I like to pop a couple poems
in my mouth and before
I've even started chewing
and the poems are starting to
decompose in my saliva,
I start writing. This play
jar-ism, this mason jar-
mouthing swears a lot
harder than the little
mason jars are allowed
to hear. They will learn,
as I have learned, that time
and practice and read
tead tead lead to, to,
what? Poetry, I have
heard it called. Later,
when I floss, I will not
be able to get the title
of one of those poems
out of my molar's crater,
and so I will go to the middle
drawer on the right side of the
kitchen and fetch a tiny slice
of a tree and I will toothpick
the fuck out of that title
and it will be gone, into
the trash, where it can find
its terrible way to the landfill
that we will one day be forced,
as a misbegotten species,
to mine for gold and cobalt and polymers
and little chunks of partial titles
of poems from little newspaper
print magazines that may give
sparks to whoever languages next.
Roman Ryan 