Fading in the ferment,
whippets, blood and accidents
drift along. The smoke
in the vein beautifies
the mainframe of human consciousness.
So what if the color seems inedible?
At least it holds its own
against the humid air,
which is not so pleasant.
It’s suffocating, and so is
not knowing just what the fuck
you’re doing exactly
when it comes to writing poetry.
But I suppose I’m used to that by now.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 