Critique of Pure Practical Reason


This is a poem or a catalog nursed

to hysterics by the lashes, each

successive blow. And my forehead

cracks a sequential portrait

of Immanuel Kant. Object

to wholeness over the threshold,

the descent of cognizant light

with a lingo. Heavily textured swagger

is one simple letter. The tundra

of my cynicism caresses no syllable,

lunacy I can’t pinpoint with dignity –

shatter myself, hands’ fiction

demonstrated a battery

of flowers, mobilized.

-r. miller


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