The Unabridged Version of the American Dream

Standard

Bundles of glass tapped
with insurgency gripes.
I was never the type
to trip laces for wires.

Formaldehyde fires
in the hypodermic cask
brighten and widen
with residual flair.

Everywhere deepens
with rage, and old age
boggles its terminology.
Then everything is clear again,

clear like a Dasani bottle
throttling the grass.
Come dystopian sheen!
Embalm and lacquer

the deceased manifesto
displayed in the tombs.
Calm the blood
until the blood is like sap,

then sap the blood
until the circulatory system
makes for the unemployment office.
So much for social networking

and your currency jive, motherfucker,
and your chalk dust renderings of beehives
lingering upon the muck,
dissonance fornicating with shadows.

-r. miller

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