Trilobite is an arthropodologist's delight:
many bizarre creatures; no two alike.

seven poems

Ryan Gato

Cognitive Pole Barn

I want to limit my survival of hot water uninhabited. Only then does same-boated-ness imply winds at sails stalled.

I fight subconsciously the towing, medical jokes loud on the geriatric's speakerphone. Our friendship in front of everyone impels others to firmly encase shower spaces.

I ease those glassed-in, solved by police eliminating Daryl's free-demo stock.

I even replace stuff sky-blue with clientele, empty air in favor of peopled shell.


Another framework in my fancy, expansively ascetic as food-stuffs communally post-pie.

But addicted-to-automated-robes is the event. The hell-like is shiftily chocolate cart brocaded by giant turtle’s flipside surf chaffing at mechanisms of wheel by sandy worldview. Interpersonal grains figure their parts as hollowed-out ‘yup.’

I sort of feel that the implementation of Uncle Ted’s blue cheese fever embeds the form of the reels within the inescapable Cadbury squiggle, aging me out from being others’ “experience-of-the-repository-of-Incremental-encounters in differential booths.”


I’m always raving that our landscape is the best place to civilize my own sense of a ‘local peak.’ The way I tend to rave is evidence it’s of value, for without the redoubt its bruteness is no more peculiar than antler’s crawl across redecoration’s lace. When I am raving, the salutation is deceptive redialing, in which minds of folks find greatest case for ryegrass in the first-person experience of illusory grind. Why I am attentive to the contents of my own raving is that enough of the shifting spotlight is unintentional mechanism of the cognitive pole barn.


Commonly its squeamish hands downstairs

Up from sneaking street

Just to withdraw folded cloth unmeant

For a spotted spoon of Manor

200 West

It is time to conclude results then wine

Inside of the dry-cleaned clothes and buffed shoes.

The finesse of illustrious body desked

To do something with a mouse

Daylit thought of future consequence.

Because is to do something, biscuit

On napkin by and by, crumbs not aloft

But in their crumby place…I know I want

To hear in Air Pods the tropical rain

And finger my dry pane longingly again.


Unincluded in hindered profits

That continuous of service desk

Other plaints at the generalist detail.

The time away by scrub of redo; until

Honored incentive, via breakable thing,

Shifts in suitcase the lore at rest.

There is nothing voiced by clothes

Withstood of their articles

But breath in the threads; business

Of SSNs.

This hospitality is made uniform

by hand dressed to the wrist

in landline’s cord.


I can’t write Christmas, in USA, by fields of sheep lain, interpreting the Book, or in general to the extent cozily obeyed in the fewer lights of night’s tidings for whomsoever was dissolved in the account of mother’s child mild in the twice-mentioned sun gone, which serves as prelude to desserts of the unconscious.

There’s no letter addressed to the human armies; it’d be faced in reluctance untranslated. Without such repairs to clarify the meaning, palm-sized in the egg’s own life, I soon had a little hunger beyond the facts of a roasted recipe right. It surely would point to a closeable loose-leaf, a pouch of its essence and/or personality, the same as seen in phenomena of natural compound, the bundle renamed after its sharpening, stripped of protective coating.

No doubt above all I am inspired to endure my neighborly reader at the swinging gates with instruments they can inundate with connective breaths

I ask her what that gun means to coworkers or to those otherwise crucified with veterinary bills, through the clinic of heavy loads, distressing treatment, emergency expenses, whether we need a foundation to assist, if surgery salvaged a wonderful life of man’s best friend, by transfigurations bathed—does the vet agree, we can have Christmas? Or after the fees will we recede and disappear altogether, discredited by great practitioners of human standards, by fees they knew unpaid?

This is still a happy tale, an embrace. And yet it signals nerves to send pain to the brain. There’s a popular version from one’s own childhood, surely meant uniquely for you, yet of no mere personal benefit. The slow aged formation, slow aging of skin, the sugar in the bloodstream the author chose to write—until that open palm, (now closed), is no aqueduct of pity unwept, having been finally granted honorable retirement.

Algorithmic Tie-in

I have been to the Old Country Buffet at the Maine Mall and excused myself, walking towards the stall. I am reminded that I am a veteran by an old friend drying his hands. We leave the bathroom in search of gloves at Sears, my friend decides.

Having left empty-handed, the old friend suggests a detour to a fellow vet’s pad. This way he instructs, and we make our way down a small hall tucked between where David’s Bridal ends, and Best Buy begins.

At the end of the hall is a storefront rollup spray-painted The Great Service. My old friend lifts the unlocked metal rollup door. I want to say hi to the guy he says.

Inside is an unlit room filled with secondhand washing machines. My friend enters, proceeding to one machine in particular. Crouching down he yanks the washer back, revealing a trapdoor.

Below the trapdoor is a space with dimensions greater than a casket but smaller than a shower gurney. A shriveled bat-faced man with burn wounds lay lifeless. He needs some air, says my friend. Then we each grab a limb, ready for the weight.

Intrinsic Coat

To skin stripped away

I shiver to worth-a-try

Inverted doorstep

A knocker at my eye