The Written History

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As this was written down,
a soft rain came singing through the air.
The words that had been written
perished at the sound, and from the ground
sprung multi-colored grasses.
We all made passes at one another,
but nobody got any. It was a bust,
and we rusted there amid the wetness.
I poured forty ounces through my hair
in memory of something without a name,
a game we used to play when things
got sour like they often did. Now
we had forgotten the rules, the aim.
Naturally, we were all to blame, but
nobody wanted to accept the burden
of the shame that comes with it,
so fingers were pointed in literally
every direction. You could say
that an insurrection was brewing.
But that still seems insufficient.
Of course, we weren’t necessarily
doing anything about it, and
as the red sun bowed out, and
the curtains dropped, we stood there
chattering endlessly like boring insects.

-r. miller

The Knowledge of Beauty

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When one head turns,
the other raises.

When one head raises,
the other collapses.

I take the knowledge in my hands,
the knowledge of her form.

She forms a tangled length of wire.
From the fire she takes her food.

And no goodness exhales she
on dust covered floors or windows,

but the knowledge
of beauty exhales she.

The knowledge in my hands
of she taking me in hers.

-r. miller

I’ll Keep This Short and Sweet

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I’ll keep this short and sweet. Or wait… No, I don’t think I’ll do that. Long and bitter, that’s how I like it. Like a yard of ale.

Well, anyway, after my first bout of twice a day nausea, clinging to the toilet’s rim, hoping I wouldn’t plummet into doom or whatever, I ended up going out for a pack of smokes, making up vulgar jokes in my head that I’d never dare tell anybody, least of all the faint of heart special snowflake indigo children that have been overrunning this town as of late and ruining the blue collar vibe with origami swans and quinoa sculptures, yeah, those kinds of jokes, but I won’t repeat them here,

so like I said, I was on my way to get some smokes, from the smoke shop a couple blocks from my apartment, the one that’s in the mini mall with the horrible parking lot and I say horrible because every time I’ve ever tried to get my car out of there, I almost get into an accident, like, you just can’t tell where the other cars are coming from so I’m thankful that I live so close that I can just walk there, to the mini-mall, which was probably built in the ’80’s when mini-malls were popular, and regular malls too for that matter, the kids these days don’t go to malls so much around here to you know, hang out, they don’t know what they’re missing, where do kids hang out these days I wonder, I see them in parks sometimes or catching Pok√©mon, but never at malls, but then again, I never go to malls anymore either because I’m 29, so I go to bars and drink or stay at home and get high,

and like I said, I was on my way to get smokes, severing the unspoken bond between my self and the brute facts of my existence, brute facts like shitty income for a decent job, not knowing where I’ll be in twenty years, how lately the relationship of word to world has become kind of strained, and how I need to masturbate at least twice a day to really feel alive because I’ve been so depressed for so long that it’s not even a feeling anymore, just a general disposition, except when I feel anxious, and anxiety doesn’t so much make you feel alive as it makes you feel totally electrified for a while, but you can burn out on that too and you’re right back where you started from, numb and understimulated,

but like I said, I was on my way to get some smokes…

-r. miller

Summer Ended

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We wanted more than we could chew on.
Our sickly sky squirted some strange goo
on the rooftops. There was a whistling…
And just like that, summer ended.
The poorly mended streets
seemed to mimic our distress.
We dressed in white. Our heads in bunches.
Lunching in the nearby shadows.
And all the radios of our youth’s frenzy
fizzled, frazzled with the new static
that would become our mode.
I composed a hasty ode to bullshit,
stuffed the paper in my pocket,
and hopped the bench.
Or it might have been a trench…
But I was bleeding too hard to notice.

-r. miller