The sardonic can become a sardine,
stuck in the vacuum cannister
of limited find.
Try! Try! Try and release
the fetters on the fetters
on the letters of the flaws.
Perfection rides in horse dreams,
but there are no mares here.
The construction of the sentence
was a point of glide in earlier days,
and now fragmentation smells more
like the route to a nose on a nose,
wide brimmed hat.
Protection glues sour atheism
to the roof of the south wind.
How safe are these clouds?
How loud?
Why taste another
undisprovable why?
I'll swell your why:
give me direct direction,
the sensory inflection
of the apostate
incarnate;
ablate my heart
until the beatings continue
and let me get up,
bruised,
and stand in the shadows
of a swirl I will not pretend
to over-understand.
Roman Ryan 