Michael S. Ryan
I live in the tropics. Heat, humidity, rain. In my little office, I get to listen to Metheny, REM, Mozart, Tragically Hip during raging rainstorms while writing, recording a painting of a potted plant. In my little office there is a fan, nice desk and chair. I look out back, curtains close and flutter glimpses. I get to work at a Catholic school, 5th floor, nice room and view. Buffalo, cranes and storks, Bangkok the horizon. In this room I study, in that room I practice.
Rain records damaged
Straight through the screen
Drips on the speaker
You live in the non-tropics. Hot, cold, seasons. In your large room, you get to listen to traffic reports, patterns, rain and snow, the key under the potted plant. In your large room there is a car, couch, maybe children and a freedom. You look out front, side views flutter. You get to work, teach yourself, make your ground floor. Bison, warmth and ice, Denver near. In that room you study, in that space you grow.
To small places
Inside the camera
We do not live together. Proximity, attraction, similarity reasons. In our precepts, we get to listen to ourselves on love. In our universe there are potted beds of love and gravity. We look out! We look out. We get to work, that’s it. Bolts holding perception near and in that, lightning strikes.
The outdoor wedding drench
Coheres myriad friends and family
And we eventually dry