Ryan Buynak







« Ryan Buynak is a terrible person but a goddamn good writer. »





Salt Milk


appeal to hammers,

we will gallop west

for soup and paychecks

only returning in two Junes

to where the trains exit the earth.


even if her werds

broke some palace,

and we all put it back together


you will still see the cracks.


an inexplicable act of self destruction

dressed in fine satin and lace,

the world to me,

and each bluest blue is mine,

hidden among the mornings that mourn.


jones love question marks within wet weather,

from the first time our eyes shook hands

we were more than just moments;

listen to a certain song

and do not give it to anyone else.





different equations and linear algebra


what’s a good goon to a goblin,

and how many times will he die in his lifetime?


with half-priced hotel in hand,

eat every evening.


in the granite whisper,

I know how to laugh,

but I don’t know how to make it last.


weather never stays forever.

whether we give a good goddamn or not,

that’s the fun of the plot.


we are gentle as

resting in sleep.

got good rocking chairs when young for later



no blades,

no lines are perfectly straight, chaos, be my romantic problem.

life goes up and down like the eyes of a concerned crowd.

the home works like the beating heart,

jumper cables claims.


so many variables involved.

skin. shouts of light. aged in rust.

the sky is for industry.

we are our own effigy.







Place my feet in the fall.

Fall at the place of my feet.

Walk with me

until the sun

takes the night away.


Call me and tell me you love me.

What a surprise.

You don’t.

This means summer is already over

before it began.


Let’s move to Buffalo.

Count the years, later.

In silence and snow.

Stare at the eyes of eves

and the eves of eyes.









I was watching The Outlaw Josey Wales

and drawing coyotes with crayons on construction paper,

when the front door buzzed.


It’s midnight, just me and my beer, and our beard.

My heart stopped.

Marijuana was involved.



decisions were


most contained the coin choice to just

stay silent.


I heard the door to the building open

and footsteps.

I froze.

There was a knock at the door.

I held my breath.

Then there was a voice.


“Hey Buynak!”

Phew! It was just Daniel.

Boy, oh, boy, what a relief.

We got drunk and stoned,

and watched the end of Josey Wales.


Another day goes by.

with an evening like mine.













Ryan Buynak, writer, poet and philosopher.







Ryan Buynak is a self-proclaimed « bedrock crazy poet, hell-bent on writing weird words…words for a generation of unspoken. » He was born in Orlando, Florida and resides in New York City. Ryan hates the taste of olives, likes loud Rock-n-Roll music, and is in love. He has published numerous poems in literary magazines around the country and his work was recently chosen to be included in the commended anthology Names In A Jar: A Collection of Poetry by 100 Contemporary American Poets. Ryan writes with weird passion mixed with a prose philosophy. His work is undoubtedly about to make that leap, that crazy ascent to the top. He adds, « My heart feels like a crocodile. »

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