Starting points do not begin to explain
the pain that rains from unthinking elegance:
the many pay prices for mediocrity that the few
could not counsel in their wildest discomforts,
giving lie to rise and spine, less a few vertebrae,
insensible to the marketer's martyrdom: want this
and get that is an internal-only slate, slashed by the
pen's flightiness and bashed verbally by all bystanders,
particularly the newspapers, who call criticism
literal attack, giving eyes to snakes and a couple extra
dots to whichever dice rolled the search
for fruitlessness, scrolling for vegetables and only finding eggplant
whose phylum is a dictum in itself, unread so that the sender
cannot feel feelings that only crater given an observer
of the defect, effective repetition of apathetic ignorance,
a midi-ocracy that remembers windows and that
third dot eleven version, a secular embrace of a blue
screen of breathless, the hope that like hushes,
computers also die loud deaths, improperly
chosen paint and all.
Roman Ryan 