Crisis

When you think to put thought
in order, skies erupt
in glowing rags.
What’s left of you,
the sagging bits
of solipsistic buzz
and yesterday’s ruined underwear,
stares the corpse

air in its crazy eye,
lazing a bit
to one side
to escape
the other’s nagging fist.
And isn’t this tryst
so specifically
disheartening,

how it weans you
off the bitter milk
you sucked
with gusto
from the grizzled teat
of post-structuralist discourse?
And in the course
of several

coarse rounds
of bungalow
jumping,
the clouds
and their accomplices
compel you to their heights.
You’ve nowhere
left to go.

-r. miller

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