The wall could have helped me
put in more words without the
impulse to rhyme them. I feel seen
and that is a scene, made, without
enough cinnamon to justify all
this wasted flour. I am a bagel,
thus. And reason flowers into
a bloom bloom bloom, a train
of contrails, promising to plane
back the paring knife, dulling
the day into the deluge of the
boredom that becomes self
conscious when it ends a line
with The, or manufactures
a phrase without the appropriate
dash. So, this is a poem? Tell me,
what is that? Will this white
ceramic mug reveal my insides
with its buzz? Can questions
resolve anything? Will free
association hit the gas and
become real actions? I do
knot knowing. And my
eyes have questions too,
but they will only ask them
implicitly. What is a city
for? What is a person for?
The Gordian solution
is too clean for the mess
we must each breathe in.
Roman Ryan 