Brook no book,
hungry mind.
Fall down the line
to a place where
line becomes
lines. Plural
tines, stuck
deeper and
deeper into
unsuspecting
spines, fine as
a day between
nights, a blight
as bright as the
ignoble trinity,
the triangle of
insinuation, or
if you defer, in
finity, separated
from meaning
to become breening,
a type of preening
that defies whatever
the dictionary says.
The thesaurus is
also a book, an
anachronistic
dinosaur obsessed
with travel from
one place to a
place that is
the same. Welcome
to the late Airbnb
world, where every
cup of coffee is a
print of a print,
an echo of a feeling
that makes the internet
shiver with eyeballs
filling a cup of
probable future
cash. Fight it
or light it
on tired,
on fired,
on destitution's
doorway. Assume
that things will get
worse and better in
ways that defy
expectation.
That's a skeptic's
posture: slouched,
and couched in
a wet bag of chips,
still food, even
if the crunch
has gone where
no lunch would
prefer to go.
Roman Ryan 