That’s How We Do

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I’ve always had a proclivity
for taking things by force,
sheer force, like a tidal wave
bringing its palm down
on the housefly of a coastal town
that’s been annoying the shore.
Or maybe the town
is the memory of the ex
who left you to find him or herself,
and the tidal wave is a bottle of gin.
Whatever it is, nobody
is coming out of it alive.
I’ve been driving around
in the snow for too long,
same song burning my stereo,
and wherever I go looks
like Tony Montana’s sinuses.
The finest fictions ever wrought
from my candied skull
went on and on until finally,
they imploded, overloaded with plot.
I shot the less fine ones
from a hateful cannon
into the blue sky drowning
in dissonance. In a sense,
I’ve mastered my desires.
But only if you understand
that by mastered,
I mean starved.
I’m always carving new niches,
twitching in egotistical fits,
not so much burning bridges
as shitting all over them,
so a way to cross my river still exists,
but you wouldn’t want to.
That’s just how we do in the ‘burbs.

-r. miller

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