The poem that follows follows the improvisational style, a freely associative concatenation of impulse, wiring, and fun. Fun for the poet, at least.
Delivery. Special.
For sale. Baby shoes.
Long lost. Never
torn up book, waiting
to be red
under the dusk's
wildfire-toked stun.
Sun stoked fires
carboniferous as an ash stall,
where hope poops out
all the anxiety it ate.
Ideals are the fuel for
nope, no this isn't
what we wanted. And
are we haunted? Must
we and/or our
selves be? Shelves always
want to follow selves
because that's how they can be built,
out of oak and books.
Oaken books? The cover does not say
if this pulp was maple or
conifer. And I will be okay
whether or not there are pool toys
on top of my car. Personhood pronouns
extend the lines, spining for spining,
pining for spring, evergreen or no.
Either or me harder, Milton! The
devil was always a detailed whether
or not. When I spin around hard enough
to lose opposites, the opposition
vomits out its acetates. Thank god
for all these messes. His paternity
must be tested and found
breathless, wanting. Call it infantile
atheism if you must, but I am
going to eat your crust. A little
extra pizza, a little less cheese,
a little more please. Why does
the need to explain itself
keep trying
to explain its self? Let the self
be disgusted. And then
change the mind.
Roman Ryan 