A Brief Statement of Intent


… And just what the fuck
exactly does the fog know?
Poetry flows just as easily
from my pine-scented beard.

Both horizons sneer upon
my arrival, but I’ve come with

only one intent – survival,
ya needle mouth motherfuckers.
So tuck whatever complaints
you had securely in you-know-

where. A languid stare could kill
just as easily, and at a lower price.

Suffice it to say, the head fled
the shoulders for colder climes.
And me with my dime bag,
a snag in the fabric.

-r. miller


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