Don't slip on the slop.
There's no mop in this
crop circle. Maybe a little
croupe in this closet,
though. Snow, also,
though it melts on canticle
with the asphalt chord
spoken from a consonant-billed
vacuum, a space without vowels,
a void without the time to describe
its own warmth and dust boats.
Sail this ship on the slop.
From the top to the top,
it's slop all the way across.
That's how I like to eat:
whatever was in the fridge,
immersion blended boiling,
drunk from an unusually wide
straw. Make sure you read like that
if you're reading
this.
Roman Ryan 