Mythologically speaking, the speaking mounds said where to find the lost memories of a simpler time. The answer was unsatisfactory due to the foreboding obstacles along the way. Maybe we should stay here and play the old games and watch black and white movies made in the early 2000’s by avant-garde indie directors with ambitions, boy oh boy ambitions. Am I the napping one oh great mound from the waters of infrastructure, receding and leaving divided neighborhoods? Which side of the tracks are you from? If one more piece of garbage from that side offers to work for me I promise you right now I’ll throw myself through that wall — Overheard in a Los Angeles valley café. Now the rain hits southern california and lifts the resting oil off the overpass. The guy who moderates overheard LA hits the oily spot in his Corolla. Rolling down the hill, unslowed by the dry brush, held tight. Tightened seat belt pulls and sweats but can’t hold the cell phone, who is calling at this hour? Thinking turned over at the bottom of the mound.
ryan meyer art rapid prose poem 1