Theory of Poetics

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Somewhere
in my life’s peculiar arrangement,
there exists a syntax so unsettling
you’d have to shut your eyes
to its existence.
But no matter how persistent
your resistance to it,
it will always insist on your attention.

Bedecked in cigarette burns,
Tension wears a scarlet crown.

Due to my obsession with continuity,
I’ve placed the contents
of my consciousness
in the perfect narrative order.
Such behavior borders on deranged
in a context such as ours,
but in the coming hours,
I hope to affirm
that my feeble grasp of this reality
isn’t quite as feeble as it appears.

Brace yourself, my dear.
This plane is going down.

-r. miller

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