
Please do not pick Q. Don't get me wrong,
I like you. But I do not want you following
immediately after every time I arrive.
It is good to be alone sometimes. The mind
can become quiet and soft and pinkish. And
that is the sound the heart strains to hear.
Roman Ryan 