The Other Foot


Released by whispers,
a blistering satire exposes itself
in a running gag.
Such a drag, this air lit with fatigue.
Sitting on this shifting fence post,
leagues away from the trauma,
I offer a balm
to the bristling ground.
Found footage. Frottage in closed cars.
There’s no sense in these stars,
these stars overhead
which for all I know lie dead
in the mouth of the universe,
liquefying in a black sea of saliva.
There’s no sense.
No sense either in this pensive state
in which I’ve landed,
branded with a maelstrom
the size of a clock on my chest.
Clearly the resting phase has ended.
A memory descends and aligns itself
with the fissures of dusk,
my reflection affixed
to a husk of itself,
and my health suddenly spirals
into a flaccid cartoon.
New moon tonight, meaning no moon,
but a tune you can whistle
in one of five keys.
In these thriving times,
one can’t help but marvel
at the sublime elasticity
of our perspectives.
Invectives approaching from all sides,
sliding into formation
to overtake the central nervous system.

-r. miller


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