fractions/fracciones
 
we’re not getting any more accordion players to fold their hands like such lovers.
we want jackknife-like precision of ants, scribbling their numeric bodies on the driveway
we want women lovers to crinkle a sound in night and the city, a ball of aluminum foil
we deny rumors that a car leaving Boston at eighty will develop emotions when the brakes fail

we ascertain that the man in the mirror is closer to life than he appears

we experience physical difficulty, a cramping of the larynx, with the period after mourning
we discuss fragility and how it looks on our hands
we circumnavigate parking lots, for nautical
we theorize that a coronary can protect a princess from imposters, stalkers and heartache

we know that the ground underneath is heavy once the positions are reversed
 

 

nostalgia is not discerning between dust

by the rearview
i wonder
if this is the last
time isle see you

or if you blood roses
grown stones throws
away from the wheel
given lives different than
a hand out to the road
to feel the rumble cycles through movement

will soon come in cotton candy
puffs when the camera lens makes foggy
cause is poignance
bitterness moves upstairs

i can't fit the fact
in the trunk
that i want them to return

run back to shotgun
and tell me
floor it
into the sun
 


conversation between magnets

Oedipii in your face.

Your not making sense has answered the door
again. And no, it refuses to give to charity.

What a lousy bugger.

A barrel full of dimwits couldn’t
change the lightbulb by which we see.

Ay si. Sure. Cierto. Falso, recomendado.

Surely you mislead.

The world is full of misleaders.

Ceaseless concertos follow a piano
around, and ask it to give them names.

I pursue borrowed trousers around, looking
to find a home for tired legs.

A robotic mess you’ve gotten us
into, what with computers and
technology; a large sword hangs over
our beds to watches, the night for us.
In each hand a different hour.

We are made lazy by folk.

By the by, by focus
I mean by focal. Et. Al.

Ibid. I concur. All objects et cetera’d
Xeroxed queens carry
a semi-automatic scepter and abdicate.
a semi-automatic scepter and abdicate.
a semi-automatic scepter and abdicate.
a semi-automatic scepter and abdicate.

Paper out.

---

    Ryan Daley is a writer after the hearts of those of us who aren’t particularly interested in stuffy poetry and rigid form. He creates his own languages and forces us to read between the lines. Ryan is a crabby hermit who lives in a sometimes version of Florida, 7.0, which seems to be prone to crashes around/during Presidential Elections. He also lives in what is otherwise known as a stupor, in Providence, Rhode Island. When we last caught up with the writer he had this to say, "Writing is a god to me. My only begotten sin. I am a four letter word." After relaying this quote in graphically mouthed smoke signals from his now defunct habit involving an on again off again usage of Camel Lights, he retreated to the other side of the tinted windows of his running car, and ran.

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