Maddening middle,
the warm spit in the soup.
Another one flies the coop.
Sounds dope, don’t it?
But in another quarry,
moons were mourning the loss of seas.
All it takes is one refusal.
Just as well, have you seen my chapeau?
Wandering hurts us lately,
in these lilting lugubrious years
where tears fall like silken scarves
and flowing snow bites down hard
against the window panes.
I’d be insane not to remain
a brain in a vat of whisky.
I’m not one for needless risk
unless a clavichord’s involved,
and if that’s the case, it’s gravy
for the wavy eyed trees bending easily
into a parody of what they originally stood for.
What was that again?
Maybe they were always a circus
and I was just too daft to realize it.
Colored lights converge
with the sound of a key turning in a lock.
The entire block pops back to life.
Not that any of this matters,
it’s just a way to pass the time
like anything else we do.
I came in as a candle. I left as a fart.

-r.  miller

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