Calling it all away to Birmingham shovel dirt orange dye and the clay isn’t good for non-native species. The rains come like brimstone every July but we still need it. Without fire above our heads we get tired instead of exhausted and sometimes that’s so much worse. Beat down for a while now our hunches are ready for the fallen yankee angels or the california bombshells. Shock wave. Now your broken bodies lean on us and we mumble groan but know we had it coming. Who are we to shake our heads in shame, no. No our hands will extend and in compassion we’ll cross the ancient river together all while chuckling at the irony, the trope lifts the avant garde and asks nothing in return.
ryan meyer art rapid prose poem 1