Yes, bring on the new good great supine monomeism.
It's a delicious delightful devouring divinity, a spandrel
of calamity spun under like a sour sun covered in the sugars
of a fermented mind. Yum. A sweet night of sleep emboldened
by hard dreams of cavorting cavitation, the gravitation that
comes in hot and hard and repetitious. A superstitious super
soluble swarm of gravy trains, driving driving driving down
the nearest throat.
Yes.
This is one way.
The urge surges.
And the mind
splurges on its carrier,
the body.
Understandable.
And yet,
when understood,
the mind could
do better.
The mound of brain
could found a strain
of self that takes
moments seriously,
that takes inputs
unquerulously.
A mind that
learns how to pause,
to stop,
to not rewind
or widen
or faster forward furtive future,
a mind that sees the screaming multitudes
and quietly closes its eye
and breathes in
and out.
All things,
even the critical,
will bend
and end.
And in light
of this procession to dark,
let one stark hand
slowly, slowly
band together
one note
at a time.
Roman Ryan 