RYAN DRAG POETRY JOURNALISM MUSIC

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displaced planets air filtering near dildo dragon fighters / replacing grandmothers kneecaps, casks full of corn, masses dining on warehouse tables before changing a large pile of needles into hay – the question remains – who let the aztec stairs collapse underneath the crippled feet of the crow man? he who spends his weeks whispering patterns into shapes of the future, coughing up extinct medicines, never crying into meats, carving paths for mountain water to wash down severed cactus into the surrounding towns of bobbed wigs about to be photographed for a secret project involving the complete disintegration of the crow man’s tarot card

Purchase your copy from Mad Gleam press…

les chuchotements secrets / qui congestionnent les batiments politiques / grand lymphoide, entre les pipes d’eau gentiment vibre. / prenant soin des pauvres patriotes qui se noient dans le the’ / qui caressent les narines de la vieille chauvesouris aux yeux bandes, qui nous juge tous

ne craignez pas, enfants simples d’esprit! / ne craignez pas les restaurants italiens sur mulberry street! / ne craignez pas fermiers de kingston! / les recoltes de la revolution ne crient pas vos noms, mais / demandent votre indifference, comme toujours, / la prochaine association frappera vos chevilles avec une canne solitaire, apres que votre travail soit fini, / rampant le long des rues vides, cherchant un apercu rapide de communication physique / avant d’etre decapites devant un service postal, / la bave coulant du menton.

Sunday 3/5/17, some poetry, at PARKSIDE LOUNGE in Manhattan, 4-6pm, & it’s the future. Mad gleam press will be presenting (also may be copies of their latest release Post(mortem) for sale). I will read a few…here:

It’s true,
The existence of moisture
Planted within us
Looks like
Three colors, mixed & painted
Onto a jar
That hum in your head,
Which is as red as that son
Of solomon,
Some bar-back told you about,
Crying for more milk, again, the
Exact repetition of bo biddley’s,
Shaking your palms, on some
Odd street in atlantic city,
Without a dollar in your system,
Whispering to yourself,
Who is god,
Can only exist on loving prayers

-RD

Syphon dependent membrane chant / almost visible through stress gasps / up close, a paranormal experience / fixin’ to make an interesting day / for a moment

there’s no delusion about flowers / growing through dirt / or any question about how they stand / fragrant and blind, whispering at / tolerated winds / gasping for clarity / on the trackless railroad of time / cut and given / the flowers’ / real truth arrived / after pressed lips in a vase

in the misty dark / walk to slave for an imaginary god of rent / and we all labor and are in disguise/ no person to weep, we are fed / should be happy with that / but, why do we still need? / the clever leper sings, blue water clear / i dance on balloons / we chop trees / for a boat to carry us into space / unharmed/ full of memories / blind with survival / breathing newness, to exude passions of light onto the / eardrums of nothing monks