Grinning bears down on
spontaneous yellow you.
The force of cloture
motions for stoppage
and the long, winding words
smith toward an over-
tended end.
The dearth of births?
The worth of smirks?
The boundary between
an ant and a structure
built by ants that came
before. Period. That
long statement journeys
from the coriander crown
to the town downstream
from a low-down monument
to all the works laid down
before the hands in question
began to quest.
I see that what we wearied of
was the past,
its tense heaviness,
heaving like a tetrahedron
in contrary immobility.
It's hard to chase anything
when your backpack,
your shoes, your pockets,
your internal third spaces
(between organs)
are filled with stones.
Are you jonesin
for what I'm jonesin
for? Doesn't matter.
This is a wish wrapped
in a smokehouse
filled with blanched
atomic niceties,
something out of
the sixties, under a desk,
when the drill was real
and the missile crisis
had that tactile feel.
Fear, in addition to
the bile smiles of previous stuff,
both reduce the likelihood
of a tough-to-maintain-under-any-circs
search for joy.
Roman Ryan 