grainy births
a disappearing virtual poetry (micro)chapbook
by Ryan Bry
It ends with a prayer of watercolor calibration
I’m always in the back of the house
writing the poem on yellow breath paper
of what happens to the owl
who eats the language in my mother—
accidental calligraphy sails from the tower;
as the topic of life wandered alone into me—
the placid april hope craning through the earth’s aura
now this will become the incarnation that defines my soul
as black liquid is drained through the center of a bowl
Wedding rain
the VHS arrives
the frail glimmer
of reality's hazing
rotation in view
the bride's smile
catching no drops
as angelic pumps
of sound idea
the gorgeous pact
Hey angel, they overplay your song in your grocery store
A pigeon fell flying liturgical through the accidental grace
above the streets of lamp licked Tokyo
a festival of pure objects swarmed every eyesight axis
whales kissing oxygen like basketball stars dunk
and trains carrying precious darlings / careen through a silent dreaming landscape.
From all the silver and light she's known and been
It comes creeping all at once like a brilliant staircase / for her to give cold sweltering kisses down / one foot and two another foot / the house blasts with her pure blossom eyes / they don't tell you about her / or the racing togetherness in this kind of formation / your heart beating upon every footpress / on a camera invented across the sky / a potted plant lifted itself / all over her / because that is beautiful for her / she harmonizes with unseen golden wings / in her sleep / until the day that the ribbon gets untied from the sun
Ryan, trust your words; they're holy as an unpackaged star
Ryan, trust your words; they're holy. A bathtub
tumbles into disrepair, they're holy.
A daisy flower burns with and without
sympathy, they're holy.
As chocolate melts to the same color of
fire, they're holy.
Memory returns unlocked
tonight, they're holy.
A cockroach scurries into the plain
hallway room, they're holy;
You're listening to twinkling
guitar music, they're holy.
You found me in a tin of grease
where I never was before this, they're holy.
The walls are alive with water
even though they're just taking shits,
their dreams are still holy.
The damaged pools covering the surface earth
have angels (comma, comma, comma) dancing over them;
they're holy as a slit of safety after a highway is lost.
And Ryan, you're always blessed
for trying and not trying and trying.
Again we will feel this again make our hands linger
on the shrouded commonplace of marble.
I read this poem to my mom as a gift in a random mexican restaurant somewhere in Farmington, Missouri
the water in my cup is getting acclimated to being a movie character
i wonder how many ancient temples utilized flowing water
every one of your thoughts creates veins to a universal heart
it is impossible to see without fluid
the new is born from the old
mental clarity is literally heaven as i fumble the edges of a piece of paper
the way the mountain looks at the sky is a historical event
but it is happening tonight
we all ate pasta
your fingers release seismic information
with each choice of your hand
and I can’t tell if the birds
are on the screen or in the sky
will you still love me
a waterfall chatters
into the remainder of the expanse
and this is where you need to be human
the shadow of music
always fell over you
and you smiled
like an office building finally lit
Like guns blazing backward:
You lift the spirit that returns to you like the mouth of the dirt:
the shooter creeping full of white tunnel in his flipped card eyes:
hands forming to create more abandon than there ever was:
your fake flower kiss eyes manipulate the brightness of death:
a disgraced protagonist fumbles through the convenience of time:
the world that doesn't guess dances under a green and black halo:
longing to stare at something that doesn't explode:
this is the part where you find the bullets buried in my houseplants:
the stars are more vulnerable than you tonight:
as you break 1,000 questions at the coffee table:
and allow the hydrangeas to swell open like the quiet of a staged goodbye:
We choose each other crossing a dark bakery night
blades in the fold of feathers
pens blazing into the realms of thought
patterns daggering
like water slides
nowhere to hide except within
I hitched onto my heart surrounded
by a tornado's blessing in tone
it spun forward like her diary weakness
and I scuttled with the rest of the blueprints
for a shamayim littered with american superstition
(and I wrote this in order to give something to the universe,
does your coffee taste like a missing person?) mine kind of does
I saw the universe ending like a train destination in her gold streaked eyes
mysterious & bright blazing every fire-hunched midnight
with medallion curse, stamping sound into the street pattern
trapped myself forever on the husky kiss-long retrieval
sullen cableway taking new everywhere
I brought a winter pulse under that tree
the fluid fire inside me begging ring
her freckled skin purely gentle;
as violins carry you away
to the spot where you adjusted familiarity
with a halo built from music he creaked into the gathering
we are just unraveling the elegant remedies from your lips
the rocks in the creek are struckshine by the water
which is neither dressed nor undressed by the sun
the travel of your gestures floats in a classical wrath
a fully blossomed tragedy tree is just as beautiful as the girl
people are making calculations and my vision constantly shoots forth:
Photo of Ryan Bry
BIO: Ryan Bry uses suction cups to extract the flowers out of every eye movement you use to see the randomness of modernity or the uncontrollable splendor of your dreams. He joined a band called Penis Grenade during his first stint at college, and published a book with Expat Press in 2019 called Information Blossoms. In 2025 he published a book with D.F.L. called The New Organics for the Flickering World. He stepped out of a picture to dance with you on this fragile earth. Thank you for lending him this moment, he needs it more than you know.