Ryan Glover

Up atop the tallest tree
Sits a giant squirrel monkey.
Whenever a child wanders by
Down the squirrel monkey will fly,
...

He stands on the balls of his feet, wind torn jacket about his shoulders, with pencil and paper gripped tightly in his white knuckled hands.
The smooth, even tracks before him, mounds of dirt piled on both sides, from the flurry of air that thrust him backwards towards the ends of the earth.
His posture bowed forwards in brace, his eye tilted upwards chasing grace, and if he can hold fixed enough he can spy the turn of the earth and empyrean.
He is rooted in place, heels over the threshold of creation, a moveable volume in a quiescent state, but his knees are twined and timorous.
...

At half till noon
on Tuesday morn
in the chapel room
on threaded carpet torn,
...

Lose your tongue, mislay your vocal chords, they are needed no more.
Replace the shape of my eyes, the flare of my nostrils, the corners of my lips,
their expression is no longer warranted.
Watch me bear my heart on my keys. My attire is now bare.
...

You, the whole-hearted, who catch easy breaths
at night, on your side, with fantasy fluttering your eyes.
You, the possessed, the easily taken, easily joined,
with the outer extremities of emotion, so easily adorned.
...

Movement, everywhere, turning, twisting, ceaseless in its goal to be somewhere else.
American-made trucks, gas guzzlers, foreign-made cars, hybrids, an occasional blue and white cruiser blasts by lights blazing.
Little insects for which I know no name, cockroaches, grey and pale white moths scurrying around my feet, flying right up to my face while I sit on my third story balcony.
During the day, I see brown lizards turning bright green when they make leaps of death from off white concrete to spring time leaves.
...

The sun blazes high in the sky,
As a gentle breeze blows by.
The blooming flowers of all kind,
Hides the rifle’s metallic shine.
...

Solemnly I carry on
Baggage laid from day to day,
And fro dawn to dawn.
Across winter’s cold as ice
...

Squeezed IN to a mason jar of jelly until the grapes
sour, fermented INto an INtoxicant that was the
cause originally. Pressed and filled to full until
the top won’t screw, won’t screw on, won’t screw again.
...

He smiled like he always did.
But inside he frowned.
He floated like he always did.
But inside he drowned.
...