From time to time, method demands explanation. The breathing that lungs largely attempt autonomically must sometimes be articulated. In and out, filtration for doubt.
There’s the headline: take out the discomfort by doing it. And this reason resonates with the resin of improvisational poetry. The trunk of this tree constantly debunks the plan.
Trees do not worry how each leaf does. They keep springing more and at the same time they know what the fall has in store. This is what improvisational poets must know deep in their branches.
Spontaneous development requires spontaneous development. It is its own input. Love that kind of perpetual production machine. A game that plays itself for keeps and all it gets to keep is itself as an ongoing performance performing itself for itself.
Poems exist after they are written but the poet must resist that temptation. The poet is an arch-engine of nonexistence, a spaceless timelessness always arriving at the train station of no train, sans track.
Walking through a doorless door may feel enjambed, like falling over a threshold onto the face of a new life that never begins. Remain autumnally pensive without falling all the way down.
Roman Ryan 